From the Minister

I Love a Parade!

Delivered by

Reverend John G. Alvord

First Congregational Church of Tacoma

April 9, 2006

Texts: Zechariah 9: 9

            Mark 11: 1-10

I’m sure most of you have seen pictures in the news of the throngs of Muslim pilgrims who’ve done the Hajj—the pilgrimage--to Mecca during the feast of Ramadan, millions of figures in white circling around the k’aaba, the cube-shaped stone building that Islamic people believe was built by Abraham. Not too long ago there was a terrible accident there where dozens were trampled underfoot. Well, Jerusalem at Passover in Jesus’ time is very analogous. Jews from throughout the Roman Empire and beyond made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem—more specifically to the Temple in Jerusalem—at the annual Passover festival. It would have been quite a sight. Jerusalem at that time had a population that has been estimated at between sixty and seventy thousand permanent residents, making it by far the largest city in Palestine. But during the great festival of Passover that population was swelled by perhaps another fifty or sixty thousand pilgrims. Jerusalem was the most Jewish of Palestine's cities, and as such, it was also occupied by a garrison of Roman troops that was reinforced at the major festivals to cope with the throngs of pilgrims. This was the only time that the Roman procurator or governor (Pontius Pilate, at the time) resided at Jerusalem rather than the official residence in Caesarea. And so, at the season of Passover we would have seen Roman troops arriving at Jerusalem from the west in a victor's procession led by the Roman governor, accompanied by all the trappings of imperial power and prestige. It was very possibly on the same day that Jesus and his followers arrived from the east. He was also in a victor's procession, but of a different sort. As we heard, Jesus deliberately made arrangements to enter the city on a donkey's colt, and was cheered on by his followers and sympathizers, who spread palm branches and blankets before him, to do him honor and to settle the dust as he came.

Having said all this, I must say that, historically speaking, the details of the Triumphal Entrance into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday were what I’ve called, in the past several weeks “prophecy historicized,” rather than history remembered. Over the years many commentators have remarked that, if the “throngs” welcomed Jesus in the way the story is told, he would no doubt have been arrested on the spot. But again, since the Gospel writers were not so interesting in recording history verbatim but rather to convince their readers of Jesus’ Messiahship by “mining” the Jewish scriptures for texts that would support their claims, like the passage from Zechariah that Miriam read about the King of Peace riding into Jerusalem on a donkey. In all historically probability, all we can say is that Jesus did, in fact, make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem during Passover like so many of his countrymen, and there his fate was sealed.   It is generally agreed by mainline New Testament scholars, and I’ve reiterated to you many times, that the gospel tradition was formed “backwards,” starting from Jesus’ resurrection and working toward his birth. Certainly early Christian preaching paid primary attention to the crucifixion and resurrection. Thus, as Christians reflected on the earlier career of their martyred leader, accounts of Jesus’ public ministry were formed, and eventually accounts of his birth. And so a basic story of the passion and crucifixion was probably shaped relatively soon in the oral formation of the gospel. Here’s where my background as a student literature comes into play. Because that shaping would have been developed, like a novel or a play, by the necessary order of the events. Arrest had to precede trial which, in turn, had to precede sentencing and execution. The result in the gospels is a true drama with a developing plot, tracing the actions not only of the principal character Jesus, but also of a cast of surrounding characters such as Peter, Judas and Pilate. The impact of Jesus’ fate on various people is dramatically illustrated, and the development of this tragic play is heightened by contrasting figures. Each narrative in the Passion constitutes a simple drama. In fact, the Gospel of John’s account of the trial of Jesus before Pilate comes close to supplying stage directions, with the chief priests and “the Jews” carefully put outside the praetorium, the courtroom, and Jesus alone in it. Pilate shuttles back and forth between the two sides, dramatizing a man who seeks to take a middle position, reconciling what he regards as extremes and not deciding for either. And yet the tables are turned and Pilate, not Jesus, is the one who is really on trial. Jesus challenges him to hear the truth, but his response of “What is Truth?” is in reality a decision for falsehood. John is warning the reader than no one can avoid self-examination when he or she stands before Jesus.

For this reason the personification of different character types in the drama serves a religious—not a historical—goal. Audience participation is invited. We readers or hearers are meant to participate by asking ourselves how we would have stood in relation to the trial and crucifixion of Jesus. With what character in the story would I identify myself? The Palm Sunday story of joy and victory might too quickly assure us that we would have been among the crowd that greeted Jesus enthusiastically. But could it be that, or better yet, isn’t it more likely that we might have been among the disciples who fled from danger and abandoned him? Or at moments in our lives haven’t we all played the role of Peter, denying Jesus, or even like Judas, betraying him?   Haven’t we all found ourselves like Pilate of John’s gospel, trying to avoid a decision between good and bad? Or like the Pilate of Matthew, have we ever made a bad decision and then washed our hands so that the record could show we were blameless and so justify ourselves? Or most, of all, might not we have stood among the religious leaders who condemned Jesus? I suggest this assigning of roles in the passion story gives us an opportunity to see that some of us—all of us, maybe—would have been among the opponents of Jesus. That’s because readers of the gospels are often sincerely religious people who have a deep attachment to their tradition. Jesus was a challenge to religious traditionalists since he pointed to the human element in their holy traditions—a human element that is much too often identified with God’s will. If Jesus was treated harshly by the literal-minded religious people of his time who happened to be Jews like him, it seems quite likely that he’d be treated harshly by similar religious people of our time, including Christians that are hung up, or stuck on, tradition.



With the commemoration of Jesus’ last week coming this week, Holy Week, I’ve been thinking about the notion of sacrifice, of Jesus’ sacrifice of his own life. No, I do not believe that Jesus was sacrificed as a payment for my, or for anyone else’s sin. I do believe that he “laid down his life for others,” though, and in his crucifixion lived out the truth of his words, that “greater love has no person than this.” How is it that a human being can so participate in the peril of another that he sacrifices his own life for the other? How can it happen that what we think of as the primal instinct of self-preservation can be suddenly dissolved? The German theologian Schopenhauer has as good an explanation as any that I’ve heard--that such a spontaneous, psychological crisis represents the breakthrough of the realization that you and the other are one, that you are two aspects of the one life, and that your apparent separateness is only an effect of the way we experience existence under the conditions of space and time. Our true reality, Schopenhauer says, is in our identity and unity with all life. It is a metaphysical truth that may become realized in physical truth in times of crisis. For it is, he says, the truth of your life. And it doesn’t matter that literally giving one’s life for another is the only way to express this, though you may express it this way, some day. But I’d say that in smaller ways you can see this happening ever day on a smaller scale, people doing selfless things to and for each other. In this view, when Jesus says, “love your neighbor as yourself,” he is saying in effect, “love your neighbor because your neighbor is yourself.”

Over the past several weeks we've been considering the message and the focus of the historical Jesus of Nazareth. I have affirmed that Jesus' concerns, Jesus' messages to his people were twofold--he was concerned about the centrality of God’s Spirit in individual’s hearts (or rather the lack of it), and he was concerned about the centrality of that Spirit in the heart of his culture; his society, his religion. Both of these concerns were summed up in his good news of the Kingdom of God. Jesus' concern and criticism of his people's culture was centered in his concern with his people's relationship to Spirit.

The conflict between Jesus and his opponents was between two ways of being that run throughout the history of Israel, and through human history generally, including the church and modern culture. One way organizes life around the security of the Self and its world. Its essential ingredients are separation and competition, and what I called two weeks ago the "politics of holiness", is still very much with us, in the modern symbolic “Temple” of the Mall or the Bank, conspicuous consumption and individual "success," in appearance and most of all in power. That which killed Jesus is still alive in human history.

Whenever we worry about physical or social or emotional security at the expense of living out values like integrity and faith; whenever we fret about our lives, thinking "if only I had this or that, then I'd be happy;" whenever we envy the successes of others or make a show of our own virtues; in other words, whenever we confuse the outer with the inner process of life; this is when we experience the conflict that can kill us as it did Jesus. But there is another way of being that organizes our lives around a Higher Power, whether that be centered in God or centered in higher values like compassion or justice or peace, and that sees God or humane ideals like integrity and acceptance and truthfulness as the only things worth striving for. Ultimately, the story of Jesus’ passion involves the conflict between a life grounded in invisible Spiritual realities or a life grounded in the goods--the “goodies”—of the world. Jesus' own concern was his concern to transform his people and his culture into ones grounded in Spirit. And this is what led him to the cross.

On Palm Sunday, Jesus calls us to pause with him at the threshold of our fate, perhaps to weep and perhaps to contemplate the things that make for real wholeness within each of us--and then to follow him into Jerusalem—into our own everyday lives--to transform it into the city of God by transforming our own way of being to a spiritual and compassionate basis, even if it means taking up the cross. Because ultimately, this is the only path that makes for peace.

I hope that you can be in this place on Easter, and before that on Thursday evening, as we share together both the fellowship of the last supper and the passion of that ancient story which still leads us spiritually and symbolically through the death of self that must precede the resurrection of God within us. Ultimately, we can and shall triumph, as did our Master Jesus of Nazareth.



Will you please pray with me? Lord God, as we follow our brother and teacher Jesus in the footsteps of his last days during the coming holy week, we ask that You help us to remain mindful, not only of His passion, but also for the example He set before us, of obedience to Your will, of reliance on Your great love all your children, and for the assurance that life overcomes death. Sustain us, that we might work toward things that make for healing and wholeness, both in us and around us. For these gifts, O Lord, we shout Hosanna, glory be to God in the Highest! Amen and good morning.



Of Comets, Consciousness and Compassion

Rev. John Alvord

March 19, 2006

Texts: 1 Samuel 18: 36-38

            Luke 6: 37-38, 40-41

Our contemporary reading today comes to us from John Huston, one of the world’s greatest teachers of world religions. In the 1950’s he wrote a book titled The Religions of Man that saw been published by the millions in several languages. We are using an updated version of that book in our current study of world religions in our adult education class on Wednesday evenings. He wrote this in regard to Buddhism:

“The best loved of all Buddhist texts, the Dhammapada, opens with the words, ‘All we are is a result of what we have thought.’ No teacher has credited the mind with more influence over life than did the Buddha. To gradually overcome ignorance, the Buddha counsels such continuous self-examination as to make us wilt at the prospect, but he thought it necessary because he believed that freedom—liberation from unconscious, mechanical existence—is a product of self-awareness. And so he asks us to see everything ‘as it really is.’ If we maintain steady attention to our thoughts and feelings, we see that they are not permanent parts of us.”

Last night Kathy and I had the pleasure of attending one of our Serendipity Suppers at Phyllis Hayes’. Maggie Burke asked me how I come up with my sermon topics. I answered, ‘Oh, from articles I read in the paper or see on the news; or from whatever book I happen to be reading at the time, or from an spiritual issue that is confronting me or that I see confronting my congregation or my world, and from my reading of scripture.   Sometimes, though, it’s a combination of all these things. Today my topic is of that sort.

I’ve been reading about the Stardust space probe that has collected dust from the comet called Wild-2 and brought it back to earth—some of the oldest material in the solar system—matter that formed billions of years ago, in the infancy of our neighborhood in space. I’ve also been thinking a lot about Buddhism, because that is the current topic of our Wednesday evening adult education group. Thirdly, I’ve been thinking about compassion, which is the general theme of my Lenten series of sermons this year, and what Jesus—a real expert on the subject—has to teach us about love. And so I challenged myself to try and connect these very different topics into one coherent theme.

About ten years ago, geologists discovered the deposit of a thin stratum of earth that exists around the world, and which was therefore deposited at about the same time. That stratum, laid down sometime around 65 million years ago, contains minerals particular to asteroids and meteoroids. That discovery confirmed what many scientists had theorized—that much of the evolutionary record of earth proceeded not in an “orderly” and ‘gradual’ fashion, but by cataclysmic events that occurred in very short periods of time—like meteors and comets that have caused cosmic traffic accidents, with our planet being one of the vehicles that have been transformed by such crashes at the intersection of space and time. It’s widely accepted that one such heavenly body was responsible for the disappearance of dinosaurs from the fossil record.

Like many of you, I’ve been fascinated by space since I was very young. In my case, my fascination was kindled when my dad gave me a map of the solar system for my bedroom wall.

I am just entranced by this topic—the vastness of the universe and our place within it. Comets have been understood as balls of ice and dust created in the deep freeze of the outer solar system. However, one discovery that has been made already from studying this new “harvest” comet dust is that comets seem to be created not only by the cold, but by extreme heat as well. So our previous theory about comets has to be revised. Like one of the scientists involved in the Stardust project said last week, "It's like everything else in science. You learn something about one thing, and it raises more questions somewhere else. So we can't write all the answers right now, it's just great we have new mysteries to worry about now."

And so for one thing, new cosmic discoveries give astronomers job security. It also underscores the fact that there will always be limits to our understanding of things, that we don’t need to worry about science taking away mystery. The same is true with human consciousness. Philosophers and neuro-scientists have barely scratched the surface of our understanding of consciousness and how it came into existence. What they have learned has raised new questions about human life, not answered them.

As our contemporary reading mentioned, the Buddha had a lot to say about consciousness, or self-understanding and how it affects our lives. He saw ignorance, not sin, as life’s main problem. Thus meditation on our thoughts and emotions becomes a vehicle for freeing us from that ignorance. Everything, especially our moods and emotions, are to be witnessed non-judgmentally, neither condemning some nor holding onto others, sort of like an actor watching himself act while he’s acting!

This brings us to my third “topic” today, compassion. As we saw in our reading from Luke, Jesus taught that judging others is perhaps the main roadblock preventing us from living lives of compassion. I would add that judging ourselves is another roadblock. Don’t know about you, but I find myself nearly always judging myself—my spiritual and emotional growth, my moral condition, my understanding or lack of it—and I usually come up short. Self-criticism can and does lead to self-hate, to a lack of compassion—for us.   Here’s just one example from my own experience-- a few weeks ago, in one of those moments of transcendental awareness that I rarely have, I noticed that--when I made a wrong turn as I was driving in a neighborhood with which I'm very familiar --I noticed that my first thought was, "Boy, that was dumb!" Now this is no big deal in and of itself, but my "transcendental awareness" was of the fact that I'm afraid that I, and I believe that most of us, give ourselves messages like that much more often than we would like to admit--much more often than we realize. We judge ourselves and come up short in our self-evaluation.

As I mentioned last week, in regard to our parents, “they did the best with what they had.” I would add that, “we do the best with what we have.” That leaves no room for self-criticism that judges oneself too harshly.

We also judge our “inside” (feelings) by comparing them with how we perceive others’ “outside” (appearance). We delude ourselves when we do that. We note how successful or good looking others seem and see ourselves as “less than,” when in reality those people may not think of themselves as good looking or successful. We don't know exactly why, but we end up feeling inferior to some degree or another, like we don't quite measure up. However, we have no right to do that to ourselves, because self-hate is just the flip side of egotism. Both are examples of a preoccupation with ourselves. And when we do that, others can be hurt by our own inferior self-image, our lack of compassion for ourselves lead us to a lack of compassion for others. Especially those closest to us. Wasn't it the Mills Brothers who sang that "You always hurt the one you love"?

Today’s story about Saul is a case in point. He saw David’s outward appearance—successful in battle, handsome, a great musician—and, comparing that to himself, ended up with a self-hate that that led him to commit suicide. Like Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Saul has come down to us as a figure who inspires our sympathy, because he is so very human--because we are so like him--in our preoccupation with both our shortcomings, our failures. Like Saul, our many of misfortunes stem not so much from our supposed "sins" as it does from our inability to let go of judging ourselves and our lives and rather take joy in, or "en-joy" them.

All right, enough about the problem. What I really want to get to today is the solution. And today I would say that the Christian solution is basically spiritual and prayerful in nature. We all know the passage in the Sermon on the Mount Jesus where Jesus says, "You shall love y our neighbor as yourself." Well, Jesus of Nazareth was a great psychologist as well as a great prophet. "Love thy neighbor as thyself" is not nearly so much a moral commandment as it is a statement of spiritual truth. In fact, a better translation might be, "you shall love your neighbor to just the extent that you love yourself." The same case can be made for the Golden Rule. "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you" might be better understood as "You will do unto others just as you feel they should do unto you," since that's the way it turns out in fact. This business of "loving yourself" and forgiving yourself is the basis of a solution to the problem.

When we can let go of our iron-fisted control over our own lives and our own personalities, let go of the past and the future, and practice the Truth that it is in God’s presence alone that we live and move and have our being, as completely and unquestioningly as the birds and the flowers accept the truth of their condition, then life is much more enjoyable and relaxed. Things seem take care of themselves, as long as we "do the footwork."

I remember when I was in my early teens; I was so concerned about how I looked, and I remember my mother telling me at these times, "Just put yourself together the best you can in the morning and then get on with it--forget about it!" Little did she know that she was teaching me a profound spiritual truth. Nonetheless, I think she was summing up a profound truth: stop thinking so much about yourself and you will have the energy to love others.

The tenuousness of human life. It could end at any time, by stepping in front of a speeding car or, like astronomy tells us, by being in the way of a speeding comet. Life is short, so we would do well love while we CAN love—others and ourselves. This week in your Lenten journey, try and be aware of your feelings and thoughts so that you won’t be driven by them. Our freedom derives from God’s grace and love for us, it’s true, but our freedom derives as well from the grace and love we give ourselves. Amen

The Light of Courageous Living

Rev. John G. Alvord

January 15, 2006

Text:     John 1:1-5

            Brihadaranyaka Upanishad

Last week we considered the debilitating effect of anger and resentment in our lives and I suggested that forgiveness is a cure for what I called that arthritis of the spirit. Today I’d like us to consider another crippling spiritual disease—the crippling disease of fear our fears, worries and anxieties.

Do you remember Burt Lahr playing the lion in the Wizard of Oz? I think it stands up as a great performance, even 67 years after that wonderful movie was made. You’ll remember that the cowardly lion was so wracked with fear that he got spooked when he saw his own tail. And yet, when push came to shove, he confronted his fears and was given a red badge of courage by the “great and terrible” Oz. Let me tell you that I am that cowardly lion. I’m a little scared every Sunday morning when I walk into this sanctuary to stand before you and bare my soul to you. It gives me little assurance that others who have occupied this honored place have felt the same way. Reverend Vaughan Abercrombie, one of the most beloved pastors of this church, once told me that during each Sunday during the eight years he was here, his knees would tremble. One of the benefits of standing behind a pulpit is the cover it provides for knocking knees. Like Vaughan I’m a little anxious, a little afraid every Sunday as I stand before you, but it’s my job, my livelihood, so I have to anyway. Oh, it’s better now than in 1999, but not much. What am I afraid of? Falling on my face; making a fool of myself; the fear of failure, fears that you don’t like me. Silly? Irrational? Yea, you bet. But there none the less.

Let me tell you a little story.   A young man was a part-time magician, performing at parties and local schools, but he dreamed of being a professional stage-hypnotist. He had an insatiable appetite for hypnotism, and he'd practice it a bit on his friends; little things, like "Clasp your hands together. Now, when I snap my fingers your hands will be bound together with the world's strongest adhesive." And he could get these small hypnotic suggestions to work. But he was strictly a part-time magician until the day he met a man whose friend was the activities director for a local nursing center. "I'll recommend you to her," the man said. "Tell her I'm a hypnotist," our magician said. The woman contacted he to ask about his hypnotism act. He convinced her it was great. They agreed on a price of $750, which would be more than Michael had ever made for his tricks. He got off the phone and got scared. He'd never hypnotized anyone, except for his friends, who might have just been playing along for all he knew. And he'd never tried the more daring hypnotic suggestions, like, "When I say jungle, you'll leap out of your chair, beat your chest and yell like Tarzan." But, despite his lack of hypnotism experience, he'd just made a $750 promise to someone that he could do it. The day of the engagement arrived. In the shower that morning he felt sick. He wanted to cancel. "What if I say, "Jungle," and the guy just sits there??" But he didn't cancel. In his own words, he thought to himself, “You‘ve wanted this chance for years now. This is what you've been working for." He arrived at the engagement and opted to not let anyone know how nervous and scared he was on the inside. Smiling on the outside; dying on the inside. His moment of truth arrived. Then he selected his first subject and said, "When I say jungle, you'll leap out of your chair, beat your chest and yell like Tarzan." As he said the words, he thought to himself, "I really, really hope you will." Then he bantered with the audience for a moment - 300 people waiting to see if hypnotism really worked. He couldn’t stall any longer. He turned to the balding man -and said, "Mmm, it feels like a Jungle in here." "Please God," he prayed. The man leapt out of his seat, beat his chest and let out a roar fit for the Amazon. Michael actually was a hypnotist. Like the cowardly lion, he earned his badge of courage by walking straight—even though trembling-- through his fears. His show went great. Fake it 'til you make it, they say.

Like anger, fear is a natural and very human response to perceived threats, either real or imaginary threats, to our security. Anger is natural. It’s a physical response to threats to our well being. But holding onto anger when the threat is gone leads to the pernicious disease of resentment, which can only be cured by forgiveness. Fear is natural, even reasonable in some cases. The fear of burning ourselves keeps us from touching a hot stove.   But holding onto our fears, by avoiding them or ignoring them leads to the equally pernicious disease of chronic anxiety. And that can kill us. Chronic anxiety is not only unpleasant, but raises our blood pressure and weakens our immune systems. The chronic fear that is anxiety, in other words, weakens our spirits, our minds and our bodies.    Fear and worry about our health, or anxiety about our relationships, anxiety about the future, our past or our present. We all have experienced that. And the cure to our crippling anxieties is the light of courage. No one can give us that. We earn it ourselves. And so I’m convinced that we can begin to experience an authentic power and freedom in our lives, letting go of our fears and walking through them through a faith in ourselves and in God’s strength and love and care for us.

It isn’t easy being a better you, a courageous you.   It isn’t easy for me, either. It requires the light of a leap of faith into the darkness of the unknown. But it is really the only game in town, one in which we, too, can be all be successful if we face our fears and walk through them toward the light of wholeness and peace. The light lives on in the darkness, and the darkness shall not overcome come it. Not if we walk with courage born of faith—in ourselves, in each other, and in God.

Have you been considering any of your fears as I’ve been speaking this morning? If not, then this morning I’m going to end by offering you an invitation. Ushers, would you kindly go out and get the collection plates again. Now, don’t worry, folks. I’m not taking another offering. What I’d like to invite you to do is to take your bulletin insert and jot on it a fear that you’ve had lately, and then drop it in the collection plate as we sing our closing hymn. I’ll take those inserts—you have my promise that I will not look at them—I’ll take those fears and rip them up and put them in the dumpster. Because that’s where they belong. The courage of living in the light. It is a way out of the darkness.    Good morning.