March 11, 2014

“Saying No” by Cherie Hutchison

Saying yes demands
Accepting risk, finding joy.
Life is saying yes.

No says I will not
Commit empty promises
To avoid conflict.

March 10, 2014

By Rev. Katie Russell

Mark 9:14-29

In this story from the Gospel of Mark, the disciples seek Jesus’ help in healing a boy.  The boy’s father tells Jesus that the son has had a violent “spirit” since his birth.  The man brought the boy to Jesus’ disciples, who could not heal him.  “If you are able to do anything,” the man asks, “have pity on us and help us.”

“23Jesus said to him, ‘If you are able!—All things can be done for the one who believes.’ 24Immediately the father of the child cried out, ‘I believe; help my unbelief!’”

And so Jesus rebuked the spirit and it left the boy.

Often this story emphasizes the faith of the disciples, who are criticized by Jesus for failing to heal the boy on their own.  It is also interpreted as a story about prayer, for the narrative concludes with Jesus telling the disciples that they could not cast out the spirit because it is the “kind that can come out only through prayer.”

But I have most often been intrigued by the father, who speaks one of the truest lines I have ever read in the holy scriptures:

“I believe; help my unbelief!”

It’s the cry of a desperate parent, a declaration of faith and yet a confession of doubt.  It’s a paradoxical statement and such an honest one.  It notes that our faith is full of paradoxes:
      That Jesus was “born of Mary” and yet he existed from the beginning of time
      That we doubt and question and yet in these times our faith often grows stronger
      That Christ was crucified and yet He lives
      That we may be confident “in things not seen” and yet not have all the answers
      That we may “believe” and yet still have “unbelief”
I’m not sure that there is a more honest statement of what it means to be a disciple of Jesus.

The season of Lent is a great time to face our paradoxes.  We can use these 40 days to recommit ourselves to belief:  to follow Jesus, to learn from him, to gather at the Table with him, to heal and minister alongside him.  But it is also a time to confess when we—like the earliest disciples--have denied him, betrayed him, run away from him, or disappeared silently into the crowd.

The Lenten season is a time to cry out in prayer:  “I believe; help my unbelief!”

March 9, 2014

Did you know that Sundays are not included in the 40 days of Lent?  This strange way of counting is rooted in the Christian belief that every Sunday is a celebration of the Resurrection.  In our Lenten devotional, we will not include meditations on Sundays; instead, we will provide the scripture that will be read in worship at First Christian Church.  We hope that you read and reflect on this sacred Word…and join us for worship, if you are able!



John 11:17-27
17 When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb for four days. 18Now Bethany was near Jerusalem, some two miles away, 19and many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about their brother. 20When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary stayed at home. 21Martha said to Jesus, ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. 22But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.’ 23Jesus said to her, ‘Your brother will rise again.’ 24Martha said to him, ‘I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.’ 25Jesus said to her, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, 26and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?’ 27She said to him, ‘Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.’



(You can read the full account of Jesus raising Lazarus in John 11:1-44)

March 8, 2014

“Where” by Diana Fredenburg

In the blue sky,
In a baby’s smile,
On top of a mountain,
By the rolling waves,
In a puppy’s kiss,
A warm summer breeze,
A helping hand,
A comforting tune,
A ruby sunset,
The soft silence of a snowstorm,
The smell of a flower,
The falling leaves,
A child’s laughter…
Where do you find God?

March 7, 2014

By Ginny George

“From silly devotions and from sour-faced saints, good Lord, deliver us”

That is one of my favorite quotes from Teresa of Avila, a 16th century Spanish mystic philosopher, Carmelite nun and theologian.  Each time I come across it in our hymnal (#336) it puts a smile on my face; but it also perplexes me a bit.  My first reaction is to imagine Teresa as a sort of Maria-figure, singing joyously on the mountain in the style of The Sound of Music. I imagine Teresa being wrenched from a profound and joyous communion with God’s creation in order to attend what must seem, by comparison, a silly, rote monotony of obligatory devotions.  Meanwhile the disapproving nuns of her cloister, like sour-faced saints, puzzle over the question, “How do we solve a problem like . . .” Teresa?  By Teresa’s acknowledgment, “With all this wide and beautiful creation before me, the restless soul longs to enjoy its liberty and rest beyond its bound”.

But sometimes I read the quote quite differently.  Instead of praying for deliverance from the silly devotions and sour faces of others, Teresa may have been looking inward, humbly acknowledging the precarious human state of her own spiritual well-being. Perhaps she was reminding herself, and us, to guard against the beguiling distractions that turn genuine devotions into “silly,” unthinking habit.  Perhaps Teresa’s “sour-faced saints” are pious self-satisfactions that bind us to worldly judgments and rob us of the pure joy of God’s grace.  “The best thing must be to flee from all to the All”.

During the season of Lent we are called to be intentional about our meditations, carving out the time and the focus for profound personal devotions and humble self-examination.    
Will we manage to achieve all that we intend?  Probably not, for as Teresa reminds us “To wish to act like angels while we are still in this world is nothing but folly.”  But as we stumble along our Lenten journey let us be inspired and assured by one more of Teresa’s observations:

"The feeling remains that God is on the journey, too."

March 6, 2014

“Environment of Faith” by Wendel Miser

Mountaintops are for blessed sermons,

And clouds are for transfigurations.

Seas are for deliverance,

And rivers are for the beginning of new life.

Valleys are for coming to terms with shadows,

And deserts are for overcoming.

Rain is for awakenings,

And bushes are for burning.

Rocks are for new waters,

And hills are for light and sacrifice.

Gardens are for joy and sorrow,

And trees are for forgiveness.

Rainbows are for promise,

And stars are for the guiding.

Grass is for earthly time,

And lilies are for grace.

Fish are for the journey to follow,

And doves are for the Spirit.

Stable animals and sheep are for lessons and story,

And birds are for faith.

Wind is for divine presence,

And vine is for the family.

Stones rolled away are for resurrections,

And Heaven is for home.

His hand is for the grasping,

And our journey is with Him on this road of life.

WLM:  January 27, 2013

March 5, 2014 -- Ash Wednesday

“Ashes” by Rev. Katie Russell

It’s always interesting to me how a single word can carry so many meanings and memories. As we approached Lent this year, I thought about the word “ashes.”

Growing up, my family spent our summers camping. Sometimes when I think of “ashes” I can smell the smoke of the campfire, I can feel the warmth and safety of flames and family, and I can see the gray dust still smoldering in the fire ring when I crawled from the tent the next morning.

Sometimes I hear the word “ashes” and recall my Grandma’s funeral; I remember the feeling of the lump that formed in my throat as my mouth recited the words of scripture but my mind wondered how the ashes of a woman so large—in stature and in spirit—could fit in such a small urn.

This year I happened to think of Lent last year, when just before Holy Week a Disciples of Christ church in Owensboro, Kentucky was struck by lightening, caught fire, and burned down.  This incident struck close to home for me.  Owensboro was only a couple hours from Nashville, where I was living at the time. The pastors at that church were friends of my friends. A family in my church was from that town: the father had been baptized in that congregation, the couple married in that sanctuary, the grandmother still worshipped there each week. It was devastating to think what such a loss would mean for a community of faith. But a few days after, when members of the church began to sift through the ashes, this picture was shared on Facebook:

In the midst of the charred building, a Communion Table still stood, somehow still shining white. It seemed to be a miracle—a reminder that the church was more than its building and that the community would go on. It was a sign of hope: new life would emerge from this destruction.

“Ashes” is a strange word. A strange idea. It carries strange memories. Sometimes “ashes” are associated with trauma, pain, grief, or death. Sometimes with warmth, comfort, or the promise of new life.

On Ash Wednesday, Christians often receive ashes on their foreheads and hear the words from Genesis, “You are dust and to dust you shall return.” Like the very word “ashes,” this ritual is rich with meaning: it can be a solemn reminder of our mortality, but it can also be a promise of new life that has yet to spring forth.