Almost September

I looked up and realized it was about time to flip the calendar to September. I almost can't believe it. Our first weeks in Afghanistan crept by like molasses, but ever since then, the sand has rushed through the hourglass as if it was put in fast forward motion. As friends have prepared to go home over these past weeks, we have had quite a few moments of deployment review. It's the funniest things that linger in our memories-- the time a friend suggested we use two trays instead of just one for Mongolian Grill, because the food was so hot that it nearly burned our hands through the cardboard, the nights of watching West Wing or sitting on the balcony of our building for hours, and, always, the stories of our first meetings which, for some strange reason, most often happened in the bathroom. These will be the threads that we hold onto long after we have moved into a new phase of our lives.

September also means it's time to begin packing and preparing for the arrival of the chaplain who will replace me. Over these months, I have accumulated enough letters, cards, and artwork to cover the walls of my office and my bedroom. From pictures of new babies and families from church to random people whom I may never meet but who, nonetheless, sent boxes of girl scout cookies and toiletries for my soldiers, everything that has come through the mail has found a spot on one of my walls. They are a shrine to the kindness and generosity of countless people who have helped to make this year a little brighter for me and many of the soldiers and sailors with whom I work.

As much as I dread peeling each thing off my walls, I also know the whole process will be deeply cathartic. I know I can't keep all of it. Well, I guess I could, but I doubt that I will ever revisit such a large bundle again, at least in its totality. Instead, as I take each letter, each card, and each picture off the wall, I will give thanks to the person who sent it. I will remember the gratitude I felt when it came in the mail. I will acknowledge, once again, that it is the smallest gestures of care which make much of the difference. I am sure that there are a few I will keep, but for the most part, I also realize that bringing closure to this time of my life now, and not putting it off, will help me live better in present time. Life is always moving forward and letting go, as hard as this is to do, is how to stay engaged in whatever comes our way.

Already soldiers have talked about how sad my office will be without my brightly covered walls. I know they are right. I will be sad, too. But empty walls signify our impending departure. It's not quite time. There are still weeks of work left to do. Yet, with September on the horizon, we all feel the ground shifting beneath us. We hold it all in both hands-- the grief for our losses here and the excitement for what is soon to unfold. Shortly, the walls here will be bare, but I know there will be other walls to fill, too. For this, I am surely grateful.

It is Well - Sunday Sermon, August 26, 2012

Chaplain Mel Baars

August 26, 2012

Ephesians 6:10-20

“It is Well”

Most nights, when I was a little girl, my mother would come into my room and help me say my prayers. If we were in the middle of college football season, prayer time was extended so that we could include extra prayers for the starting lineup of her alma mater. No first-string Alabama football player went unmentioned. To this day, some of their names still linger in my head. The other part of my childhood prayer life consisted of putting on my armor. I also did this daily. When I put my armor on, I was protected from all the bad guys, which, back then, were the shape shifting aliens I saw on a particularly frightening episode of Star Trek. Every night I would pray these same words, “Jesus you are my righteousness. Jesus you are my salvation. Jesus you are my peace. Jesus you are my truth. Jesus you are my faith. Jesus you are my living word.” We put on our armor a lot, whenever we were going on a road trip or if something important was about to happen. Once I remember praying these words while my mother had surgery. Saying them quieted my fears. Every once-in-a-while, my mother still mentions praying this prayer on my behalf.

In all the years I have used these words for my prayers, I never knew where exactly in the Bible they came from, at least until this week. Reading this passage again and again, I have been reminded of how much the prayer has meant to me throughout my life. I realize now, these “pieces of armor”-- truth and righteousness, the gospel of peace along with faith and the Holy Spirit-- are God’s gifts to us, empowering us to walk in love as Christ has called us. With these as our guide, we discover that we are never left alone, only with our own devices. I will admit that it has been years since I put my own “armor” on, at least using the words I prayed as a child. In my budding intellectualism, I figured that I had grown far beyond this militaristic metaphor which has been used, too often in our own church history, to justify our violence. But this week, as I remembered the power of this prayer and its gifts, I realized just what I have been missing by neglecting this part of Paul’s letter to the Ephesians.

Though we are almost two thousand years into the future, the relevance of Paul’s message is undeniable. Just like those first Christians did, we also struggle. In the face of our world and its wily ways, it is not easy to live as Jesus taught us. We are buffeted from every side-- with temptations of consumerism, with misguided notions that we can control the rest of the world, with the lie that God is dead, and even if he wasn’t, we really have no need for him anyway.

The wiles of the devil are surely real. I would like to suggest, however, that they may not be what we first imagine, some kind of dark, lurking demonic presence which resembles the antagonist in a horror movie. These wiles are much stealthier than that. Sometimes they are our greed, that little voice that rationalizes that being generous is unwise, that we have earned all of this on our own accord and owe nothing to no one in return. Sometimes these wiles are our fears, our quick judgment and subsequent condemnation of someone because he doesn’t share our opinion or our understanding of faith, or even when we fail to embrace another because not getting hurt is more important to us than following Jesus’ command to love our neighbors, even when it’s hard.

We don’t have to look far to be reminded that darkness looms ever close. This darkness manifests itself in many ways, and not only in our hurtful treatment of one another, but also in our self-contempt, in our anxiety, in our guilt, in our inability to see ourselves as God sees us, as beloved children. God wants more for us than a half-life mired by the shadows of our failures. When we have confessed what we have done and what we have left undone, God responds to our sin and shortcomings with forgiveness and pardon, freeing us to live in peace.

And, this is what matters most. For as much as this passage warns us of the dangers of darkness, Paul’s message is that much more about the gifts that God gives us to weather these dark realities. The darkness may be strong, but God is still stronger. This is what we can’t lose sight of because this is the good news. Trials will come, that is sure. Look anyone in the eye, after the death of a child or when receiving news that it’s terminal, and see just how darkness may threaten. At one time or the other we will all know too well the searing pain of disappointment or cruelty. We will be knocked to knees by our grief. We won’t be able to see our hand in front of our face, but that is never the end of our story. That’s not where we have to stay. When it feels that we have no strength left, we may remember Paul’s words, not only of encouragement, but of incredible hope. Be strong in the Lord, putting on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the darkness. Because our strength comes from God, even when we are knocked down, we are able to stand back up again.

Last week Lieutenant Dixson, or Katie as we know her in our lunch bunch, told us that her favorite hymn is, “It is Well With my Soul.” And, since this is her last Sunday in Afghanistan, she wondered if we could sing it. Of course, I agreed, and not just because it is one of my favorite hymns, too. Part of what makes this hymn so powerful is the background upon which it was composed. It was written by a man, Horatio Spafford, who had lost almost everything, first his four year old son, then his business, and finally, all four of his daughters when their ship sank during passage over the Atlantic. Only his wife survived, and so he set sail to go and find her in the aftermath of this tragic event. As he passed over the place in the ocean where his daughters perished, he wrote these words. “When peace like a river, attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll; whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say, it is well, it is well, with my soul.” And then the second verse, which is perhaps most pertinent to our passage today, “Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come, let this blest assurance control, that Christ has regarded my helpless estate, and hath shed his own blood for my soul.”

Now, there is no doubt in my mind that Horatio was a devastated man. That he grieved, that he felt anger and sadness and everything between, is a certainty. But, I have to pause in wonder about a man who can be surrounded with such darkness, from sorrows like sea billows to Satan’s buffeting, and even still, as he passes by the watery grave of his children, articulate, so poignantly, this peace which passes all human understanding. I don’t know of anything on earth which could have given him this kind of peace. This is the kind of peace which only comes from God.

I found it fitting, on this last worship service for a few of our church family, that our text would remind us this truth, that God has given us all that we need to go out into the world in peace, prepared to witness good news wherever we may find ourselves. In many ways, we all had to have courage to get here in the first place. Then, through the blessings of friendship and love, a few of God’s means of strengthening us, we have weathered this deployment season. And now, as we face the transition back home, back to our “other” lives, we look to God’s strength again, and not just to make it safely home, that is the easy part if the Air Force is cooperative. But, as we face new challenges, new beginnings, new frontiers, places we have never been before, we are strengthened by God’s promises of goodness. Because we know this much is true, we can walk in love as Christ has taught us, even through the darkness.

A belt of truth, and a breastplate of righteousness. Shoes, which when you put them on your feet, make you ready to proclaim the gospel of peace. A shield of faith, a helmet of salvation, and a sword of the Spirit. These are what we take with us-- truth and righteousness, faith, peace and salvation, and always, the spirit-- wherever we go, so that we may be ready for whatever life unfolds around us. It may get dark. In fact, on some days it will. But when it does, may we remember these gifts. May we rest in God’s holy presence and in the knowledge of God’s steadfast grace. Amidst whatever comes, may we find ourselves still singing these words, “Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say, It is well, it is well, with my soul.” Amen.

Endings

Another season of endings is upon us. This is mostly evidenced by rows of green duffle bags and giddy soldiers and sailors whose work has finally come to a close. For the first time in months, they have nothing to do but eat, work out, and play cards with their buddies, as they wait for the bird to take them home. For most, though, their elation is tempered by the looming realities of the life that waits for them post deployment. Those who are married face the difficult challenge of reintegration, of re-membering relationships that have been through the crucible. As one higher ranking commander said to me just last week, “Deployment separation does one of two things to a marriage, solidifies it or destroys it.” Judging by the conversations that I have had over these months with a myriad of soldiers, sailors, and airmen, all who were fighting in some way for their marriages, he seems to be spot on. 

As much as we are all happy to see the finish line of this experience, we all harbor some level of anxiety over what comes next. Many of the reservists don’t know what their next job will be while others of us are wondering where the Army will send us next. After a long season of simplicity-- work, sleep, and minimal complications-- we are all about to be turned upside down. Getting mentally prepared to come to Afghanistan took months. There were many goodbyes, and we all braced ourselves for those possibilities which could turn into reality during our deployment. Going home, though, is a totally different experience. One day, we look up, and realize the time has all elapsed. We stare this transition in the face, hardly prepared for what it might demand of us. As a chaplain, it is my job to try to help people prepare. We do a group training, and I will meet with every member of my unit to help facilitate more of a discussion about our departure. I hope it paves at least part of the way for a smooth passage home, but I also know that we will each have to do the hard work required for resettling. 

As we have come closer to these endings, many of us have acknowledged that as excited as we are to move on with our lives, we are also experiencing a real sense of grief. Friendship here is both fast and intense. Friends are really all that we have to hold on to in a place like this. No matter how great skype and email with home may be, if the internet is actually working, only those who have shared this life event and have been present throughout the highs and lows really understand what this part of our lives has meant. These friendships, which have seen us through, and in some cases even ensured our survival, will change, too. There is always a bittersweetness with an ending, even if the next chapter holds significant promise. 

With all the leaving going on and the fact that many of us still have work to continue, it’s easy to watch people go without batting an eye. Maybe this is also a bit of self-preservation. Every once in a while, I try to make space to feel the loss which accompanies the departure of a friend. Yesterday, knowing that a few of my comrades would be flying out right after lunch, I took my diet coke and held my own “vigil” at one of the picnic tables, a good location for watching the planes leave the airfield. I made it just in time to see their bird take off and make the ascent toward the mountains. I watched with tears in my eyes. For many on that plane, that day was the last one they would ever ever spend in this small corner of the world. While most are fine, in fact thrilled, that they will never have to come back here, I can’t help but feel overcome by this finitude. 

Yet, are there really ever true endings. I will see many of the people I have known in Afghanistan once I am back in Texas. It won’t be the same. The food will definitely be better, and for some of us, our encounters will be less frequent. But, when they do happen, something of Afghanistan will be present with us. In glimpses, we will revisit this distant chapter of our lives. We will be reminded that shared memory is a gift that will continue to give again and again.

Our Fountain of Youth - Sunday Sermon, August 19, 2012

Chaplain Mel Baars  

August 19, 2012

John 6:51-58

“Our Fountain of Youth”

Amidst the hundreds of boxes that flooded the chaplain’s offices this past Christmas was a package from my mother. Inside of this box were a few neatly wrapped presents along with a plastic Este Lauder bag. For you guys out there who don’t know. Este Lauder is a cosmetic brand. It is very important to Jesus that you know this. Taped to the outside of the plastic in my mother’s handwriting were these instructions: Use immediately. My curiosity sufficiently peaked, I tore into the bag. Even though I knew it was probably some kind of “combat-ready” make up, I was still hoping for something edible. No such luck. Instead, what I found was an assortment of anti-aging creams. From advanced night eye repair to daily moisturizing lotion with anti-oxidantial powers, these magical creams promised to stave off the evidence of the passage of time and keep me young, at least that’s what the back of the bottles claimed.

My first thoughts were shock and then horror. Was I really old enough to begin waging the war against wrinkles? Didn’t I have a few more years left in me before I had to worry about strategizing my defense against the age? Yet, I could hear my mother’s voice reverberating in my head, reminding me that one is never too premature in matters such as this.

We humans have a lengthy history with both combating aging and attempting to skirt the inevitability of death. A quick google search of the “Fountain of Youth” yields almost ten million hits, from historical data points to ritzy plastic surgery centers where one can get everything done from Botox to a face lift and all in a handful of hours. Having been born and raised in the great state of Florida, I was particularly interested in one legend of the fountain of youth which claims that the Spanish explorer, Juan Ponce de León, was on a search for the Fountain of Youth when he stumbled across what is now Florida sometime in the early 1500s. Thanks for that, Juan. But supposedly, when consumed, these mythical waters would allow a person to remain young forever.

One of my favorite childhood cartoons, Duck Tales, features a story line about the discovery of a fountain of youth, yet at least in this tale, Donald duck’s nephews realize that the waters only make, in this case, a duck seem younger on the surface. The aging process is not actually stopped. And, of course, there is the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow’s search for the mythical fountain in the fourth installment of the Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides. I didn’t see the movie, so I am not sure if he ever found it. From Peter Pan’s Never Never Land to the lyrical melodies of the hit song “Forever Young,” we have always been a little obsessed with youth, and subsequently, with evading death.

As Marine Sergeant Major "Dan" Daly, a double recipient of the medal of honor during World War I, famously said as he was leading his company in a charge against the Germans, "For Christ's sake men—come on! Do you want to live forever?"^[1] If we are honest, at least for some of us, the answer may be, “Yes.” Of course, we don’t want to be feeble or ill—I guess I am saying we don’t want to be old. Instead, we would like to be our best self-- strong, capable, and ready to enjoy the good life. The alternative to living forever is dying. Most of us are not ready to embrace this other possibility, as if it were ever our choice. Yet, reading our gospel this morning, it seems that Jesus begs to differ. He says, “Whoever eats of this bread will live forever.” And then again at the very end of the passage, “Whoever eats me will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven, not like that which your ancestors ate, and they died. But, the one who eats this bread will live forever.”^[2]

In the face of these past few weeks, what has amounted to our deadliest month in Afghanistan this year, Jesus’ words are a glimmer of hope in the darkness. As families reel from news of their fallen, and as most of us, even if it is only for a brief moment, take stock ourselves, Jesus’ offer of life, despite death, could not have come at a better time. This is the news we need to hear, even though for some the whole idea of eating Jesus, in what some might call a cannibalistic ritual, is not entirely palatable. Eating flesh and drinking blood sounds more like a movie spinoff starring Hannibal Lector rather than Jesus’ words plucked straight from the Bible. Yet, this flesh and blood is at the heart of who we are-- as followers of Jesus and as a community of faith in every time and place. Every week, when we gather around God’s table to break bread and share one cup, saying our prayers together just as our Lord Jesus has taught us to pray, we are reminded that we are called with Christ from death into life—a life that is everlasting. All of our other efforts to find true life pale in comparison with this. This meal, this act of remembrance, is the way we live forever.

When my unit arrived here last October, I was assigned to do the “traditional,” liturgical service. These descriptors can be interpreted in many different ways, and I wondered myself what exactly our worship might entail. I had never been the head honcho minister before. I wasn’t really sure what to do. But as I thought and prayed that first week, I realized that no matter what we did in worship, what songs we sang, what prayers we prayed, what scripture we read or what kind of sermons I crafted, the most important part of the service would always be Holy Communion. Perhaps it is my Episcopalian roots or the comfort factor of knowing that no matter how boring my sermon may be any given week, there will always be communion to save the service. No matter how things evolved or who decided to show up, Eucharist would always be our focus.

But isn’t this how it should be? Every time we gather to pray and praise, we do just as Jesus taught us. We break bread and we share the cup, remembering his saving love until he comes again. Whenever we celebrate this holy meal, we are reminded of God’s gift of life, abundant life, which has been given to us in Christ. Jesus’ body and blood, shared for us, weaves us into a timeless continuum of life, one that has no end. We are one with those that have passed away as well as with those who are still to come. Through Christ we are a part of forever.

Though we celebrate God’s promise to us every time we come into this place for worship, wrapping our minds around the idea of forever is not an easy task. When we consider what is happening, in our church alone, the infighting and the division which seems to only spread further and deeper these days, we begin to wonder if forever is a true possibility. We worry that in the face of modernity, the future of the church may hang in the balance, too. We attempt to take action in order to safeguard what we know and love. In the process, we sometimes forget that our God is God—I am who I am. We forget that God’s promises are vastly different from ours. We forget that God’s faithfulness endures when ours falters. Our humanness prevents us from grasping what God’s forever really means. This doesn’t mean we don’t continue to pray without ceasing-- for peace, for unity, for the coming of God’s heavenly kingdom. But, we pray with the knowledge that ultimately, all of us, every last one of us, are held in God’s hands.

Part of our communion liturgy is called the Memorial Acclamation. It is a proclamation of the mysteries of faith. It is our opportunity to acknowledge the great significance of our faith. But because it is mystery, there is also room for our doubt. While we endeavor to believe that God’s forever is sure, we will always glimpse the divine mysteries through a dimly lit glass. Even still, every time we come to this table, we witness these truths:

Christ has died. Christ has risen. Christ will come again.

From the very beginning, when our budding church was struggling to survive and its members were forbidden to celebrate the Eucharistic meal, some version of these words in countless different languages has been said. In the twists and turns of our collective faith history, in times of peril as well in times of triumph, these have been our watchwords.

We proclaim your Death, O Lord, and profess your Resurrection, until you come again.

No matter where we are going or how the body of Christ is transforming, we trust, further into the divine image, these are still our words. From our children to our children’s children and in every generation beyond them, in every time and place, past, present and to come, these words will continue to be at the core of who we are and what we believe.

We remember his death. We proclaim his resurrection. We await his coming in glory.

Jesus says, “The one who eats this bread will live forever.” This is our fountain of youth. This is God’s promise. This much we know is true. Amen.

---

^[1] Martin, Iain C. (2007). The Greatest U.S. Marine Corps Stories Ever Told: Unforgettable Stories of Courage, Honor, and Sacrifice. The Lyons Press. pp. 46-48

^[2] John 6:51-58

You are here, and yet you dream of being there, of being where you think the good life has begun. 

~ “ You Are Here.”  The Wailin’ Jennys

It has threatened to “be one of those weeks.” Between the continual news cycle about heightened violence throughout the country, particularly between US personnel and our Afghan partners, and the general feeling that most of us have been here long enough, it would be very easy to surrender to irascibility, one of my new words of late. Some of our fellow units are preparing to go home in the coming weeks and a handful have already boarded buses for the short trip to the Bagram airfield terminal, catching their C-17 flights back to the “real world.” Those left behind for a few more months find it hard not to be in foul moods. 

We are all ready to be somewhere else, anywhere but here. We have had enough of the barely edible food, sketchy air quality reports, sirens, threat streams, and all the other aspects of deployment. Yet, I can’t help but feel that because we are here now, and this is where our life is taking place, wishing that we were elsewhere is a significant waste—of opportunity, of time, and of a piece of life which is taking place whether we like it or not. Even if our days are numbered, part of what we are called to is living well in these final moments, being fully present so that not even a breath of life passes us by without some sense of gratitude, some deeper acknowledgement of the manna we have discovered in this wilderness season. 

Throughout the week, I have been my own worst enemy. I vacillate between counting squares on the calendar and subtracting numbers from all the various deployment countdowns that are simultaneously diminishing but then also wanting to stop the clock for just a moment and take stock of what this place has meant to me and those others who I have come to know and love over these months. In my moments of angst, I have been quick to snap out of annoyance or allow the drudgery to eat away at my joy. But, thankfully, there have been other moments which have reminded me of just what I have left to celebrate, even as the scenery rapidly changes around me. 

As I fend off a growing sense of despair over friends’ departure and one kind of closeness lost, I have remembered in glimpses that much remains here to be learned and embraced. Just yesterday, I helped teach a young Afghan girl who is in Bagram’s literacy program, Cat in the Hat, how to add and subtract. She actually had the adding down pretty well, but needed my fingers for successful subtraction. As I knelt and held my fingers up, again and again, even employing another soldier to help by donating her fingers, too, I had an overwhelming sense of just how fortunate I am to be here, right here, knowing that the good life is only as far away as we make it out to be. 

In this place where many days are trying and some people, mostly out of neglect or laziness, contribute to our collective frustration, there is still so much more to celebrate. Sometimes I feel like my main purpose is trying to remind those who cross my path that this always true, even when things get tough. Often, as I set out to remind others, I realize that more than anyone else, I am in need of remembering this myself. 

Live in Love - Sunday Sermon, August 12, 2012

Chaplain Mel Baars

Ephesians 4:25-5:2

August 12, 2012

“Live in Love”

The experts tell us we are what we eat. I guess that means if one was to cut me open, a variety of m&ms and crackers with peanut butter would spill out. I almost think it’s worth attempting... almost. If this is true, that our physical bodies are some version of the food and drink we consume, then our mind and soul must also be some version of our thoughts and feelings.  We are what we think and feel, too. If our feelings are primarily positive, open, loving, and generous, then we may become more open, loving and generous people. If our emotions are only ever inward, bitter, and closed-off, then we won’t just feel resentment, but we may be consumed by it. We won’t only feel anger, but we may end up an angry person.

If you go to the search engine on Amazon.com and put in “religion and anger,” more than forty thousand titles surface.^[1] That significant number is indicative of just how much anger creeps into every facet of life. Whether anger is wielded outwardly or is masked by passive aggression, we mostly don’t know what to do with it. Some of us are overcome by it, lashing out and leaving a trail of tears while others of us are paralyzed by it, losing our capacity to communicate or express ourselves. Some of us dissolve while others of us go mute. No matter how we handle our anger, our biggest challenge is paying attention to where the anger has come from and what it means to us. Are the circumstances that make us angry really worth it?

A lot of people around here have told me that they feel angrier than usual. The tiniest things can set them off and, in no time, they are filled with rage. Most of the people who have mentioned this aren’t really happy about it. Many of them have even done some self-evaluation. They have looked at their lives here and they have reasoned, “Hey, I have good shelter and decent food, at least on some days. My job isn’t so bad. We aren’t getting hit with lots of IDF. I even get to take the occasional nap. I work out daily. Life is pretty good. Why am I so angry?”

It’s hard to answer this question outright, yet I also know it to be true. I have found myself angrier at some things that really have no business bothering me. It has hit me out of nowhere, and I have found myself asking this same question, “Why?” It is as if our fuses have been shortened so much that they hardly exist at all. The littlest things throw us into a downward spiral. One minute we are going along just fine, and then we walk into the chow hall on a Sunday afternoon to discover that there is no Mongolian Grill. Suddenly, the day has tanked. Recovery is impossible. We become inconsolable and fussy. The only thing that will make this better is going home and since that is months away, we resign ourselves to becoming irascible. Soldiers and sailors beware.

As one commentator put it, “Few things are uglier than a thoroughly irascible person, and it is clear why very early in the church anger came to be regarded as one of the seven deadly vices. When it gets deep and pervasive in life, it really does kill love and everything lovely.”^[2] Yet, anger does not always result in irascibility. It only becomes this extreme when anger becomes the primary emotion, when anger is not balanced with all the other emotions which help us to see more colors than red.

According to our passage in Ephesians, anger, itself, is not the problem. “Be angry,” we are told, “But do not sin.” There is an important difference between the emotion, anger, and the behavior, to sin. Anger is an emotion, yet to sin is a verb. To sin is to act out, to commit offense or do wrong. It is action, or in some cases inaction, that results in destruction. When anger drives us, propels us to say things we ought not say or do things we later regret, this is some version of sin.

Anger has an important place in our bank of emotions. It is a normal human reaction to injustice. It is a sign that something has gone wrong or that someone is acting in a way that is harmful. Anger is helpful at times because it signals to us that there is a problem which we need to deal with. “Be angry... but do not let the sun go down on your anger.” The danger is when we don’t attend to it, when our anger stays festering inside of us, when it controls our thoughts and even deeds. When we let this emotion take over so much so that any time we don’t get our way or we come up against a challenge, we automatically become angry, this is the real danger. Because every time we allow ourselves to be consumed by our anger, it takes something of our joy. Eventually, anger becomes a kind of default mode. It’s like muscle memory. Soon, we are angry over everything. We find it hard to remember what it is like not to be angry.

But. as one friend pointed out earlier this week, even Jesus got angry, and on a few occasions so angry that he did something about it. When he encountered abuses in the temple, he threw over tables. When he was criticized for healing a man’s withered hand on the Sabbath, he got angry at the leadership who seemed to be more interested in petty rules than caring for those who were most needy. Of all the times that Jesus got mad, though, he never seemed to get riled up over the little things, the things that didn’t really matter. Jesus didn’t expend his energy on spinning his wheels. Whenever he got angry, it was for good reason. His anger was righteous. 

There are a lot of good reasons to be angry, especially this week. The local news has brimmed with reports of green on blue attacks, perhaps the most glaring, an incident in southern Afghanistan where a group of US Special Forces were invited to dinner, to break the Ramadan fast with some of their Afghan partners. When they arrived for dinner, they were shot on the spot. Though they came in a spirit of good will, their gesture was used against them. Reports like this should stir up anger because they are more than stories. This is the reality that is unfolding around us daily. Of course, there are other injustices worthy of our anger, children being abused, used as vehicles of violence, spouses transgressing upon their vows of fidelity, leaders neglecting those entrusted to them for their own selfish gain. I could go on and on and on. Anger in these circumstances may be righteous, too.

But if we are going to use Jesus as our example of good anger, we need to consider one additional dimension. This is the other thing about Jesus’ anger. Not only does it only manifest itself when it really matters, when it is called for, but also, most importantly, in the midst of his anger, Jesus manages to remember love, too. No matter how angry he gets-- with the Pharisees who take careless advantage of their flocks or the disciples who can’t seem to get it or even those who ultimately take his life-- Jesus still manages to love all of them. He finds a way to hold anger and love in both of his hands, so that the offender is both held responsible for wrongful actions but also offered an opportunity to repent, to be forgiven, and ultimately to be made lovable again, despite the offense. Anger without love makes our hearts hard and black. On the other hand, anger tapered with love may be an impetus to grow or to deal with a real problem which left unattended could result in worse damage.

In the end, Paul reminds us that we have been made in God’s image, as beloved children, to live in love. We are only really satisfied when we do this. Putting away all bitterness and wrath and anger and wrangling and slander, together with all malice, and instead being kind to one another, tenderhearted and forgiving, this is what frees us from the burdens of discontent. No matter how bad things have gotten and how angry we have felt, finding a way to let go of all of it, this is what we are longing for. To live in love is to live in the way that God made us in the beginning-- free and good, very good.

It is hard to know where to begin, especially if we have been angry for a while. On some days, on the hardest days, I think we start this process on our knees. When we are gripped with anger, and we see no other way out, when we are at the end of our rope and have nothing left, we can still pray, even if it is simply the prayer that Jesus taught us to pray, to give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. In bits of bread, even the hardest of hearts can be transformed anew. This is the power of God’s saving grace. It knows no bounds. It is forever and ever. So, live in love, as Christ loved you and gave himself up for you. Amen.

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^[1] Paul Marshall. “Ephesians 4:25-5:2: Pastoral Perspective.” Feasting on the Word p. 326

^[2] Robert C. Roberts. “Tempering the Spirit of Wrath: Anger and the Christian Life.” The Christian Century. June 18-25 1997, pp. 588-592

Be Well. Do Good Work. Keep in Touch

The other day, I had a moment of “life review” which brought tears to my eyes. My emotion was completely unexpected. Thanks to the US Postal Service, somehow, in one short day, heard whispers from just about every season of my life. Over the past ten months of deployment, I have heard from many friends and even friends of friends, people who have shared generously and reminded me from great distances that I am both remembered and loved. Yesterday was a little different. Yesterday, it was as if all of my worlds converged at once. I was reminded that as far flung as all the pieces may be, they are never really lost. 

Even though I have internet and a phone sitting on my desk, this year in Afghanistan, keeping in touch has been harder than even before. The nine and a half plus hours of time difference don’t help. But, it is more than an issue of timing. In this mostly insulated place, it’s easy to allow the outside world to fall away and to focus solely on the mission here and the people who are present. In some ways, this is necessary for survival. Not being totally consumed by this alternative universe is a daily challenge, one that I have struggled with over the months and often lost.  Twelve plus hour days, day after day after day, without any reprieve makes it hard to care about much else, particularly what is happening at home. There have been many times when I have realized that making a phone call and being required to listen to news from the “States” may put me over the edge. Wisely, in my moments of sheer exhaustion, I have refrained from calling. An email has had to suffice. 

Opening my boxes yesterday, and reading through notes of love and support, and from such a variety of friends, I realized something important. In this season of my life, when I have been at my very worst at keeping up and nurturing those I have loved most over the years, they have all, in their own ways, remained constant. I have promised phone calls to many of them and have barely made a dent in my list, but that has not deterred them from reaching out to me anyway, from being generous and loving, even if I have not been able to respond in kind. 

Of course, in a few months this season of deployment will come to an end. My life will resettle in new, hopefully less chaotic ways. It will be time for me to get back in the garden and infuse my love and energy into the relationships that have grown up and deepened throughout my life, making it both full and good. In the end, this is what matters most. The moments here, of frustration or inanity, which have brought me to my knees and pushed me closer than ever before to the edge of not caring or having little or nothing to give back, they will be an invaluable reminder that our lives are always give and take. I have been loved well over this year, and one way to honor this is to give this love back, to remember that in new seasons, I may be the one to give support and care to another, even it feels one sided. This is what love is all about. This is what it means to be a friend.

Mostly, we are all doing the very best we can. There are plenty of days when we fall short. Yet, where there is mutual love there is also grace, for what we have done and what we have left undone. After this experience, I may not expect quite as much, but not because my standards are lower. I have realized that when a heart is heavy, staying afloat requires every ounce of energy that is available. In some seasons this is just about all that one can muster. I am grateful for all the ways my own load has been lightened, for the love of family and friends, and sometimes even of strangers. I hope I may return the favor in some way. 

In the meantime, as one of my friends inscribed in a note to me, Garrison Keillor’s parting words at the end of his radio broadcasts, “Be Well, Do Good Work, and Keep in Touch.” If we continue to strive for this, we will find a way to hold all of life in two hands, honoring love and friendship in sunshine and storm and everything between. 

Bread of Life - Sunday Sermon, August 5, 2012

Chaplain Mel Baars

August 5, 2012

Exodus 16:2-4, 9-15; John 6:24-35

“Bread of Life”

About fifteen years ago, a man by the name of Spencer Johnson wrote a small, modern parable about two mice and two “little people;” it was called Who Moved My Cheese: An Amazing Way to Deal with Change in your Work and in your Life. This book stayed on the New York Times Business Bestseller list for five years. Businesses would buy the book in bulk and hand it out to employees for professional development and company retreats. It was the topic of many a self-help or motivational seminar. Over the years, the book permeated every stratosphere of our culture. It was even used in churches to address declining membership and a subsequent need to reevaluate the way the business of faith and worship was conducted.

The story was simple. There were four characters who all lived in a maze. Their main life goal was eating cheese—not a bad life if you ask me! Early in the book, they find a “cheese” station where they eat their fill of dairy day after day. One morning, however, they discover that the cheese is gone. It has been eaten up. The two mice saw this coming, so they have already left this first cheese station in search of a new source of sustenance. The other two “little people,” Hem and Haw, who are representative of humans, go back to the empty cheese station the next day hoping that the situation may have changed overnight. When they arrive to find that there is still no cheese, they are gravely disappointed. They become angry. They shake their little fists at the injustice, and they play the blame game. Somebody must be responsible for their suffering. After a while, Haw decides to go and look for a different cheese. His hunger pushes him beyond his fears. But not Hem. He is comforted by his old ways and routine and afraid of the unknown. He would rather go back to the empty cheese station, even though there is no cheese left, than venture out into new territory. Hem clings to what he knows, and just gets hungrier with each passing moment. Eventually he asks himself this question: What would I do if I weren’t afraid? It is certainly a fair question. If there was no fear, what would life be like? How different would it be from life as we know it?

Our Old Testament story today begins with disgruntled malcontent. Someone has moved their cheese and the whole congregation of the Israelites are complaining about it. They are angry and playing the blame game, too, saying that they would have been better off dying by the Lord’s hand in Egypt, because at least there they had food, instead of starving to death in the desert. The picture that they paint is bleak even though, just one chapter earlier, they were dancing and singing praises to God as they gladly followed Moses through the parted Red Sea, narrowly escaping Pharaoh’s Army. How quickly they forgot all that God had done for them?

If we are honest, though, we may admit that we have found ourselves in this dark place, too, in the midst of transition and change, and being driven by our fear and doubt instead of strengthened by our trust and faith. Like Hem, like the Israelites, most of us are creatures of habit. We like to feel comfortable and safe. We like to know what to expect, even if it means that we aren’t truly satisfied, even if it means we are slaves to our fears. A false sense of control seems better than nothing, at least until our illusions come crashing down around our feet.

From the sidelines, it is easy to be critical. If anyone should have faith, it’s God’s chosen people. God had made a way for them to be freed. They had experienced, firsthand, God’s power and might. They knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that God was there for them, shepherding them away from their captivity. But, all of that happened yesterday. Today is a different story. Today they are hungry. Today they are afraid. Today they can’t help but wonder if this new “freedom” they have been given is a good thing. I can’t help feeling compassion for them. Away from the only home that they have ever known, floundering around in the desert, they feel lost and alone. All they have to hold on to is God’s promise of a better place, a land flowing with milk and honey. And, even though God had come through for them again and again, memory can be incredibly fleeting. They may have known what God had said and even what God had done in the past, but the bottom line is this: they are hungry now and their hunger feeds their deepest fear, that God may not be so good after all.

In moments of doubt, when there are more questions than answers, we would almost always choose to cling to what we know, even if it’s unfulfilling or toxic, even if it’s abusive or harmful. Rather the devil you know than the devil you don’t. The thought of facing uncertainty, of moving into uncharted territory, purposefully going through a season of unknown, this is too much to bear. One of my high school teachers used to always say that until the pain of change is less than the pain of staying the same, we mostly stay the same.

But, God is calling us to something more, something better. God is beckoning us to walk away from the slavery that we know, whether that is our anger or disappointment, our hurt from failed relationships, our addictions and our fears, our bitterness and resentment, all the different kinds of chains that bind us and keep us from living life fully. God is making a way for us to leave all of that behind and enter more deeply into a mutual relationship of love and gratitude, the kind of relationship where we trust in God more than we trust in ourselves and our own devices. Most importantly, we are reminded in this story that God is always with us, guiding us with a rod and staff, giving us all that we need to live life well.

I know most of you have either received or seen a greeting card sometime in the last fifteen years with the “Footprints” inscription on it. It is definitely overused and arguably trite. I actually can’t believe that I am even talking about it in a sermon. In fact, when I was in divinity school, my preaching professor threatened our class that if we ever, under any circumstance, used “Footprints” as an example in a sermon, we would be automatically failed. But, whenever I see this inscription, I can’t help but recall the first time I read the story when I was young and much much less cynical. I remember tears springing to my eyes and chill bumps covering my arms, because I realized in reading it, how easy it is to lose sight of God’s presence in our midst. When illness strikes a loved one, when our relationships begin to falter, when we get the breath knocked out of us in one way or another and we only see one set of footprints in the sand, our first thought is that we have been left alone. Our fear, hurt, anger and doubt blinds us from seeing that God is still with us, carrying us through the wilderness, bringing us safely to green pastures and still waters.

This is the difference between the parable about mice and little people and our story about the Israelites. Instead of having to go on a massive search to find cheese, having to negotiate the maze all alone, God gives them their daily bread. It may not be the bread that they are used to. It may not even be recognizable to them. When they see it on the ground, they even say to one another, “What is it?” It must look like some of the food we find in the DFAC. But, Moses tells them, “It is the bread that the Lord has given them to eat.” It’s not what they expect or even hope for, but it is the bread that they need. It is enough for them to live.

When Jesus quotes this story in John’s gospel, he reminds his mostly Jewish audience that God’s provision has not wavered from that day in the wilderness when manna rained down from the sky. Just as God gave the Israelites bread from heaven to satisfy their hunger, God continues to provide the bread needed for life. Now, though, the hunger that is satiated is not of the belly, but it is of the heart. Jesus is a kind of bread that ends hunger for good. He is the bread of eternal life.

Just because we know this is true, doesn’t mean we won’t struggle with our hunger or our doubts or our fears. We are human after all. But, we can ask ourselves the same question that Hem asked when he found himself facing the unknown. What would we do if we were not afraid? How would we live differently? How would we love? How would we serve in Jesus’ name? How would we share Good News with the whole world? When we come to this table, when we eat of this bread and drink of this cup, we are reminded again and again of God’s steadfast provision, of God’s saving love in Jesus Christ. In the end, despite all our hunger and fear and doubt, this is the bread that changes our lives forever. It is the bread that matters most. It is the true bread of life. It is all that we need, and it is more than enough. Amen.

Even if they die, they shall live forever...

All week I have been haunted by a hymn we would sing during communion when I was young. I don’t think I have heard it in over fifteen years because it is neither in the Presbyterian nor Methodist hymnals. Since the last time I was a regular worshipper in the Episcopal church was before I had a driver’s license, I know it has been a very long while. As I walk around camp, I find myself singing this setting of the sixth chapter of John, part of his discourse on the Last Super which also happens to be the gospel text for this Sunday. Jesus’ words, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me shall never be hungry and whoever believes in me shall never be thirsty,” triggered my memory, and the song came flooding back as if I had been singing it all along.

Sister Suzanne Toolan wrote both the words and the tune for “I am the Bread of Life” sometime in the early 1970s. Since then, it has been translated into over twenty different languages and included in a variety of hymnals Catholic and Protestant alike. While there is not much about her available on the internet, one website mentioned that she is an active participant in the Taize community in France and its sweeping missions of ecumenism. I was unaware of theTaize movement until my university chapel started a weekly Taize prayer service. One Tuesday, I was asked to lead the singing. Not really knowing what it would entail, I agreed. It was never easy for me to say, “No.” I convinced my best friend and her boyfriend that they should come with me, in case there was no one else in attendance. The service started off fine, but when I started chanting in Latin, my invited guests started to snicker. I have never been able to contain my laughter, particularly during church when I am desperately trying to maintain composure, so things devolved quickly. The service was not quite a complete disaster, but they never asked us to come back.

While the Taize community follows tenants of monastic tradition, over the last sixty years it has drawn Christians from all over the world to come and sing, worship, and better understand Christ’s message. It is the music that has originated from this community which has reached to the furthest corners of the world. Most Taize songs are simple and easy to pick up through listening to one or two verses. Their lyrics also have coherent theological foundation in church tradition spanning centuries, and the words whether in Latin, Spanish, English, or some other language, point to the fulfillment of God’s kingdom, a place and time where both God’s love and peace will reign. I am not surprised that my theme song from this week would have some connection, however distant, to the Taize community and its message of eternal life.

Music has a unique way of linking us viscerally to our past, to people and memories which bring us back to a moment in our history, often one that has been buried and even forgotten. Singing the refrain of “I am the bread of Life” over and over throughout these days has helped me revisit my childhood church sanctuary and even relive the motions of communion, my solemn procession to the communion rail, folding my hands in the shape of the cross and waiting for our priest to place a round wafer on my palm, sipping wine with a straight face, even though it tasted so sour, and walking quietly back to my seat, trying to pray instead of look around at all the people who were silently doing the same thing as me.

When I sing this hymn I see flashes of church mothers and fathers who nurtured me from infancy, who taught me through word and deed what following Jesus might look like in my own life. Many of them have died, including my own grandmother, but when I sing this song, I can’t help but feel their presence as near as it felt when I knelt upon the prayer bench beside one or the other, first learning to sing and pray. The words of this hymn remind me of what I have known all along but what I have too easily forgotten in the midst of the grief and loss I have experienced.

In one of the hymn’s final verses, Toolan weaves a few more of Jesus’ words proclaiming, “I am the resurrection. I am the life. They who believe in me, even if they die, they shall live forever.” I think these are the words that have stuck with me most. It’s not just that I am in Afghanistan and reminded often of how fragile life is, particularly when I am invited to attend another memorial ceremony for a fallen US service member. But, no matter where we are, life seems to flow too quickly, and in the process, take all of us away with it. The reality of our finitude grows stronger every day. Yet, singing about God’s promises, even when I wasn’t sure what the words really meant, has helped me to find a faith which withstands even the sting of death. In many ways, I know that I am still finding it. Perhaps, this is why I keep singing.