Dr. Tim McNeil

The Temple Tantrum - Jesus Was A Whistle Blower

Matthew 21: 12-13 March 18, 2012

As a prelude to this message please click this link to listen to

Credence Clearwater Revival’s “Fortunate Son”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ec0XKhAHR5I&feature=fvsr

He was no fortunate one. No Senator’s son. No military son. He was never fed with a silver spoon. He came from neither privilege nor power. There were no Palm Beach addresses in the Bethlehem zip codes. When he later relocated to Galilee his zip code was still from the other side of the tracks. Does anything good ever come out of Galilee? In was not a location known for producing Nobel Prize winners in physics, chemistry, or literature. He was no fortunate one. No Senator’s son. No military son. He was never fed with a silver spoon.

Andrew Breitbart (pronounced /braɪtbɑrt/ (February 1, 1969 – March 1, 2012) was an American publisher, commentator for the Washington Times, author, and occasional guest commentator on various news programs, who served as an editor for the Drudge Report web site. He was a researcher for Arianna Huffington, and helped launch her web publication The Huffington Post. He was involved in the release of the videos that effectively brought down the Association of Community Organizations for Reform Now as well as releasing the sexting tweets of former NY congressman Anthony Weiner.

Julian Assange is the founder of WikiLeaks was launched in 2006 by the Australian activist. WikiLeaks has published material about extrajudicial killings in Kenya, Church of Scientology manuals, Guantanamo Bay procedures, and Iraq and Afghan War documents some of which was classified material. He has received numerous awards and nominations, including the 2009 Amnesty International Media Award, Readers' Choice for TIME magazine's 2010 Person of the Year, and he was nominated for the 2011 Nobel Peace Prize. In 2010, a European Arrest Warrant was issued for Assange in response to a Swedish police request for questioning in relation to a sexual assault investigation. He is still in England awaiting the Supreme Court’s decision if he will be extradited and sent back to Sweden. Assange voluntarily attended a police station in England on December 7 2010, and was arrested and taken into custody.

Both Breitbart and Assange are known as whistleblowers. By definition whistleblowers are truth tellers who tend to upset the equilibrium of the status quo. They call into question issues of integrity and expose duplicity. Regardless of your political persuasion from right to left or left to right, whistleblowers ignite oppositional energy. These dynamics are right/wrong, good/bad, smart/stupid, winner/loser, and eventually it de-evolves to love/hate. When this sequence fires it stirs up all of the toxic emotions: hate, rage, disgust, shame, and humiliation.

Jesus was a whistleblower. If you have to break a few eggs in order to make an omelet Jesus could have easily worked the breakfast rush at Peach Valley. Jesus wasn’t very good at mincing words or mitigated speech. He may have taken a lesson or two from his first cousin John the Baptist. “You brood of vipers.” If he was trying to be politically correct he might have said, “Have you considered you share some of the common characteristics and traits of certain reptilian creatures who congregate in mass?” “You are like whitewashed tombstones, all pretty and white on the outside but inside you are rotten to the core.” The politically correct version of this might be: “The metaphor that comes to mind is the similarity shared between the external appearance of stones that mark the location of persons who are deceased and the contents of the caskets contained if they were exhumed and examined in the various stages of decomposition. Matthew 5:27, “You have heard that it was said, 'You shall not commit adultery.' But I say to you that every one who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart.” Jimmy Carter is just as guilty as Bill Clinton.

Can you tone that down a notch or two? Jesus wasn’t very good at mincing words or mitigated speech. However, truth is for the telling and hearing not the yelling and fearing. The janitor was cleaning the sanctuary after the morning services and he found the pastor’s notes up on the pulpit. He began to scan the manuscript. A yellow marker highlighted a few of the points. Hand written notes were scribbled on either side of the margins. One note was written in all caps and circled: “Point is weak. Yell here!” I was once working with a good old boy and his wife. They were both from southern Mississippi. She was giving him a royal reaming out. He had heard all he could hear and he finally stopped her and said in an even tone: “Woman, don’t harsh me.” I don’t imagine Jesus was much of a yeller or that he harshed many folks but the one time he did it set in motion the chain of events that railroaded him through 5 trials in less than eighteen hours. It was when he threw a Temple Tantrum.

On this occasion Jesus broke more than a few eggs. He was attempting to break the system. Philosopher Eric Hoeffer once said that the three forms of power are economic, political, and spiritual and those who follow the pathway to spiritual power do so because they do not have access to political or economic power. When he had his temple tantrum he stood squarely in the tradition of spiritual power and he was speaking truth to power, economic, political, and spiritual. When he spoke, he spoke “not as the scribes and the Pharisees, but as one who had authority.” This is the authority that rings with the tuning fork of truth. You know it when you hear it because you can also feel it.

He threatened the economic base. "It is written, 'My house shall be a house of prayer'; but you have made it a den of robbers." He called them on their duplicity. He said he’d destroy the temple and rebuild it again in three days. He called them out on their abuse of power. He shook the foundations. He was charged with blasphemy. The real reason had to do with money. He shamed the system. He treated them with disdain and disgust. What he got back was hate, rage, and humiliation.

It was the perfect storm that connected all of the dots of toxic emotions. It ultimately was the tipping point that cost him his life. In baseball there are those moments when the batter swings and you can feel the bat hitting the ball on the sweet spot. At times the bat strikes the ball and the bat shatters and travels further than the ball. At other times the ball hits the bat and the batter absorbs the shock and the entire body feels the shock of the blow. Your body feels like one huge funny bone. I wonder if this is how Jesus felt after he had swung the bat in the temple. Jesus was swinging the axe in an attempt to fell the tree that was political, economic, and spiritual power. He soon learned the tree was petrified.

Whistleblowers call those who are in power to accountability when power is being abused. The most compelling sermon speaking truth to power was a sermon spoken without words at Tiananmen Square in the spring of 1989. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9-nXT8lSnPQ History has never been kind to whistleblowers. John the Baptist ended up having his head served on a silver platter. Eventually the tanks will roll again and nothing will get in their way. Dr. Harrell Beck, former Professor of Old Testament at Boston University, once said the prophets were usually stoned twice. The first stoning was, of course, with stones. The second was a memorial stone erected 100 years later that said, “you were right.”

It was a miscarriage of justice that has not been replicated before or since. William Dillon was convicted of beating a Brevard County man to death on the beach in 1981. DNA evidence proved his innocence and he was released from prison in November 2008. The March 4^th News-Journal reported that Gov. Scott signed a $1.35 million payout for Dillon. “It doesn’t give me back what was taken from me, but, at the same time, it’s such a joy to be here because my life was gone. I can’t do anything but look forward, I just want to say thank you.” He sounds a bit like he feels he won the lottery. He got his life back and he doesn’t have to worry about his next meal. His story has a happy ending.

Jesus wasn’t the first and he won’t be the last innocent man to be condemned to death. It cuts to the core. It violates an innate sense of justice. We all know that life isn’t fair. Your Momma and your Daddy already told you this. If you have raised teenagers you’ve told them the same thing, probably, with a slight smirk on your face. Just because you know this, it doesn’t make it an easier pill to swallow. How we think and what we feel are often two very distinct issues. The longest journey we will often take is the eighteen inches between the head and the heart. To phrase this with a slightly different twist, if O.J. Simpson and Casey Anthony could be found not guilty by a jury of their peers and Jesus was condemned to death there is no such thing as justice.

We worship a God who was thrown off the train and under the bus. We worship a God who was beaten down by “the man.” We worship a God who was betrayed by one of his closest friends. “No longer do I call you my disciples, but you are my friends.” We worship a God who was spat upon, striped naked, beaten, shamed, and ridiculed with a purple robe and a crown of thorns. We worship a God who would never consent to playing the role of a victim. He boldly stood in the face of a superpower and when he was told, “Don’t you know I have the power of life and death over you?,” he replied, “You have no power except that which my Father in heaven has given to you.” He never let anyone take his power from him when you and I would be releasing our bowels and bladders.

So where is the good news in all of this? We follow a Lord who has cried the same agonizing prayers you and I have pleaded in our own Gethsemanies. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” If you have marched into hell for a heavenly cause and were hosed down with water cannons or police dogs were released on you, If you have ever stood up to the Kingdoms of this world, the rulers and principalities of this age, if you have spoken the truth and been shown the door, if you have been betrayed by those closest to you, if you have been on the receiving end of hate, rage, disgust, shame, or humiliation, in the workplace, the marketplace, or even in the privacy of your own home, Jesus is saying, “There are no silver spoons in my place setting. I am no fortunate one or Senator’s son. My power doesn’t come from wealth, position, place or military might. My power comes from this: I get it. I’ve been there.”

Please go to this link to experience the conclusion of this message.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7YBeepShsgo

The mechanized repetitive song played a calliope of bells and droned on over and over again. It was a familiar children’s song, so familiar that I can’t remember the tune, but I can remember the repetitiveness. I guess the reason I couldn’t remember the tune is because the repetitiveness was annoying. It was sort of like that Salvation Army Bell ringer that plays outside of Wal-Mart at Christmas time. I know the bell is supposed to be musical, but it is only repetitive. I can’t quite hear the music for the annoying repetitiveness of the bell. Do you remember the sound? It goes like this: Guilt-a-ring a guilt-a-ring a guilt-a-ring and on and on and on until you can pass by and put some change in the kettle in order to keep the ringing of the guilt from getting any louder, which generally tends to go away once you get inside the store. And when it is time to leave, the ringing is there to greet you again.

The repetitive ringing I heard was not about guilt. It was about joy. It was a strange sound to hear only because these are the sounds associated with summer. Baseball bats zing in the spring. An oak log crackles in a winter fireplace. The repetitive bells of the ice cream truck are usually reserved for summer. It is February 29, 2004.

When the ice cream man came through the neighborhood, time would standstill. No matter what we were doing, building forts, playing ball, or just sitting on the porch and wagging out tongues, all activity stopped. Children would freeze in place. We would hold up our heads, raising an ear, like a beagle hearing a distant train before anyone else would. Hearing the bells of the ice cream truck meant two things. It was time for ice cream, and it was time to beg.

Children would run home at full gallop and promise anything in order to experience the sheer joy of the frozen treat. “Mom, I’ll be good for the rest of my life if you just let me have a quarter.” This was not a time for hesitation. This was not a time for debate. Hesitation meant the ice cream man was gone, and if he was gone, it felt like he would be gone forever. All of life stood in the balance in this one moment of risk. We would rush in with the full exuberance of ecstatic possibility. It was a wonder we did not become bi-polar. On the one hand was the excitement of getting the frozen treat, and joining the rest of the assembled tribe to devour the goods. On the other hand was the possibility of rejection. There were three answers I feared: “I don’t have any money. It’s too close to dinner. You didn’t make up your bed.”

I don’t have any money was the, “old mother Hubbard’s” answer which meant you can’t get blood out of a turnip. The cupboard was bare and there was no bone to give to the dog and no quarter for the ice cream man. Even though we were poor by today’s standards, I rarely believed this one because there had to be a quarter around somewhere. It’s too close to dinner meant that as children we really didn’t know what was best for us, that we would always choose to eat desert before we ate Brussel sprouts, and so I guess this was an exercise we were supposed to learn about priorities and delayed gratification. I don’t suppose I learned this one very well because I’ll choose ice cream over Brussel sprouts any day. The “you didn’t make up your bed,” meant that there was money, but I didn’t earn the right to the ice cream because I did not do my chores. Like any good attorney going through cross-examination, this was a yes or no question. “Did you, or did you not, make up your bed?” If the answer was yes, I had made up my bed, and there was money and it wasn’t too close to dinner, the quarter would be granted.

Back at the ice cream truck, the tribe was gathered to make their selections in accordance with the amount of money that had been successfully begged. Popsicles were at the low end of the pyramid. If all you could beg was a dime, then a popsicle would have to do. From popsicles there were push-ups and from push-ups there were ice cream sandwiches all the way up to the filet mignon of the ice cream truck: the Nutty-Buddy. Nutty-Buddies were wrapped in paper. The paper would be carefully peeled off to reveal a sugar cone with a crown of nuts and caramel and chocolate. An accomplished and experienced ice cream truck junkie could eat a nutty buddy like someone burning a candle at both ends. It was possible to eat the nuts and the chocolate and the caramel off the top, and at the same time, to bite the bottom off of the cone and suck out the ice cream. This feat was not to be accomplished by the novice, but only by the skilled Nutty-Buddy connoisseur.

These bells, these ringing, repetitive bells that play hypnotic children’s songs over and over again, seemed out of place because they were out of season. The bells of ice cream are reserved for summer. It is Florida, after all, but two days earlier there was 18 inches of snow in South Carolina and it’s been cold here with the wind blowing wind chills at a whopping 40 degrees!

It is the dead of winter, but even more odd, the day is February 29, 2004. Leap year. It’s an odd day, anyway. Every four years we have to make up a day because the way that we figure how the earth travels around the sun is off just a tad and so we have to tweak it in order to make it work.

Life is like that. No matter how much we try to organize it, no matter how much order we try to impose on it, every so often, and more often than not, life has to be tweaked. Life requires adjustments. And if we’re waiting every four years to tweak a thing or two, we may find that we need to be building in more tweak time. My manual on my truck indicates the oil is to be changed every 4000 miles. At Nascar tracks across America, cars come into the pits every 25-60 miles, depending on the track. Tweaking is what gets the cars from the back to the front. I’ve been married for 29 years, and if I waited every four years to “tweak” I think I know what I would be: divorced.

It seems, at times, that the repetitiveness of life often diminishes the joy. Bells are meant to awaken, not to put us to sleep. Ask any child when they hear the bells from an ice cream truck if they are feeling sleepy. Bells ringing at Christmas need to be ringing all year around. Maybe the guilt has to do with our neighbors who are in need 365/366 days out of the year. We are surrounded by phenomenal needs all the time. Is it only at Christmas that the guilt breaks through, because we know we have so much?

I want to hear the bells of the ice cream truck so that life doesn’t become so predictable, I want to hear the bells on leap day, ground hog day, the fourth of July, and Arbor Day. For that matter, I want to hear the bells on Monday, Tuesday, and all of the rest. Life is just too short to miss the ringing of the bells.

Jesse and Karen are biker friends from St. Augustine. I have known them casually until recently. The friendship has become much more intense. Jesse was diagnosed with kidney cancer last December. Cat scans revealed the cancer had spread to the liver and lungs. Last Monday Jesse was an “open and shut” case. Surgeons were to remove a cancerous kidney and when Jesse was opened, he was immediately closed. The cancer had spread everywhere. He was sent home to hospice, a condemned man sentenced to death in his own body. Alternative and holistic treatments are the last bridge spanning a diminishing hope. The countdown begins: two months and counting.

For Jesse, it’s immediate, and an “in-your-face” kind of thing. Jesse’s reality is also your reality and mine. We are all dying, or living for that matter. It’s our choice. The clock is ticking and the sand is drifting through the hourglass. We only get an allotted amount of ticks and grains of sand.

The Russian scientist Pavlov taught dogs to salivate when they could hear a bell and anticipate that food would follow. I think that is a pretty good idea. I want to salivate when I hear the bells. I want to live life with an insatiability that makes me always want to come back for more, licking my chops, making me fully aware and alive in every moment. Everything else is just plain boring. Maybe leap day is a subtle reminder that it is time to take a leap back into life!

I feel a strange stirring within. I think I’m ready to get up, fire up the Harley, head down to the grocery store, and see if I can find some Nutty-Buddies. I wonder if I still remember how to suck the ice cream out of the bottom. After all, it is burning at both ends.

Dr. Timothy L. McNeil is the Executive Director of the Genesis Counseling Center in Ormond Beach, Florida.

http://www2.mcdowellnews.com/sports/2011/feb/14/we-cheered-dale-earnhardt-because-he-drove-all-us-ar-782525/

NASCAR is the only major provider of sports entertainment that includes a prayer in the pre-race ceremony. In my lifetime, I have witnessed the Supreme Court eliminate prayer in public schools, County Courthouses banned from displaying manger scenes, and the Ten Commandments removed from state houses of government. This privilege granted by NASCAR, and the networks, provides a generous concession to persons of faith who increasingly feel marginalized and their faith minimized in our present culture.

Although NASCAR has intentionally outgrown its Southern roots and developed a nationwide network of tracks and fans, it remains committed to preserving this tradition grounded in the cultural south and evangelical Christianity. Who could have predicted the marriage of Bible thumping preachers and moonshine runners could ever work? What strange bedfellows they make! Although the instructions given to guest chaplains specifically request the pastor use “inclusive” language, the majority of those who participate in the 25 second prayer ignore the instructions and pray “in Jesus’ name” to the delight of many and the dismay of others. For an evangelical pastor to do otherwise would be a compromise of their faith. Other fans who do not share their convictions feel offended.

Having been both an observer and a participant in the race prayer, I confess feeling conflicted about the practice. In 1986, through the generosity of the France family and the goodwill of Rev. Hal Marchman (track chaplain for 46 years at Daytona International Speedway) our family was invited to join other clergy families as guests at the Twin Qualifying races. I immediately became a fan. I wrote an article that was published in the News-Journal special edition on February 25, 2001 after Dale Earnhardt died on the last lap of the Daytona 500. When Hal retired in November 2004, I was honored to fill this position knowing I’d never fill his shoes. Two years later, Daytona International Speedway made a decision to rotate the position of chaplain and give other clergy an opportunity to be involved. The role of Chaplain became much like the Grand Marshall who exhorts the drivers to “start your engines.”

Here are a few observations from an observer and a participant. First, the sequence of the pre-race ceremonies follows the presentation of the flag, the prayer, the National Anthem, and a military flyover. While the position in this sequence honors the importance of prayer, the placement of the prayer may also create confusion about the meaning. The pre-race sequence links patriotism to our nation and devotion to God while the thundering jets serve as an exclamation point to our massive military muscle. The placement of the prayer makes a statement before the chaplain ever utters a word.

Second, race prayers follow a predictable pattern. The chaplain usually prays for the safety of the drivers. I still ask myself, “How does a chaplain pray for the safety of someone driving an 800 horsepower billboard traveling at two hundred miles per hour, aerodynamically hooked together bumper to bumper in a 43-car train?” God does not suspend the laws of gravity or physics, and is not responsible for human error in order to grant us “safety.” Once, I was asked to pray for the safety of the cowboys at the start of a rodeo. How do we pray for the safety of people who intentionally place themselves in harm’s way? In other words, “We’re going to place ourselves in situations of needless risk for your entertainment and we want God to cover the bets in the event it goes bad.” The Allison, Earnhardt, and Petty families know this doesn’t work.

Third, the chaplain is usually compelled to pray for the safety of our troops. I am a son of the south; and, I love our nation. I am proud to be an American. Yet, this practice has always felt strange to me. My son was in the Air Force during my first experience of praying at the speedway. I had a personal interest in “blessing our troops.” I wanted God to do what I could not do: protect my son. So what happens when this divine protection policy does not work? What happens when the military vehicle pulls up in your driveway, the uniformed soldiers knock at your door, and the first words spoken are, “I regret to inform you but your son or daughter…” Does this mean God was a slacker and had left the post? Does this mean our prayers for safekeeping were not earnest enough? Is it our fault our son or daughter was killed? I don’t believe so. I am convinced that God grieves whenever there is the needless death of a son or daughter regardless of the theory, ideology, philosophy, or theology that is playing behind the scene while these soldiers are pulling the triggers.

I believe God has made all things sacred. It is what we do that makes the world profane, as we are painfully witnessing in the Gulf of Mexico. I am grateful NASCAR honors this sacred tradition. I am moved to tears when I see thousands of people who wouldn’t step near the shadow of a steeple remove their caps as a sign of reverence to God.

As we pause to celebrate the signing of the Declaration of Independence, we are reminded that our struggling 13 colonies could not find a way to unite until they declared war on England. Let us pray for ways for our world to unite without having to have enemies. If the world is a village, then we are all members of the same tribe. Let us pray for a new unity and for the healing of our environment, our nation, and our world. Let us pray for the creatures, the fowl and fish, who are the victims of the massive reminder of our addiction to oil. Let us pray for clean energy, jobs, and for hope for those who have been beaten down by the recession. Let us pray for peace, that we may beat our swords into plowshares, and our spears into pruning hooks, that we will study war no more. (Isaiah 2:4) Let us pray to bring our troops home! Shalom and Amen!

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In the parking lot at the new Publix supermarket it all happened so fast that it seemed to be a dream or most probably a nightmare. He came up from behind when she was fumbling with her keys, trying to unlock the door. With his rush of adrenalin and sheer strength he simply pushed her to the pavement, and ripped the pocketbook from her arm. Stunned, it took several moments before she would cry for help, or even cry at all. By this time, he was long gone. Three days later at the police line-up, five young men were brought out on the stage, all nearly the same age and size. They stared at the one-way mirror and saw their own reflections. She looked through the glass and saw each of them and studied their faces, and convinced it was either number three or number five. Would you know him if you saw him?

At the airport, you have been assigned the responsibility of picking up someone you have never seen before which is no small task. There are only 240 people on the plane, and they are all in an eager scramble to get down to the baggage claim area, claim their luggage, to catch a cab or rent a car, and to head wherever their destination happens to be. As you look around now the thought dawns on you that you should have made a sign to hold with his name on it so that he could find you! You have only two clues to successfully solve this mystery. Your passenger will be wearing a dark pin stripe suit and will be carrying a briefcase. It is a description that narrows down the hunt to at least 20 business types. Would you know him if you saw him?

In another day and another time the proud grandparents peered through that funny-looking glass with the chicken wire inside of it, trying to figure out which of the babies belonged to them, or at least to their son. It can’t be that one, he’s too quiet, and it can’t be that one, because he is screaming too loud. That one is too wrinkled looking, and that one, of course, is of a different ethnic background. Which one is the right one? Would you know him if you saw him?

The common denominator in each of these stories is recognition. If you’d never seen your assailant, your businessman, or your grandchild would you know him if you saw him? On this first Sunday after Christmas, the first day of the New Year, I guess we could ask the same question of ourselves. Not in the parking lot, the airport, or the maternity ward but here in the temple. Are we looking hard or hardly looking? Would you know him if you saw him?

Jesus was still in diapers when his parents brought him to the temple in Jerusalem to present him to the Lord as the custom was, and offer a sacrifice, and that was when old Simeon spotted him even without the benefit of facial recognition software. Years before, he had been told that he wouldn’t die until he had seen the Messiah with his own two eyes, and time was running out. That moment finally came; one look through his cataract lenses was all it took. He asked if it would be o.k. to hold the baby in his arms, and they told him to go ahead but to be careful not to drop him.

“Lord, now let thou servant depart in peace, according to thy word, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation,” he said, the baby playing with the fringes of his beard. The parents were pleased as punch, and so he blessed them too for good measure.

Then of course there was Anna. Her days at the fountain of youth were over, and no amount of make-up, makeover, or plastic surgery would cover up the bags and sags and wrinkles, which, by the way, she didn’t even care to cover up in the first place. It would have been impossible to cover up what time, worry, and her family had done to her over the span of eight, going on nine, decades. And some said that the only reason she was down at the temple every time the doors were open was because she wanted the rabbi to have something nice to say about her when she died. There was though something different about Anna, and most believed it was the twinkle in her eye that truly made all of her age seem relative and so unimportant, as if she could dance in the sun and love with the passion of a fair maiden, the memory of which still burns in her soul and brings a smile to her lips.

There was something about these two senior citizens that set them apart. Simeon and Anna, acting separately, both knew who he was, the “he” being Jesus. And although cataracts and glaucoma may have limited their vision, it didn’t keep them from knowing the identity of the Christ child. For one, it was the fulfillment of a life’s dream. It was his life’s hope and desire to see the Christ before he died. Riley Short, pastor of the First United Methodist Church of Lakeland prior to his retirement, was visiting on the campus during minister’s week when I was a student at the Candler School of Theology. Riley is not as old as Simeon, but he is getting there. On Tuesdays and Thursday between 10:00 a.m. and 11:00 a.m. there were no classes so that the students could attend chapel, if they chose to do so. A very popular place during this hour was Cox Hall, where coffee and conversation could easily be enjoyed. Several of Riley’s friends were going to Cox Hall and invited him along to join them, and his response on this particular day was, “No, you go along. I’m going to chapel. I would hate to miss it if there was another Pentecost.” He was looking for something, and he was coming with a sense of expectancy that maybe today would be the day. For Anna, it was serendipity of worship. She had come expecting to continue her daily discipline of prayer and fasting, and of giving thanks to God. And like the man who shucks oysters, who has shucked ten thousand before and will probably shuck ten thousand again, he opens one oyster and there discovers a shining pearl. Her worship was consistent and disciplined, and it finally “paid off,” not that she was looking for a pay off, and perhaps more interestingly so, because she wasn’t even expecting it to happen.

And maybe these are the ways that God comes to us. The Pauline model of conversion, of riding the horse in this direction and getting knocked down, blinded, and sent off packing in the other direction, is the most sensational experience, but it is also the most rare. Most of us are not fire breathing murderers, adulterers, robbers, or thieves. We are, for the most part, good people, even though we are often blinded by our dark sides and to the reality of the human condition. There are times when I think if I hear one more celebrity witness tell about how bad they were then and how good and successful they are now, I believe I will pull out the remaining strands of my hair.

We all want it to be so instant and so fast and so now. When I was in undergraduate school at the University of North Florida I worked part-time as a bill collector for General Electric Credit Corporation. I was assigned the task of collecting accounts that were 30 days past due. About half of the new first time delinquents were newly weds or persons who were married less than three years. And more often than not, these couples grew up with parents that “had everything,” and they too thought that they were supposed to “have everything,” right from the start. It was their norm. With both partners working they had adequate income but very quickly they had spent themselves into danger of losing it all.

If the current economic recession has taught us anything perhaps it is this; “We want it all and we want it now,” is just wrong. It doesn’t take much to make the correlation between impulse buying and impulse faith. With impulse faith we may end up believing God is supposed to work like the latest quad-core Core i7 2600K computer processor. If God doesn’t boot up or download fast enough, if we can’t surf heaven’s Internet and get the answers or the results we demand fast enough, then we might as well just unplug the entire mess and walk away. It’s a Roadrunner downloaded super frozen microwave dinner faith that is supposed to be heated and eaten and then thrown away. But the payoff for Simeon and Anna is that it didn’t come overnight, with guaranteed next day Federal Express delivery. One had sought his coming for a lifetime. The other had simply gone to the Temple, as she had done for a lifetime, and there was the promised one. It didn’t just happen because they wanted it to happen! It was a life-long dream for one and serendipity of discipline for the other.

I don’t believe we need impulse Christianity. Christianity is not something that is intended to be purchased and to try it a time or two and then if it doesn’t work the way we thought it would then just take it back. Isn’t it ironic that one of the  busiest shopping day of the year after Black Friday is the day after Christmas? Can you imagine folks coming to church on Christmas Eve and they take Silent Night, candlelight, and the baby Jesus home with them and then this past Monday, the day after Christmas, they wake up at 3:00 a.m. and say, “What was I thinking?” And then a few hours later at 6:00 a.m. the day after Christmas they are banging on the Church door demanding a refund? Christianity doesn’t come with a trial offer. I signed up for a “Netflix” account which as most of you know is a DVD movie and live movie streaming service. You can order movies on line and they mail them to your home and you send them back and that’s how it goes. The movies we ordered were all older films and I decided I didn’t want to continue to subscribe to this service and so I went on line to stop the subscription and this screen popped up and said, “WAIT!” Would you be interested in extending your free 15-day trial for another 15 days? And I ordered three more movies.

If you find yourself confused or frustrated or that you can’t find the meaning you’re looking for or the answers you need I want to say to you, “Wait!” Can you hang on for another 15 days or better yet, 15 years? We look for microwave answers to circumstances and situations that require crock pot solutions. I started running the month before I turned 30 and have been at it more or less since then. I’ve gotten slower throughout the years and a knee surgery has slowed me down further, but I’m still at it. It started a few weeks before I signed up for a 5k race. I went to a local department store, bought a $12. pair of sneakers, walked around a lake a few times, and then said, “I can do this.” When the day of the race came, I started and finished, just barely ahead of two fellows in wheelchairs and a lady with emphysema. Like the tortoise and the hare, I took off with the jackrabbits and then after the first half mile, I was praying for death.

What came out of that defeat and self-imposed humiliation was the resolve to run a marathon. In matters of faith this isn’t so much about pounding the pavement as it is about staying the course. What Simeon and Anna teach us is that our journey with God is not a sprint but rather a marathon. It is not some kind of fickle love affair that I will like you as long as everything is easy for us in this relationship.

I have a deep appreciation and admiration and love for the Simeons and the Annas, those persons who have struggled with the faith for many decades, who carry with them a sense of expectancy because they long to see the promise of the coming one. These are our forward-looking people. Our energy goes where attention flows. And in the serendipity of discipline God comes, for he always comes to those who earnestly seek him. And one day in the synagogue two octogenarians discover the expected and the unexpected, and their eyes twinkle like star lit nights.

Would you know him if you saw him? Some are looking hard. Others are hardly looking. Becky Kelley has written a powerful new Christmas song that will touch you at the core of your being. Please click here to see the video or paste it and put it in your web browser: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OExXItDyWEY

Simeon and Anna weren’t looking for Jesus to show up at the mall. They were waiting for him at the temple. It was with that sense of excitement and anticipation that Simeon and Anna came to the Temple to worship, not to look for what was wrapped in a package, but what was wrapped in swaddling clothes. They were just showing up at worship. It wasn’t artificial and it wasn’t pretend. It was real. It still is. Are you looking hard or hardly looking? Would you know him if you saw him?

If you were to die tonight, would you go to heaven? If so, what makes you so sure? If you’ve been around the block a few times, I’m sure you’ve been confronted with this question a time or two.

We’ve all had influences that have shaped how we look at this issue. Some people are extremely hostile to this approach. Others confess to being saved by it. How you look at this has something to do with how you perceive God on the continuum of justice and grace. I grew up with more of the judgment than the grace.

My mother was a “P.K.” P.K. is an abbreviation for “Preacher’s Kid.” My grandfather baptized me as an infant on his 50^th wedding anniversary and he died just prior to my 2^nd birthday. I guess you might say I’m still feeling the effects of that baptism. I never knew him. However, when I sensed this divine tractor beam drawing me into the ministry, I wanted to know more about my grandfather since I was following in his footsteps.

When we lived in Madison, my mother’s oldest sister, whom we called Sister, lived in Quitman, Georgia and we would occasionally go and visit. On one such occasion she gifted me with Papa’s Bible and a collection of his books and sermons. As I poured though his papers I found a sermon he preached in 1924 condemning a lynching in the community he served. There are the outlines of 66 of his sermons in this loose-leaf Bible. There wasn’t a lot of gray in his sermons. It was mostly black and white. He was in the ministry for over 20 years before he served his first station. This meant he served circuits that had two, three, or four churches all linked together and the family moved on average every two to four years. My grandmother played the piano and she was well loved. On more than one occasion I am told he was asked to move and they wanted my grandmother to stay.

When my aunt handed me these materials, she told me of a Sunday evening when she was home from college. It was the summer and one hot summer evening she was lying on her bed trying not to move in order stay cool. Papa stuck his head in and asked her if she was going to go to church that evening. Sister said it was too hot and that she thought she’d just lay there under the fan. Papa said, “It’s going to be a whole lot hotter where you are going.” Needless to say, she got up and went to church.

I mention this because it must have been the culture my mother was familiar with. The following stories both come from my early years when I was five or six years old. The first story involved a Bible study that was conducted during a severe summer thunderstorm. How’s that for getting your attention? I had two older sisters, and my oldest sister was deathly afraid of thunderstorms. Each boom would be closely followed with a scream. Mother got out the Bible, I think, in an attempt to calm my highly neurotic sister. She had a captive audience. In between the “boom” and the “scream” I heard my mother read, “It is easier for a rich man to get through the eye of a needle than it is to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.” My first grade mind didn’t understand metaphors. If someone said, “It’s raining cats and dogs,” you go look for a new puppy or kitten. “My arm is killing me.” Then you should cut it off! Mother kept a pin cushion on a table next to where she sat. I could see the needles sticking out and I remember consciously saying to myself, “I don’t have a chance.”

The second involved a science project my next oldest sister was not prepared for. She had procrastinated to the last minute and in the 11^th hour she needed a cardboard box, which I happened to have one I kept some of my toys in. My sister needed my box to which I resolutely refused probably more than anything because she wanted the box. If I had been older I would have said, “Lack of planning on your part does not constitute a crisis on my part.” Exhausted with their efforts to persuade, Mother finally said,” You know Tim, one day when you die you’ll sit in front of the judgment throne of God and you’ll have to explain to God why you didn’t give your sister the box when she needed it. What will you say to him then?” She smacked me right between the eyes with the God stick. I got guilt. My sister got the box.

I mention these stories because I grew up in a culture of fear, at least as it involves the Bible, God, death, and the last judgment. It is one of the Biblical images but it is not the only one. Maybe that casts light on why there are so many heaven jokes. There was a rabbi, a priest, and a Methodist preacher that all died and went to heaven . . . The good news? Jesus is coming back. The bad news? He wants us to meet him in Salt Lake City: My apologies to Mitt Romney. St. Peter was conducting an orientation for a group of new arrivals in heaven. He toured them by the streets of gold, the mansions over the hilltop, still waters, green pastures, and then finally down a long corridor toward a break room where they could receive some refreshments. Off to the right there was one room and as they approached St. Peter turned around and “shushed” everyone to tell the new arrivals to be quiet. They tiptoed by this one room back to the break room. Finally one of the new arrivals said, “Why did we have to be quiet?” St. Peter said, “There are Baptists in that room and they think they are the only ones here.”

We tend to make jokes about the things that make us anxious, judgment and death, well, is no laughing matter. Miscarriages, stillborns, suicides, murders, accidents, and natural disasters – every tragedy you could possibly imagine. You just can’t make these things funny. Not only do we face these situations, we are also faced with the plague of meaning . . . why? I’ve witnessed these situations and attempted to absorb the anguish. I’ve been with families when loved ones have died suddenly, leaving their families in shock, and those who fought for years fighting cancers and Alzheimer’s and everything betwixt and between. One dear woman who was a member of my congregation in Daytona, fought long and hard with congestive heart disease. She had been a nurse and unfortunately she knew too much. I sat with her time and again in the hospital. The day before she died I met her in the Emergency Room at Halifax. She was drowning in her own fluids barely able to breathe. Every word was labored. Last words leave lasting impression, and I’ll never forget the last thing she said to me. She pulled down her oxygen mask and said, “You know Tim, dying isn’t for sissies.” No truer words could be said. I’ve stood at these places in my feeble attempts to offer comfort. I’ve stood at the foot of hundreds of graves as well as having conducted the funerals for my Mother, My Father, My Sister, and a Brother-in-law.

For years my sister would ask me, “Is he ok? Is Don ok? She’s not the only person who has ever asked me that question about a loved one. My attempts to reassure her never did seem to get any traction. I would tell her, “He’s o.k.” When I would say this she would get frustrated with me. In her mind my statement lacked credibility. “What makes you so sure?” It’s like trying to do a lay-up with Dwight Howard guarding the basket. I’d try to lay it up off the glass and she would just swat it away. It’s not unlike telling someone how bright, smart, pretty, handsome, insightful, intelligent, etc. If you don’t believe it about yourself, nothing I’m going to say is going to get into the hoop. I can’t download this on to your hard drive. I can’t give you a bone marrow faith transplant or a type and cross-match it in order to donate platelets for a transfusion.

My sense of being sure doesn’t come from a place of certainty. Certainty has to do with logic. It has to do with reason. Certainty has to do with debate. Certainty is about being right. Certainty creates oppositional energy because if I’m right that means you have to be wrong. Not only do you have to be wrong, I generally have to ridicule you in the process. I have to undermine your sense of confidence and attack your competence. Not only do I have to make my position look superior I have to make the opposition look stupid in the process. Pick any of the Republican presidential candidate debates thus far.

Certainty gets lost in the translation when communicating to someone who has doubts, just like it did with my sister. Certainty communicates arrogance. Love is patient and kind; love is not jealous or boastful; it is not arrogant or rude. Love does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrong, but rejoices in the right. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Whereas certainty is about the head, assurance is about the heart. Being “sure” is in the center of assurance. The word is translated “persuaded” in the King James Version. Certainty pushes against. Persuasion pulls the other forward. Persuasion draws others in. It doesn’t attempt to fix, or change, or heal them. It allows others to be where they are. Authentic spirituality allows the other person to be where they are, in the midst of doubt, confusion, suffering, struggle, paranoia, fear, anger, or anxiety. When you have heard, valued, validated, and accepted me when I am in these dark places, I am more apt to hear what you have to say. You have earned the right to persuade me by loving me in my pain. You can persuade me because I trust you. Trust has to be earned. And trust is not a matter of the head. It is a matter of the heart.

There is a huge amount of persuading that Paul is attempting in the 8^th chapter of Romans, which is a tall order, since he is writing to a congregation he has never met before. He is being trusted by reputation. That might not be so odd if you think about it. How many times have you gone to see a doctor, a dentist, a beautician, or an automobile repair shop based upon the urging of a friend? “You come highly recommended.” Paul came highly recommended.

There is a great deal of “if” and “then” logic to Paul’s persuasion. If we are suffering now: then glory will be revealed. If God gave his son then how much more will he give to us? If God is for us, then who can be against us? If we and creation are in a state of decay then God will redeem both. We sigh too deep for words. All of creation is sighing and in labor to be completed. In other words, Paul is saying because God is being faithful to us in the present we can trust God with the future. Why would the future be any more than a continuation of God’s faithfulness.

Christianity is the only faith that invites its followers to go ahead and die now and get the dying over with. Once we get the dying over with we can get on with the business of living. Some people figure this out long before their physical death.  And the more letting go we are able to do along the way the more assurance we are able to accrue for the last journey we’ll ever make.

I was driving in a procession on a Sunday afternoon on the way to a graveside service for a woman who had been my church treasurer for many years. It was a Sunday afternoon and I was spent. I had taught at Sunday School and preached that morning, had lunch with my family, and they went home. I went to conduct the funeral. Sunday afternoons are reserved for curling up in the fetal position and sucking my thumb. Preaching is the most exhilarating and draining thing I ever do. On Sunday afternoons I suffer from the NASCAR disease I call Narcalapsy. If there are no yellow flags after ten laps the hypnotic effect of driving in circles makes me fall asleep. I was drained and self-loathing because I had agreed to do this funeral on a Sunday afternoon. We had this Soccer Mom van at the time for kid hauling and transport and the only consolation to the behemoth was that it had a Bose 10 speaker stereo system. I tried to find something on the radio that would revive me when I found a PBS station playing what my kids would have called elevator music. What I found was a Boston Pop’s version of 76 Trombones. It started off with just one trombone, then more were added, until finally, I suppose, there were 76 trombones playing in the hit parade. Driving in this somber procession, I cranked it up close to full blast. By the time we pulled into the cemetery I had been mysteriously transformed into Arthur Fiedler. And as we were pulling in to park, the song was not quite over and I’m thinking, “I can’t get out now. It’s not over. And then the thought hit me, “What in the world am I going to do?? I have been conducting the Boston Pop’s Orchestra and now I’ve got to put on my funeral face and go stand at the head of the casket and say the last words to be said over Lillian’s life. I felt enormously conflicted.

As I walked to go stand at the head of that casket, the only thing I could think to do was to own it. I told the family and friends that had gathered about being tired, about the radio station, about the 76 Trombones and about Arthur Fiedler. I told them, “You know, we should play 76 Trombones at every funeral . . . we can march into cemeteries with trombones blaring away because there was another one who first marched out of one and he’s leading the way.” And that’s what makes me so sure.

This is your quest. The quest begins when your search for meaning takes precedent over your need for safety. The quest begins with questions. Why am I here? What am I supposed to be doing with my life? Is there something I am missing? When do we set sail? How can I board this ship?

This is our current dilemma. Sailing ships and space ships have now circumnavigated the earth. Our planet can no longer provide us with new lands to pioneer, divide, and conquer. In this place and time we can no longer expand. We can only divide, conquer and re-conquer what already exists. The expansion we so desperately seek is an expansion of consciousness.

The very survival of the planet may depend upon whether we make an inward journey. Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote, “What lies behind us and what lies ahead of us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” What did Emerson mean? What lies within us? Does he allude to the soft whispering of the soul?

Is what lies within us is more important than past or future? How can we move beyond a false identity based on distorted images of the self? How do we discover a deeper sense of identity that transcends family, tribe, or nation? We must make way for the inward journey to discover our destiny: “Out there” holds false promise. It is not “out there” but it is “in here.” It is not without but within. To live in the mystery is to Discover our Destiny within the Soul, the Self, and the Search. Wherever you are right now, in this very moment, you are standing on the gangplank that can launch your life into a brave new world!

What happens when we fail? Why do some people just give up? One theory on the effects of failure comes from the current cultural myth of self-esteem. As disturbing as this may be for some people, in reality there is no such thing as self-esteem.

Back in the late 1970s, I received a complimentary copy of a new book by television evangelist Robert Schuler, titled Self-Esteem: The Next Reformation. The fact of the matter is Dr. Schuler’s prediction was wrong. A reformation based on self-esteem never occurred. Countless self-help books have been written on this subject. The pop culture diagnosis of poor self-esteem is the potpourri explanation that sounds profound, but means very little. I feel for new sojourners who bring a sincere, serious, and humble admittance of “low” self-esteem to an initial appointment. There is a great deal of shame associated with this self-diagnosis. Using little eye contact, sojourners attempt to explain something they do not understand in the hope that I will.

The dictionary defines self-esteem as “Pride in oneself; self-respect.” Seems simple enough, but self-esteem attempts to define an intangible, unsubstantial and vague reality. How much self-esteem is too much? How much is not enough? Is too much self-esteem narcissism? Is too little depression? If self-esteem is low, can we add a quart? Have you ever tried to encourage someone feeling defeated, deflated or depressed? Did it work? Was it like trying to pour water into a colander?

My years as a counselor have given me the opportunity to work with many different physicians including specialists, family practice doctors, and surgeons. My favorite question to ask physicians is, “Have you ever seen the self-esteem? Where is it located? Is it near the cerebellum, kidneys, spleen, or the appendix?” I usually get a quizzical stare, a shrug of the shoulder, or even a philosophical statement with a finger pointing to either the head or the heart.

Self-esteem is a dysfunctional diagnostic instrument readily used that is vague, unclear, and non-specific. “You have a tumor in your lung.” “You have cirrhosis of the liver.” Tumors and cirrhosis are clear, specific and identifiable on a CT scan. Self-esteem is not. Practitioners in mental health and counseling have used the concept of “low” self-esteem like leeches to suck the blood out of clients and money from their wallets. If you have “low” self-esteem, when does it fill back up? A sojourner with unmet dependency needs would answer NEVER! Self-esteem has been a trendy fad in pop psychology that has outlived its usefulness and needs a fitting eulogy and burial.

Naming the symptoms provides the ability to organize the experience. As an example, a patient presents the physician with a list of symptoms such as nausea, headache and fever. The physician assesses the symptoms, conducts a battery of diagnostic tests and determines the patient has a “mass.” A respected, credentialed, and competent physician gives the symptoms a name and identifies the cause. The diagnosis now organizes what was previously vague and unclear. A team of physicians would then establish a treatment plan. A surgeon might remove the tumor, a radiologist might bombard it with radiation, or an oncologist might poison it with chemotherapy. If we name the demon, the demon can now be cut out, burned, or poisoned. A diagnosis of “low self-esteem” links together a vague collection of symptoms. The focus is on the symptoms but not the cause. Symptoms cannot be cut out, burned, or poisoned. The diagnosis is in of itself a poison. It creates an internalization of meaning that is skewed, reactive, and distorted. “I have low self-esteem” is comparable to saying, “I am an incurable, defective, and pathetic human being.” This demon cannot be cast out.

Naming symptoms provides the means to have power over the unknown. Early in human history, ancient Neanderthal warriors painted images of the animals they intended to hunt on the walls of caves. Cultural anthropologists theorize this ritual “captured the spirit of the animal” prior to the hunt. In this mindset, the hunters slay what had already been captured! Organizing reality in this way met primitive needs to take control over a situation. This same dynamic is also operative in naming an illness or a disease. It will fend off feelings of powerlessness. There is power in knowing! Knowing provides a sense of coherence, a mastery and dominion over the circumstance or situation. Defining a problem using the concept of self-esteem, especially “low” self-esteem, creates pathology as a way of organizing human experience. Does it make sense to organize around deficiencies, weaknesses, and problems?

Self-esteem is vague and ambiguous, ethereal and mysterious, like the shadowy mist rising from the swamp. The unconscious mind struggles to understand ambiguity and the problem with the concept of self-esteem is that it attempts to define something that is non-specific. Using ambiguous words to describe an event, feeling, situation or need makes it difficult to create “meaning.” As a college instructor, if I told my students to write a ten-page essay on beauty, love, or freedom, they would say, “Huh?” However, if I assigned a ten-page paper on the most beautiful sunset they had ever seen, or what it was like the first time they fell in love, or what the Declaration of Independence, the 4^th of July, and a fireworks display means to them since 9-11, the task would be easily “doable”. These instructions are far more specific.

One of the components of our search is our basic need to be competent. Competence and confidence represent an essential need that begins at birth and continues until death. When a sojourner tells me he is suffering with a self-esteem problem, it is a cue that he feels incompetent to handle or manage a particular situation in the immediate present. In response, I usually ask, “Is there something going on in your life right now that you do not feel competent or confident to manage?” The question seems to elicit shock and a certain level of nakedness, as though I were a mystical clairvoyant. “How did I know?”