We Are God's People

Isaiah 64:1-9, Mark 13:24-37
Preached at Prescott Baptist Church
November 27, 2011

We are God’s people. And we long for Christ’s return. We look forward to the day when creation will be fulfilled. No more hunger. No more war. No more unemployment. No more environmental pollution. We long for the day when Christ comes to claim creation as home, a safe and satisfying place to live. Home for all God’s people: Christ’s return is something to celebrate and nothing to fear.

Today we enter the season of Advent. We weed the garden of our souls; prepare the soil of our being for birth and new life. It is a time when we cultivate patience, allow ourselves to value the experience of waiting and pay attention to what it is that our soul longs to be and become in this season between what has been and what will be.

This season of Advent is the antithesis of what our current culture is all about. So be prepared for a challenge. It’s not easy to be patient when car horns are blowing at us, when the boss increases pressure on us to market and increase sales, when the wolf is at the front door and our last dollar went out the back door. When our best is misunderstood.

In this first week of Advent we are invited to pay attention to our longings. We long to live the best possible life while we wait for Christ’s return. We want to be among those who have done good things: made the world a better place, fed the hungry, cured the sick, visited prisoners, clothed the naked and set free those who have been oppressed.

We want to be at our best while we wait for the Kingdom to come. And we long to be rewarded along the way with some kind of assurance, some affirmation that we’re on the right path. For that kind of faith building we need each other. The community of faith, your church family, is absolutely foundational when it comes to the challenge of waiting patiently.

In 1990, I went to serve as pastor for a nice church in a rural area not all that far from here. The congregation was made up of cotton farmers and tomato farmers. A few had jobs at the bank or in the Tupperware Factory. My then husband, our daughter (Jennifer) and I were continuing to live in our home. The church I was serving had a parsonage right next door to the church and I planned to use the office there for sermon writing and committee meetings.

I drove up in the driveway at the parsonage with a pick up truck. I had boxes of books and office supplies in the back. As I arrived, a parade of women rushed out of the house. They didn’t speak and they didn’t look at me. Some walked hurriedly down the road while others got in their cars and drove away. I looked at the one woman who remained-- standing in the back door. I introduced myself. “I’m Elaine. I’ll be the pastor here…” She assured me that she knew who I was.

Her name was Carolyn and she was the church treasurer. She handed me a check. “I went ahead and wrote your check for this month so you won’t be worrying about whether or not we’re gonna pay you. And I hope you won’t be worrying yourself about all those women who say we’re all going to burn in hell if we listen to a woman preacher. You just try to ignore them, ya’ hear?”

Being the pastor for this congregation had its good features. I loved being part of a rural community where I was regularly given fresh produce, jams and breads. I loved the way people depended on the earth for their income and how their faith was connected to the work they did in the fields every day. I drank coffee at the one café in town, the place where everybody knew everybody. I enjoyed long, leisurely conversations sitting in the booth while my coffee cup was refilled over and over again.

Being the pastor for this congregation had its challenges. Every Sunday, right after Sunday school was over and before the organ played for the beginning of worship, a parade of women walked outside and went home. It was that same parade of women who had walked out of the parsonage on the day I arrived.

I longed to belong and to be valued—same as everybody does. I wanted to do a good job as the pastor, live my best life for the church, but there seemed to be little or nothing I could about my gender. So I took deep breaths and did the best I could while I waited. I waited for some kind of miracle, some sign that Christ had come among us. Some reassurance that I was not taking us all to hell in a handbag.

I was in seminary and studying while I served that church. I went to class Tuesday through Friday. I belonged to a group of strong and supportive women at the seminary. Gail, Emily, Martha, Ann and I talked about our church work and families. We prayed together. Wasn’t all that unusual for us to cry together. We trusted each other. So we told our stories and encouraged each other.

By my second year of seminary I was developing a new self confidence. My friends respected me and looked forward to my company. Professors at school were glad to have me in their classes. I felt like I belonged there and I knew I was valued at the seminary. Self respect was new for me and it had to do with my developing relationship with God as well as with my relationship with a community of faith. I developed an understanding of God that opened my eyes to see that God had created me carefully and with absolute love. I was and am worthy of respect.

I came to see that it was time for me to leave the abusive marriage I had been in for twenty-one years. Praying for him to change had not changed him. Praying to have more patience had only worn me down. I realized it was up to me to leave, to make the change that would improve life for Jennifer and me.

This was no easy thing. I had never imagined myself a divorced woman. But being divorced seemed much healthier than being abused forever. Jennifer and I moved into the parsonage next door to the church. My ex-husband broke into the parsonage and created drama, chaos. It was a mess. I was stressed. But I believed I had waited long enough for him to treat us with respect. It was time for me to respect myself and protect Jennifer.

I met with the pastor-parish relations committee and officially told them about my decision to take care of myself, to live in the parsonage. Katherine Vaughn, an older woman, a farmer’s wife and the mother of two men who were farmers, put her hand on my knee and looked into my eyes. “Well, if you need to be here in order to be safe then I thank God that we have this place for you and Jennifer to live in.” But not everyone in the room felt as merciful and understanding as Katherine did. Lois Powell sniffed, “Well, I’d like to know what we’re going to do when everyone stops coming to church. Because they will. It’s been hard enough having a woman for a preacher but having a divorced woman for a preacher will be the death of our little church.” And she began to cry. It was sad. For all of us.

We are all God’s people. We know in our heads that God loves us. I knew it. Katherine knew it. Lois knew it. But things can get difficult while we wait for Christ’s return. We need a personal and soulful experience of faith that connects us, encourages us and satisfies us while we wait for God’s Kingdom to come on Earth. We long to live our best lives while we wait for creation’s fulfillment. But waiting is hard on us. We lose our way if we’re not careful, if we don’t love each other into the best possible life together.

I was volunteering those days at the County Shelter for Victims of Domestic Violence. Two afternoons a week I helped out around the house: cooked, cleaned and read to children.

It was November and I was sitting in the living room with Kelly, Emma and Dianne. The children were all in the play room. I was thinking out loud. I said, “I have no idea what Jennifer and I will do for Thanksgiving this year. For twenty-one years we have had Thanksgiving Dinner with her daddy’s family.” Then I looked up from studying my shoes. I was looking at three women who had run for their lives from Nebraska, Kansas and Georgia. Violence had shoved them out of their homes and into this secret shelter. They certainly had no idea what they would do for the holiday. Any tradition they might have valued was left behind. Nothing was familiar to them. They were just hoping to stay alive and keep their children alive.

So I made a suggestion. “How about we all have Thanksgiving dinner together—at my house?” This was met with happy faces! Emma told us about her fabulous pecan pie. Kelly made our mouths water talking about sweet potato casserole. Dianne said she could make a broccoli casserole so cheesy even children loved to eat it! It was settled. We would be together on Thanksgiving Day.

A few days later I was visiting parishioners and I saw Carl sitting on his front porch. I stopped the car. “You want to eat Thanksgiving Dinner at the parsonage this year?” I asked. He nodded happily. Carl didn’t speak. He hadn’t spoken in years, not since the night he was walking home from work and a car stopped. Three boys got out of the car, beat Carl so badly they thought they had left him dead, took his wallet out of his pocket and rolled him down into the grassy ditch beside the road. Carl survived. But the trauma had taken his voice. Carl came to church every Sunday, came late and left early. He sat on the back pew with his hat in his hands. “Come at noon,” I hollered. “No need to bring anything but yourself,” I told him. He waved me off happily.

So on Thanksgiving morning I got up early. Put a turkey in the oven. Started working on my dressing. The first knock on the door came at 8:00. It was Carolyn, the church treasurer. She had a cake. “I think it’s wonderful, what you’re doing here today,” she said. “We all do.” She hugged me. Then Katherine came with a green bean casserole. Amy came with a fruit salad. Barbara brought rolls and butter.

That same parade of women who had left the parsonage the day I moved in, that same parade of women who left church before I got up to preach… every one of them came through that kitchen door carrying something wonderful to eat. They wanted to contribute something; they wanted to be part of a good thing that was happening in their faith community. I could have turned the furnace off and stayed warm by the heat of all the love that arrived with those dishes.

I drove over to the shelter to pick up our guests. Jennifer had candles lit on the dining room table when we came in. We welcomed our guests: four children, three women and Carl. There were introductions all around. There was much amazement at all the food we would need to eat!

We took our seats around the table and I prayed. Plates were passed. We ate. The light of the candles made everything and everyone beautiful. The world seemed generous and safe as we smiled at each other and chatted. For now we were all safe and well cared for. Affirmed, valued. We belonged to each other.

I picked up the plates and went to the kitchen. That’s where I was when the music started. What? It was a harmonica. I went back into the dining room and there sat Carl at the head of the table, kicked back in his chair and playing a harmonica. “Give me that ol’ time religion; give me that ol’ time religion. Give me that ol’ time religion. It’s good enough for me.” He played and we sang old tunes that everybody knows. He played and we sang as the children played. He played and we sang as we washed the dishes together.

In this first week of Advent we are invited to pay attention to our longings. We long to live the best life possible while we wait for Christ to return, while we wait for God’s best plans to be fulfilled. We dream of getting it right, making the world a better place, writing a song that makes everybody sing together, coming up with a peace plan that puts an end to war. We dream of what it will be like when Christ comes again and hunger is no more, when all people will have enough of what they need to be satisfied and safe.

“The best way to make your dreams come true is to wake up,” says Paul Valery, a French Poet.

There was something about that Thanksgiving feast at the parsonage that woke some church people up. That parade of women must have waked up to realize some of their dreams for their church had come true.

They began to stay for worship after Sunday school. Carl moved from the back pew up toward the front. He dared to take a risk. And the women from the shelter started regularly coming in car loads to worship with us. They dared to take a risk. They brought their children and for the first time in years there was an ongoing childrens' Sunday school class. The church itself dared to take a risk.

We are God’s people. We long to belong, to be valued in a community of faith while we wait for Christ’s return. We long to live our best life. Our community of faith is absolutely foundational as we wait for Christ’s return, for God’s Kingdom to come on Earth.

Amen