August 19, 2007: Betrayal and Dread
Isaiah 5:1-7, Luke 12:49-56, Psalm 80:1-2, 8-19
Eileen Parfrey - - Springwater Presbyterian

My friend Jana has four children, two school-aged girls, a preschooler and a toddler. They were at the beach this winter, making their way on the windswept sand toward the ocean, when the preschooler panicked and told his older, wiser sister he had to get back to the car-quick. She, being older and wiser, asked him why. "Because," he sobbed, "the wind is blowing the words out of my mouth." His sister, not just older and wiser but also practical said, "Turn around."

What an elegant solution! Turn your back on that which takes the life from you! Easier said than done, of course. This time of year is a "for instance." When I returned from vacationing in the Midwest, despite my husband's conscientious adherence to my watering instructions, the yard appeared to be dying. Every year at the height of mid-summer the trees in our neighborhood drop leaves, giving the yards a crisp brown cover. The canopy shows no sign of depletion, but the ground looks like a botanical morgue. Columbine, trillium and Solomon seal, so lush this spring, are decimated. No amount of watering will bring back what is past bloom and growing prime, but for a time I pour on water, hoping to pull some life back out of the ground. This week my annual dismay increased as I listened to Morning Edition talk about world drought-places in the world where water has not run from neighborhood pipes more than three days a week for years, places where the only water comes in tanker trucks so meager that each household is only allotted three gallons for the week. My time spent quietly pouring potable water into the ground affords me plenty of time to think about life and death, and what I hear is, "Turn around."

What is it about harvest and bringing forth the fruit of the earth that brings us to the dying part of the life cycle? There is a beautiful summertime story in the book, Why Buffalo Dance, by Susan Chernak McElroy. McElroy writes of having received a life-changing phone call and going out in the mountains, anticipating God would comfort her as in the past-perhaps in the bloom of flowers or a gentle wind. But no comfort came until she arrived at the edge of a ditch. It was a mess, she writes. "It was an animal or what was left of an animal. There were feet and clumps of fur scattered like brown and bloodied cotton balls. There was stench and bugs who squiggled and roiled." Her stomach churned, but as McElroy graphically describes the scene, she notices her own inexplicable reaction. "In direct opposition to the scene in front of me," she writes, "my body vibrated suddenly to an oddly felt sense of resonance. For the first time since I'd left the house, I felt like I was in my own skin again. What I had stumbled upon was not comforting in the way I wanted to be comforted, yet I knew that I was welcomed to this particular place in a way I had not been welcomed by the blossoms nor the breeze. . . . This spot would become even fouler before the bones and fur finally melted like honey down into the soil. No perfume here, not for a long time. And it came to me swiftly, an instant knowing that this rot would take its own time to sweeten. If I tried to hurry the process-carry this mess away in a bag, bury it, spread lime over it, burn it-I would do a fine job of keeping the natural elixir of healing from returning to this place. . . . I had been searching for my own idea of peace and solace when I set out from the cabin, thinking it would look like flowers and soft breezes-my own metaphor for welcoming comforting arms. But [God] knows better than us what we need for healing. Sometimes, what is needed is some decomposition, some dismembering of the way things were before a new, fresh form can arise. Such processes take time, and the time is often not pretty." Turn around.

It's another month before the grape harvest in the Willamette Valley, but I walked Mount Angel's vineyard this week, and the leaves are already beginning to die, getting ready to complete the grapes' ripening. Did Isaiah's vineyard owner hope the die-back was part of the ripening process? The poem starts seductively enough, but ends in anger, with the realization of being cheated of harvest once more. Sometimes the best plan is to dig out the old and replant. Some things need to die, some things need to be separated.

Does Jesus sneer at his listeners, or is he, like the vineyard owner, just plain fed up with pouring good resources after bad? "Do you think I'm bringing peace? It's time for some division, some separation!" And (he adds), it shouldn't come as a surprise to the vineyard. "You can read weather signs. These signs are just as obvious." Turn around! I can't go out to my yard and not notice autumn coming. I can't scoop up the dead leaves and dying flowers and pretend the days are not getting shorter. Turn around, yes. But turning doesn't stop the wind blowing. Turning just gives your breath a second chance to go back at it again.

Christians are Resurrection People. Our whole story is summed up in the words, "The One who was dead is now alive." We have the conviction of springtime-yet-to-come, with all its new life and promise, but we also know it's not possible without the reality of autumn's frost and winter's death. Some things have to be dead before there can be a resurrection. I suppose it goes without saying that resurrection presupposes the reality of death, so as resurrection people, we can believe death is not the end of the world. Some things need to die. Some things need to be separated. In order to stay healthy, hosta lilies and iris need to be dug up and divided. Any parent can attest that even the most loving children need to be separated sometimes. Growing up means children separate from their parents. And when relationships are death-dealing, separation can allow for resurrection. As Resurrection People, we believe that death is not the end of the world. That the death of even something we treasure can be part of God's creative, redemptive work. And sometimes that death, that ending, is a chance to turn around and catch our breath. Sometimes that turn-around lifts us away from the wind that sucks the words out of our mouths.

While I was away, I stayed at my seminary and had the opportunity to talk with several professors and presbyters about the future of the church. Those conversations remind me of today's texts, causing me to wonder if our vineyard owner might be feeling betrayed, might be about ready to dig and separate and divide. Or whether the owner is about ready to remove the protective hedges and give us up as a lost cause. Are we reading accurately the signs of the times as Jesus urges? Are there signs to read?

Neither of these texts is comfortable. I search for the grace in them, and all I can find is, "Without judgment there is no mercy." That means Susan McElroy's story, the comfort of the mess of death. It's disgusting. It's nasty and unpleasant and truly dreadful. But until we acknowledge our death, we cannot embrace the resurrection. We worship The One Who Was Dead-who is now alive. Even as Jesus promises new and abundant life, the signs of the times he urges us to read are these: death precedes life, and life is given in abundance for those who will receive it. That may mean separating and division. Maybe even from things we love and treasure. But if we allow that separation to focus us on the resurrected Christ, we will have life. And have it in abundance.