This squeamish condition you may be experiencing, called “political food poisoning” (not really; I just made that up) is at least as ancient as the apostle Paul.  When he wrote to the church in the Greek city of Corinth, he addressed this syndrome which was problematic in their local church politics. 

Now concerning food sacrificed to idols: we know that “all of us possess knowledge.” Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up. Anyone who claims to know something does not yet have the necessary knowledge; but anyone who loves God is known by him. Hence, as to the eating of food offered to idols, we know that “no idol in the world really exists,” and that “there is no God but one.”… Since some have become so accustomed to idols until now, they still think of the food they eat as food offered to an idol; and their conscience, being weak, is defiled. “Food will not bring us close to God.” We are no worse off if we do not eat, and no better off if we do. But take care that this liberty of yours does not somehow become a stumbling block to the weak…But when you thus sin against members of your family, and wound their conscience when it is weak, you sin against Christ. Therefore, if food is a cause of their falling, I will never eat meat, so that I may not cause one of them to fall.  [from 1^st Corinthians 8]

Strange as it seems to us (exactly as strange as our arguments will seem to people 2000 years from now), these well-intentioned church people were fighting about whether or not it was okay to eat meat that had been offered as sacrifices to idols and then sold in the marketplace.  Just thinking about eating this meat turned the stomachs of some newly converted Jesus followers.  They wanted to turn their backs on the past, and might be especially offended if they found out the cream of mushroom and chicken casserole someone brought to the church potluck had been made from an animal that had just come from the chopping block of Athena’s temple.  Perhaps they felt nearly poisoned if they’d already taken a few bites before they learned the origin of their food.

          Paul’s take on the subject was two-fold, and seemingly contradictory.  Meat is meat, he said.  If it’s been sacrificed to some idol, what difference does that make?  You should eat whatever you want to eat.  God doesn’t care.

          On the other hand, said Paul, why are you eating and serving food that you know others find offensive and sickening?  If it hurts the “weaker” members of my church family to see me eating such meat, then I’ll become a vegetarian, he said, and just stick with the green Jello at church suppers.  It really doesn’t matter, in the great scheme of things.

          Paul’s bottom line:  such things should not divide us.  And if we let those divisions poison our relationships, we value extraneous issues more than we value people.  He was right, because today nobody cares about meat offered to idols.

          Back to our current politics.  Many people have strong opinions, and probably justifiably so.  Those opinions deserve a hearing.  It is the hearing, discussing and yes, melding, of these opinions that makes societies function better.  Of course, we think our opinions matter more than  someone else’s.  And we think that those other people are the “weaker” ones with “weaker” positions.

          Wouldn’t it be something if churches and people of a variety of faiths could join together in saying, “We want to discuss these issues with each other.  But we will not let them divide us.  We will not let them poison our unity.  We care more about people than we do about who wins.”

          Wouldn’t that be something?

          Maybe that would settle our stomachs a little bit until the elections are over.

© Melissa Bane Sevier, 2012

          Following the directions in the manual, I was able to “pair” the car with my phone pretty quickly.  Then, as the directions specified, I pushed the “phone” button on my steering wheel.  A menu came up on the digital readout, with several choices for me to verbalize to the car.  Cool!  It was ready for my first voice command.

          According to the screen, I could say:  “Call <name>” and the car could access my phone address book, or “Call <number>” and it would simply dial whatever phone number I rattled off.

          I decided my first call should be to my husband to show off my new mastery of the technology.

          “Call Jerry,” I said clearly and confidently.

          There was a set of beeps that went down in tone, as if the car were expressing disappointment in me.  “I’m sorry; I didn’t get that,” said the car in a soothing female voice.

          “Call Jerry!” I said more loudly.

          The same beeps, then, “Please try again.”

          “CALL JERRY!” I nearly yelled, more exasperated than the car’s voice, which replied calmly, “I’m sorry.  Please try again later.”

          Later?  Why?  What later?

          I read the manual again.  I couldn’t find anything I’d done wrong.  Try again.

          Press button.  Menu appears.  “Call Jerry!” I said firmly, clearly, in a medium loud voice.  Disappointed beeps.  “I’m sorry,” said the voice, “I didn’t get that.”  I hit the button again to turn off the voice.

          Back to the manual.  The only thing I could figure is that maybe I wasn’t speaking closely enough to the microphone.  I scanned the manual’s pictures for some arrow highlighting a microphone.  Nothing.  The microphone’s location was not listed in the text, either.  Okay, try yet again.

          Button.  Menu.  “CALL JERRY!” I said very loudly into the car’s atmosphere.  Beeps.  “I’m sorry; I didn’t get that.” 

It must be the microphone.  Now just to figure out where it was…

          “CALL JERRY!” I leaned down and yelled at the steering wheel. 

          “Please try again.”

          “CALL JERRY!” I screamed directly into the digital screen.

          “Please try again.”

          “CALL JERRY!” I shouted up at the visor, then again near the arm rest.  I noticed someone walking by in the parking lot, staring.  I ignored him.

          “I’m sorry.  Please try again later.”

          I sat there for a couple of minutes, my blood pressure rising.  I had places to be.  I would try one more time.  If it didn’t work I’d call someone (who?) for help when I got back to the office.  One more time.

          Button.  Menu.  “Call Jerry!” I said.  I was pretty loud, but tired of screaming at my car.

          Beeps.  But different tones.  Going up this time, as if approving.  “Calling Jerry mobile,” said the car.  Then ringing and a connection.

          Finally!  Success!  My car was listening to me!

          Ever since that day, I have been able to speak in a normal voice and my car understands what I’m saying.  I don’t really know what happened, but I suspect that the car has filed the sound of my voice (not my shouting voice, thank goodness) into its voice recognition software, however that works.

          Now after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God, and saying, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.” As Jesus passed along the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the sea–for they were fishermen. And Jesus said to them, “Follow me and I will make you fish for people.” And immediately they left their nets and followed him. As he went a little farther, he saw James son of Zebedee and his brother John, who were in their boat mending the nets. Immediately he called them; and they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men, and followed him.  [From Mark 1]

          Last week and this, the lectionary gives us “call stories,” tales of people being called upon to do something.  Here is Mark’s take on the familiar story of Jesus calling some fishermen to follow.  Many modern commentators speculate that these guys already knew Jesus.  They’d heard him teach before, or had mutual friends, or worshiped in the same synagogue.  So, even though it’s still a huge deal that they left their livelihoods behind to follow, it may very well be that they were heading off with a somewhat familiar face and voice.

          Many of us moderns read this story and wonder if people are still called today.  I think we are.  But I think that now, as then, we are more likely to follow someone who is familiar, a voice that our soul’s “voice recognition software” has encountered before. 

          I confess that much of the time I’m not very good at listening, kind of like my car on that first day.  I hear too many competing voices, and I have too much on my mind.  Or I’m just not ready to have my attention drawn to some new thing.

          So we make sure our ears are tuned, our eyes are open, our hearts are tooled to listen for the voice.  We put ourselves in places where the voice is most likely to be heard:  among the poor, the sick, the vulnerable, the needy.  Alongside people who care about us, our welfare and our future.  We find the occasional quiet space in our souls where there’s less noise and interference. 

          And we listen.

          Then we’re more likely to be able to recognize the voice when it calls  us to follow.

© Melissa Bane Sevier, 2012

Now the boy Samuel was ministering to the LORD under Eli. The word of the LORD was rare in those days; visions were not widespread. At that time Eli, whose eyesight had begun to grow dim so that he could not see, was lying down in his room; the lamp of God had not yet gone out, and Samuel was lying down in the temple of the LORD, where the ark of God was. Then the LORD called, “Samuel! Samuel!” and he said, “Here I am!”  and ran to Eli, and said, “Here I am, for you called me.” But he said, “I did not call; lie down again.” So he went and lay down. The LORD called again, “Samuel!” Samuel got up and went to Eli, and said, “Here I am, for you called me.” But he said, “I did not call, my son; lie down again.” Now Samuel did not yet know the LORD, and the word of the LORD had not yet been revealed to him. The LORD called Samuel again, a third time. And he got up and went to Eli, and said, “Here I am, for you called me.” Then Eli perceived that the LORD was calling the boy. Therefore Eli said to Samuel, “Go, lie down; and if he calls you, you shall say, ‘Speak, LORD, for your servant is listening.’” So Samuel went and lay down in his place. Now the LORD came and stood there, calling as before, “Samuel! Samuel!” And Samuel said, “Speak, for your servant is listening.” [from 1 Samuel 3]

          The second call story concerns Nathanael.  He’s not one of the twelve disciples, but is more in the “outer circle” of Jesus’ followers.

Philip found Nathanael and said to him, “We have found him about whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote, Jesus son of Joseph from Nazareth.” Nathanael said to him, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” Philip said to him, “Come and see.”   [from John 1]

          These two stories have some definite differences, but also some striking similarities.  One of those similarities is that, while both Samuel and Nathanael had encounters with God or Jesus, they were helped along that path by a mentor or friend. Maybe they would have found the way by themselves in time, but an invitation to listen, to go and see, was just the nudge they needed to start in the right direction.

          How often have you felt moved to aid someone, pray for someone, reach out to someone who needs a little help?  How often has another person mentored or befriended you just when you needed it? 

          The journey of life is much easier if someone assists us along the way—helps us listen, encourages us, walks with us.

          In a New York Times article about friendship, the author describes a 2008 study with 34 students from the University of Virginia.  Each student was taken to the bottom of a hill and given a weighted backpack, then asked to estimate the angle of the hill’s steepness.  The students who were standing alone estimated the hill to be much steeper than those who were standing with a friend.  And the longer they’d known the friend, the less steep the hill seemed to them.

          When we know someone “has our back,” even if they can’t shoulder our weight for us, our climb is easier, our steps are surer, our load is lighter, our day is less troublesome.

          We are all capable of being intermediaries between another person and the holy.  We can be intercessors when there is trouble, channels of encouragement when days are wearying, agents of peace when worry rules, instruments of hope when life seems broken.

          Look around you and give thanks for those who have been intermediaries for your holy encounters.  Then go and do likewise.

© Melissa Bane Sevier, 2012

In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters. Then God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light. And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness. God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And there was evening and there was morning, the first day.  [From Genesis 1]

          In the beginning. 

          Here we are at the beginning of a new year.  An artificial construct, to be sure, but one that seems to bear much meaning in our culture.  Some people make promises to themselves to correct bad habits.  We set goals.  We determine to improve ourselves physically, intellectually, situationally.  We may not be faced with a formless void, but we do look ahead at a (sort of) clean slate, standing at the cusp of a new year.

          And yet, we’ve been here before.  We know that we will break our promises sooner or later.  We will not achieve all our goals.  Our self-improvement schemes will not all be realized. 

          So there we go.

          The good news, though, is that we have opportunities all the time for positive change.  The new year can be a new beginning.  So can January 3 or February 17 or September 22.  Every morning, every day, we start over with possibility.  At any time we can set goals, determine to do something for others, choose to do something for ourselves. 

          We have the hope—the responsibility—to reflect God’s creativity by welcoming the potential brought by every new day. 

          May your year be filled with creative promise, and may you have the courage to live each day faithfully.

© Melissa Bane Sevier, 2012

A California man is the latest layaway angel to embrace the spirit of Christmas charity by paying off $16,000 still owed to one shop for presents.

David Wilson, a car dealer from Laguna Beach, contacted the K-Mart in Costa Mesa after seeing a television report about other donors paying off strangers’ outstanding accounts.

He asked the manager to tally up the balances on all the accounts with balances of $100 or less, then wrote a check for $15,919.61 to pay off the whole lot.
The manager of the Costa Mesa K-Mart, Tricia Lawrence, then spent the whole weekend calling customers to let them know that they could come in and collect their presents.

‘The funniest thing is that I haven’t been called a liar so often in my life,’ she told the OC Register…

As well as his $16,000, a further $8,000 has been paid off by strangers – including a seven-year-old girl who paid $47 off accounts from cash she had been saving in her piggy bank.
Kristen Sepulveda owed $251 on a scooter, some Nancy Drew books and a few stocking fillers.

But when she arrived at the K-Mart with her daughter Skylar, 7, they found their balance had been slashed to one penny. Both Mrs. Sepulveda and her daughter wept with joy at the news.

‘To walk into that was probably one of the most… I’m just so… I was just… it was just amazing,’ she told the Register…

           This weekend people all over the world will hear the Christmas story once again, a story in which angels (the word means “messengers”) brought “good news of great joy” to a young woman, her betrothed, her cousin’s husband, and some shepherds.   

          The story of that night became far more than a story.  For over 2000 years many have been inspired to live and walk in the light of that story and its subject, Jesus:  “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”  [From John 1]

          God’s messengers are everywhere, in everyone who lives the message of the Jesus story, in anyone who finds a way to make light shine in the darkness.

          There is indeed something special about this season and how it inspires people to do good, to help others, to care for the poor, the weak and the sick.  It is the season when we acknowledge that God draws near to the earth to be with and for all of us.  It is the season when perhaps we understand most clearly that we are the new messengers, living God’s story in home and school, in work and world. 

          Even at the layaway counter in K-Mart.

© Melissa Bane Sevier, 2011

          In one of the lectionary readings for this Sunday, there’s a conversation between King David of ancient Israel and the prophet Nathan about a dwelling.  Not a home for people, but a house for God.

Now when the king was settled in his house, and the LORD had given him rest from all his enemies around him, the king said to the prophet Nathan, “See now, I am living in a house of cedar, but the ark of God stays in a tent.” Nathan said to the king, “Go, do all that you have in mind; for the LORD is with you.” But that same night the word of the LORD came to Nathan: Go and tell my servant David: Thus says the LORD: Are you the one to build me a house to live in? I have not lived in a house since the day I brought up the people of Israel from Egypt to this day, but I have been moving about in a tent and a tabernacle. Wherever I have moved about among all the people of Israel, did I ever speak a word with any of the tribal leaders of Israel, whom I commanded to shepherd my people Israel, saying, “Why have you not built me a house of cedar?” Now therefore thus you shall say to my servant David: Thus says the LORD of hosts: I took you from the pasture, from following the sheep to be prince over my people Israel; and I have been with you wherever you went…Moreover the LORD declares to you that the LORD will make you a house. Your house and your kingdom shall be made sure forever before me; your throne shall be established forever. [from 2 Samuel 7]

          David, in his new palace of cedar, wants to build God a palace—a temple—in gratitude.  But God tells the prophet to say this:  I don’t need a house. 

          God prefers more temporary, less substantial dwelling places.         A tent when the people of Israel wandered in the desert.  A mobile home to follow David around. 

          God is nomadic, migratory.  Wherever God’s people are, God is.

          Eventually, David’s son Solomon built a temple.  Even though God’s spirit inhabited that temple, God was never confined there.

          In the story we retell every Advent and Christmas, God came to live in the womb of a young woman, in the person of a carpenter’s son (the continuation of David’s “house” or lineage) whose own peripatetic life illustrated God’s vagabond nature. 

          That was then.  But what about now?  Where does God live now? 

          God remains forever the nomad, following people wherever we go. 

          God lives in the Fifth Avenue apartment and on the sidewalk where a homeless man sleeps on a heating grate to stay warm.  God dwells in the refugee camp and in the slums, in the mud hut and in the 4-bedroom house in the ‘burbs.  God inhabits the hospital and nursing home, resides where there is peace and where there is no peace, sits at the table teaming with food and at the one where there’s an empty place this Christmas.

          Build God a house?  There is no point to it.  Yes, God is a wanderer, but God also has a home already.  It is with you.

© Melissa Bane Sevier, 2011

          This is a season of contrasts:  in the weather; in the hectic busyness verses the desire to “cocoon” at home; in people’s emotional states.

          December is “supposed” to be a time of happiness in all the frenetic activity, and that cultural expectation merely highlights the fact that, for many, this is not an easy time.  Some are still suffering from the economic downturn even as others have found jobs.  Those who are unsteady on their feet worry about slippery sidewalks while children pray for snow days.  Not every family dynamic is what we’d like it to be.  Grief and loss and winter depression are mocked by happy carols piped into shopping malls.

When the LORD restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dream. Then our mouth was filled with laughter, and our tongue with shouts of joy; then it was said among the nations, “The LORD has done great things for them.” The LORD has done great things for us, and we rejoiced. Restore our fortunes, O LORD, like the watercourses in the Negeb. May those who sow in tears reap with shouts of joy. Those who go out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, carrying their sheaves. [from Psalm 126]

          As I looked at the lectionary readings for this week, I almost didn’t choose the Psalm for my reflection.  In its six short verses the writer uses the phrase “shouts of joy” three times.  That seems a little too cheerful for our age.  On the news this morning there were a few uplifting stories, but most of it was about abuse, scandal, economic distress and crime.  “Shouts of joy” don’t seem quite appropriate.

          It might have seemed that way to the psalmist’s early readers, too.  Crisis after crisis plagued the people of that age (and every age before and since), too.  Whether the predicament was the threat of war, drought and famine, poverty, or the same types of personal suffering we all experience, many of those readers would have related more to the “tears” and “weeping” parts of this psalm.  And that is exactly the point.

          For people who live in the desert, the dream of the restoration of watercourses (the streambeds that filled with water after infrequent rains) was just the right metaphor. 

          Yes, the drought may be long, but someday the rain will return to your parched souls, so that life may once again bloom in the deserts of your hurt places.

          This is the very essence of hope.  That one day the world will live in peace; that everyone will have decent work and enough to eat, sufficient clothing and shelter.

          That even on a cold day in winter, joyful laughter may roll off the tongue.

          May the joy of Advent make its way into your heart.

© Melissa Bane Sevier, 2011

          Truth be told, I think I even enjoy the leftovers more than the original servings, because the flavors seem to develop more in a day or two.

          Then there are the “Leftovers, Next Generation.”  The ham bone gets turned into broth and combined with ham pieces, potatoes, leeks and herbs to create soup.  The more-than-we-can-possibly-eat-before-it-goes-bad turkey becomes a casserole for the freezer.  The turkey carcasses are boiled to make stock, which is also frozen to anticipate new uses in the future.

          What about next generation faith?

John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. And people from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to him, and were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins. Now John was clothed with camel’s hair, with a leather belt around his waist, and he ate locusts and wild honey. He proclaimed, “The one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to stoop down and untie the thong of his sandals. I have baptized you with water; but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.” [from Mark 1]

          I freely admit that John the Baptist is not my favorite biblical character.  I don’t suppose there’s anything wrong with him, but it’s hard for me to relate to his ascetic lifestyle of scratchy hair clothing and a diet of bugs.  Many who lived in John’s time and place, though, apparently found him a refreshing and intriguing change from those who cared more about appearance and luxury than they did the plight of ordinary people.  Folks flocked to him and he baptized them into the faith of their ancestors.  But as much as they loved John and imagined him to be the greatest of teachers, he spoke of one who would come after who would be a truer expression of God among us.  Of course he was speaking of Jesus, which is why this text is read during Advent, to point our minds and hearts toward the coming of Christ, just as John pointed his contemporaries.

          Here’s where I’m thinking leftovers—in a good way.

          Modern people often think their faith might’ve been stronger if they’d actually lived a couple thousand years ago in Palestine, had heard John or Jesus or Paul, had met Peter or one of the Marys.  But John freely points to the near and far future when he preaches.  The near future is that Jesus will appear on the scene.  The baptizer believes that this cousin of his will have a much more important effect than John ever could.  The far future is that it won’t be a one-time pouring of water over people’s heads, but a for-all-time pouring out of the spirit of God that Jesus will demonstrate.  Far beyond even John’s understanding, the advent of Jesus brings the presence of God to bear on every age.

          So, as beautiful as the stories of Advent and Christmas are, as much as we might wish we could’ve been eye witnesses, the lasting effects of the coming of Jesus may even be better than what those first century believers experienced.  People in every age have longed for—and even witnessed—the coming of God.

          When someone you know has a health crisis, a loss, a tragedy, and is surrounded by the caring of those who love them, God has come to their home.  When an estranged family member has the courage to pick up the phone and reconnect after years of absence, God’s spirit is present.  Every time a low spot of anxiety, depression or loneliness is filled with peace, God has drawn near.  When you are overcome with the joy of watching a child laugh, or seeing an old friend, or hearing a favorite carol, Advent has arrived once more.  If you are touched by someone’s need, God is paying you a visit.

          This re-emergence and re-imagining of faith, this coming anew of God which has occurred with every generation since the beginning, is a bit like leftovers.  The season of Advent reminds us to revisit the exquisite moments of our faith tradition, while understanding that something new is always on the verge of being created.  God is taking those beautiful flavors of the ancient past and delivering them to us in ever-new ways.

© Melissa Bane Sevier, 2011

          One candle won’t make much of a difference in a well-lit room.  Even if the room were darkened, a single flame, though more visible, wouldn’t do much good.

          The candle serves, though, as a strong symbol of watching and waiting in expectation and hope through the dark times.

          Advent is about waiting.  We talk to our children about waiting to open gifts.  There are heavier kinds of waiting.  I don’t know about you, but I’m honestly pretty tired of waiting—waiting for war to be over so we don’t have to send any more people into harm’s way; waiting for the end to terrorism so no one has to be afraid to get on an airplane; waiting for an end to abuse so that children and adults don’t have to be afraid in their own homes; waiting for the hungry to be fed and the jobless to find work; waiting for people to sit at the negotiating table to end violence in all the hot spots around the world; waiting for our own leaders to come to some helpful compromise. 

          Jesus said, “What I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.” [Mark 13]

          We are still waiting, yes, but it is an active waiting.  We have to stay awake, be alert and on the lookout for the movement of God. 

          And so together we light one candle, we stay awake, and we watch.  We are watching for any signs of God, we are listening for the stirrings of the Spirit, we are participating in the life of justice.  We are ready to catch the flame of this one candle and gently carry it wherever we go, taking hope with us to share.

© Melissa Bane Sevier, 2012

          But the psalmist says they (and all of nature) actually do “speak.”

Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all the earth.  [from Psalm 100]

          It’s a favorite psalm, enjoyed by many this time of year in the U.S. because we like to quote “Enter God’s gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise” as we approach the Thanksgiving holiday.

          I always find interesting, though, the biblical calls for the whole earth, not just people, to make a joyful noise.  Elsewhere in the scriptures the rocks, rivers and mountains cry out in praise. 

          Really?  Do they?

          As someone who spends as much time as I can out of doors, I have to admit that I rarely think of nature verbalizing.  But on reflection, it’s a perfect metaphor.

          Mountains jutting out of the Colorado plains speak of their rough origins, long before humans ever saw them.  Ocean waves sing of the millions of yet-undiscovered secrets far below the surface.  Giant redwoods and nearby seedlings articulate both the resilience and fleeting nature of all life.  Cultivated fields, lying fallow for winter, hint of the renewal of the earth through its cycles of activity and rest.  Creeks gradually smoothing rocks as they tumble over them remind us that the world is constantly changing. 

          Does nature speak?  Definitely.

          In ways that we cannot, it points us to ancient truths and rhythms, to the eternal word spoken when the universe was formed, to the simultaneously fragile and durable essence of the cosmos.

          As you give thanks this week, and find yourself at a loss for words, just look out the window and let the universe do the talking.

© Melissa Bane Sevier, 2011