Annual Conference - Sunday, June 30, 2002

I remember little about my childhood. Thanks to my parents, my childhood for the most part was quiet and comfortable. But one problem I remember.

I walked just a few blocks to school as a six year old in South Bend, Indiana. I only remember one stretch of that walk. Each day I walked out the back door and turned left down the alley. Half way down the alley stood a house with a fence. And inside the fence was a dog. To me the dog was a Monster (with a capital "M"). Everyday, when Monster spotted me, it would leap to its feet, run full speed at the fence, and bark. At that moment the rest of the world ceased to exist. I froze in fear. Monster stopped just before slamming into the fence, barking wildly until I disappeared from sight.

I tried several strategies to deal with Monster. Some days, I'd begin running. Other times I would creep along, plastered against the garage on the opposite side of the alley, hoping to slip by so silently, I would not be noticed.

Each morning and afternoon I prayed that Monster would be inside, asleep, or maybe even dead. I remember no day when I was not threatened, although there were likely many. Nor was I ever hurt by the charging dog, who may very well have licked my hand, had I been able to walk over to the fence.

I learned from Monster the meaning of the word Fear. I learned that fear has to do with lack of control and impending disaster. The word fear collects the physical and emotional response to my anticipation that Monster would leap over the fence, and transform me into a dog biscuit. After two years we moved. I was delivered!

The Psalmist too knew the threat of a Monster, and God through whatever channel dealt with the danger, averting the expected disaster.

I sought the Lord, and he answered me,
And delivered me from all my fears. . .

Long ago

A long time ago, before culture became scientific and sophisticated, adults as well as children understood and acknowledged the existence of monsters. Monsters howled in the desert, attacking the sojourner with heat and wind, disorienting, drying and destroying. Monsters lay in wait at the bottom of the sea, begetting huge waves capsizing and breaking up the largest ships. Monsters hid in deep valleys and cliffs near the fords of streams, attacking those who would dare to pass. Monsters invaded homes, under the cover of night, assaulting those who lay vulnerably asleep. Monsters came in human, animal, and cosmic varieties.

In that time before interstate highways, cellular phones and McDonald's, travel was a much more dangerous undertaking. Water, never plentiful, might disappear completely, destroying beasts of burden, children, seniors and finally the most hearty. In the deepest valleys, bandits and wild animals stalked human prey. Fortunately, by custom, any home along the way kept its door open. Sometimes that hospitality let in maunders, who returned theft and death for a cup of water. Disaster threatened every trip; each traveler wore fear as a cloak.

At the Tomb

Recognizing the pervasive presence of danger in ancient culture, helps me understand Matthew's portrayal of terror at the tomb on the first day of the week. It was early in the morning. As with most first days in ancient Palestine, the day dawned with men headed for the field, women for the well, and children out to play. And like most days of every week, some wept in deep grief. Two women, both sharing the name of Moses's sister, Miriam, set out for the tomb presumably to express their grief at the loss of their loved one, executed by the occupying army. When they arrived at the hillside cemetery, terror seized all their senses: the earth trembled, a blinding light revealed a human form. The ground shook ferociously and the massive stone began moving. Frozen by terror, the soldiers fainted dead away.

The narrative does not tell us about the women's response to this electrifying drama. We know only their feelings as they left the tomb. That is not unusual for biblical narrative. The narrative's reticence to detail the characters' feelings allows us room to enter the story through these women. Apparently the angel reads fear in the eyes of the women. I suspect the angel was correct.

Not So Long Ago

In years past we have heard this story not as a tale of terror, but as a time of triumph, triumph reenacted in Easter pageantry. The only players genuinely traumatized in the chancel drama were the guards and they represented the bad guys. The women, although startled, quickly recover and join the triumphant chorus.

Those days are past. We know the specter of lost footing, blinding lights and thunderous noise, followed not by music but death. The visceral fear of childhood which we covered by the veneer of adulthood has been recalled to conscious life by the thunderous collapse of the indestructible towers of our culture. We now acknowledge the powerful presence of fear, a recognition that our biblical ancestors never lost. Our lives have been brought back to the earth from which God formed us.

Letters

We fearfilled lives: fear for personal and family health and safety, but other fear – fear less easy to acknowledge – fear that the life we live, the church we love may be slipping away, destroyed by cultural hegemony and internal strife.

I get letters, as president of Bethany. I used to get letters through the mail. Now I get letters through the mail, through the computer, through the telephone. All this wonderful new technology has multiplied the ways I get letters, and some days, it seems, has multiplied the letters themselves. You know I get letters, because some of you have written them.

I have been surprised, well not surprised exactly, but amazed by the fear expressed in the letters: fear for the future of the Church of the Brethren, the church in North America – fear that the church will be overwhelmed, distorted and destroyed by negative forces in the culture and most fearful of all negative forces within the church.

The letter writers identify quite different threats, frequently the threat from one letter turns out to be hope in the next. It has happened, as Margie, my assistant will attest, I receive opposite letters on the same day. The reason for the letter is, of course, to urge that Bethany join forces with the letter writer to oppose the identified threat.

These are dangerous days for the church. However, I am old enough now to realize that we have been here before. 150 years ago, as a people and a church, we headed to war over slavery and the right of states to secede from the union. Some Brethren did own slaves and other Brethren supported slavery. Most denominations split, the north from the south.

Seventy-five years ago, we faced changing attitudes within the church toward soldiers. We maintained our position that war is sin, but how would we relate to those within the church who chose military service? If we welcome veterans into our churches, won't that eventually dilute our testimony and destroy our denomination?

The Church of the Brethren has been through threatening times before. But that was our ancestors, not us. Now it is different: these days threaten our church, our culture, our life. So the letters encourage Bethany to preserve the purity of Brethren identity, making sure that all our graduates have the correct faith and practice – as defined by as writer.

Fear:

Fear for personal and family health and safety.

Fear for the future of our culture and our church.

Fear has not disappeared from the vocabulary of disciples ancient and contemporary.

David

A friend of mine, David, returned from the funeral near his Mississippi home town: the family had buried his 24 year old nephew, Zeke the victim of a drunk driver. Now sober, the driver was remorseful. But Zeke was gone, leaving behind his wife, Andrea, now the single parent of two children.

When asked about the funeral David began with great feeling of being back in his rural Mississippi black home community. As for the funeral itself, David told this story:

The service was all right, he said, but gathering at the cemetery, that made a difference. As we brought the casket to the grave, the little band played spirituals of pain, grief and sorrow: "Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen." We sang through tears.

The elders read scripture, and prayed as the casket was lowered into the ground. We began covering it with soil. We wept together and individually.

David continued, Suddenly a stillness settled over the cemetery. Out of that quiet the band resumed, increasing their volume and tempo -- resurrection jazz: trombone, trumpet, sax. Everyone sang their way back to the cars and to the church and to the dinner.

I broke in, Incredible, but David, what about Andrea and kids. They have no father, no husband.

David responded, They will weep for a long time: the bed will be empty, the pantry sparse, the clothes in the closet a reminder about what should have been. But through that cemetery service Andrea and the kids now have two songs to sing: a spiritual of sorrow and a hymn of promise.

David, can they sing both songs, now, I wondered

I don't know, he said. Perhaps for many months, years, Andrea may only sing spirituals of grief.

I do know that the congregation will sing both songs every week. She will go each Sunday to sing with her friends, sing two songs. That congregation can and will sing spirituals of trouble and songs of promise, sing with Andrea, in behalf of Andrea.

Andrea will sing with the congregation, so will the children, until the day they themselves can sing both songs. My guess is that eventually Andrea and the kids will sing both songs, indeed sing for another grieving mother or father or child.

Two Psalms

We as a community have two songs to sing, two Psalms to read. The Psalter has both psalms of fear and hymns of promise, both Psalm 34 and Psalm 35.

35 the Psalm of lament, the song of fear, the spiritual of grief.

Contend, O Lord with those who contend against me;
Fight against those who fight against me. . . .
How long, O Lord, will you look on?
Rescue me from their ravages,
My life from the lions. (35:1,17).

34 the Psalm of thanksgiving, the hymn of promise, the spiritual of joy.

I will bless the Lord at all times,
Praise shall continually be in my mouth. . . .
I sought the Lord,
and God answered me,
Delivering me from all my fears. (34:1,4)

The Psalmist gave us two songs to sing.

Some among us have been delivered completely into Psalm 34: Delivered from all fear. That has happened, perhaps to you. Those saints live among us, often time quietly, their voices calm, because they have no need to crusade against enemies foreign and domestic; these disciples allow the wisdom of their words and the faithfulness of their service to make a difference, rather than the strength of their coalition and the power of their forces.

Some of you live always in Psalm 34. I hope that each of us live in the Psalm on many days. But there are other days when fear catches us once again in its terrorizing grip. We try to talk our way out of it, pray our way out, sing our way out, scream our way out.

But fear will not let us go: fear of enemies, fear of illness, fear for safety, fear for the church, fear for tomorrow. The cover story in Time magazine a couple of weeks ago discussed the extent to which our brain is hot-wired for fear – an automatic response for our own safety.

There are moments when our automatic fear mechanism seizes control. Instead of a heart filled with joy, we feel a stomach knotted in anxiety. Instead of a song of thankfulness, we make a list of complaints. Instead of radiating delight, our eyes tighten in anguish. Instead a Prayer of thanksgiving: I sought the Lord and he answered me, a Psalm of lament: How long, O Lord, will you look on?

Jesus

Jesus sang two songs: My God, my God why have you forsaken me. Into your hands I commend my spirit.

We have been told he sang two songs – two songs, both the same day. I'm not convinced we believe it. I'm not convinced we experience Jesus singing both songs with us. However I am convinced the two Mary's at the tomb heard both songs.

At the Tomb

Whatever the two Mary's felt as they approached the tomb, fear overwhelmed the moment. Out of the tremble of terror the divine word of assurance, Fear not. The word did not stop with a prosaic formula. The assurance was followed by the announcement: He is not here; for he has been raised. . . . The announcement by the invitation: Come see the place where he lay. The invitation by the instruction, Go and tell. . . . The instruction by the promise: He is going ahead to Galilee; there you will see him.

The Mary's left the tomb quickly – with fear and great joy. Fear and Joy.

They left with two songs to sing. The trauma was not over. The loved one was missing. Their emptiness clashed with the angelic word of promise. They left the tomb quickly – with fear and great joy. As the women ran toward the promise, they met Jesus and heard again assurance, instruction and promise. The story of the two Mary's ends there with both songs. And our story begins.

The Other Song

We as a church have two songs to sing. In our day we know fear: fear that issues in anger, complaint, indignation; fear that lodges in sorrow, grief, anguish.

So much to fear. So many songs of sorrow:

Nobody knows the trouble I've seen, Nobody knows, but Jesus;
By the waters of Babylon, there I sat down and wept.
Jesus remember me, when you come into your kingdom.

We don't sing the songs of sorrow much in church, but we live them: the fear that we must do the work of raising Jesus in our time; that anguish that Jesus lives in time past when options were clear and decisions easy; the fear that the future is a deep valley filled with threatening monsters or tomorrow comes as an open grave receiving all that we love.

The spirituals of sorrow, the psalms of lament give welcome voice to our anxiety.

But we have two songs to sing: a second song that looks forward with anticipation and promise, a song grounded in the three line poem of the angel, the poem that sent the two Mary's on their way quickly.

He has been raised from the dead;
He is going ahead of you;
There you will see him.

We have two songs to sing and that makes all the difference.

I'm not sure which song you can sing today, at this conference. I'm not sure whether you come carrying Psalm 35 or Psalm 34:

a Psalm of anxiety, anger, fear, sorrow: for yourself, for your church, for the world;

or a Psalm of thanksgiving and promise: fearing not anything, with no need to take up the shield and spear against anyone: for your eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.

Perhaps like the two Mary's, you come in fear and great joy. Perhaps today you can't sing:

My life on in endless song,
Above earth's lamentation.
I catch the sweet, though far off hymn
That hails a new creation.
Through all the tumult and the strife,
I hear that music ringing.
It finds an echo in my soul.
How can I keep from singing.

If you can't sing it in this service, let the congregation sing for you, in behalf of you. Just listen.

The day will come will you can sing Psalm 34. The day will come with you will sing it for me or for another brother or sister. That is how it is in church, the body of Christ. That is the music of those who move through life with fear and great joy toward the promise of the angel's poem:

He has been raised from the dead;
He is going ahead of you;
There you will see him.