10.14.12--Sermon on Mark 10:17-27

A few years ago, I became obsessed with the TV show, House MD. If you aren’t a fan of medical sitcoms, it’s a series about the snarky, maladjusted Gregory House and his work as the head of the diagnostics department at Princeton-Plainsboro University Hospital. The specialty of the diagnostics department is solving the unsolvable medical mysteries, so everyone who would come into Dr. House’s office was always suffering from some life-threatening disease of which no one had ever heard. Now, pretty much every episode of this show followed the same basic outline: (1) someone would get sick, (2) House would get the case, (3) his team would spend the entire episode trying to solve the case and keep the patient alive, and (4) at the very last minute House would come up with the brilliant diagnosis that 95% of the time would save the patient from certain death.

There was usually some background drama to go along with it, like who House was in love with or what shenanigans he was getting into in his off time, but I didn’t really care about any of that stuff. My favorite part of every episode was always the diagnosis work. You see, Dr. House and his crack team of the brightest minds in medicine would get into a rhythm with their work as they sought to find the problem and derive a solution from it, and although they used a process, no two cases were ever the same. Their diagnostic detective work followed this basic outline: (1) they used a white board to compile a list of all of the symptoms so that they could assess the situation from every angle, (2) they carefully checked and ruled out any possible source of the infection such as patient medical history, living conditions, travel history, and human interaction, (3) they would cross check present symptoms with all sorts of rare and unpronounceable diseases from around the world, working with a fine-toothed comb to determine the cause of the patient’s condition, (4) the other doctors on the team would offer up plausible possibilities as to what the problem was throwing around terms like autoimmune disorder, carcinomas, legionnaire’s, and lupus (It was never lupus, but I swear they would bring it up at the beginning of every episode…), and (5) House would systematically rule out all possibilities until he hit upon the correct diagnosis, usually by discovering something that was overlooked or hidden before. 

No two cases were ever alike, yet House was always able to solve them by going through this process to reach a diagnosis. 

10.7.12--Sermon on Matthew 28:1-20

I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking about how God has spoken to me so clearly and on so many occasions through experiences of corporate worship. I do not know if it is simply because I love to sing and am moved by music or if it is because I let down my guard while I am surrounded by others who are singing just as loud as I do; there’s just something about worship that allows God to speak to me in exciting ways.

It was during a time of worship that I made a decision to give my life to Christ. It was during a time of worship that I answered God’s call to vocational ministry. It was even during a time of worship that I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was going to marry Jessica. When everything seems to click in worship, God seems to show up in an absolutely amazing way.

But I know that over our two plus years together, I’ve told you plenty of stories about when worship worked, when the leaders, the speaker, and the congregation were all in sync and God was deftly able to weave in and out of the chords and choruses with ease. Today, though, I want to share with you a story about a time when worship didn’t click, when instead of feeling left in awe, I was left feeling angry.

This Midwinter Weekend Retreat featured a new band that I did not know. I happened to get to the camp early enough to hear their sound check, and I stood in the back of the worship space listening to them play, trying to decided if I was going to like them or not. I thought that they were pretty good, honestly. They were rocking every song they played, and even though they played a few songs I didn’t know, I was convinced that they would do a great job of leading us to the presence of God. I left right before they finished sound check, and didn’t see them again until that night’s opening worship.

I was right. They did rock. We had such a great time during the opening songs. They pushed the intensity to raise our energy and they looked like they were genuinely engaging in worship themselves. It was awesome.

After a few songs, the speaker stood up and delivered a great message—I think. Honestly, I don’t remember much about it, which is funny since I’m now in the same profession. When I was in high school, though, all I cared about was the music, the singing. That’s probably not the best attitude for a pastor to have, but hey, I wasn’t perfect. 

9.23.12--Sermon on Mark 9:33-37 and Mark 10:13-16

In one of the Sunday school classrooms at Crosswicks, there is a certain poster tacked up to corkboard on the wall. On this poster is a cartoon painting of Jesus, surrounded by little children. Everyone is smiling and laughing, and it looks like Jesus is about to wrap all of them up into a group hug. It is supposed to represent a Scripture lesson, one of the many stories of Christ that is found in all three of the synoptic Gospels—it is in Matthew 19, Mark 10, and Luke 18.

In this story, some families bring their children before Jesus so that he might bless them. In all of the stories, Jesus is in the middle of speaking to crowds of people. It seems to be a fairly common day in ministry for Jesus: he is healing the sick and injured, verbally battling it out with the Pharisees, and teaching the multitudes about the Kingdom of God. And in he middle of all of this, some families are trying desperately to parade their children before Jesus.

Now, it was a pretty common practice back in this day for rabbis to speak a blessing over children. What was not common then, though, was for this blessing to happen in the middle of his teachings. In all three of the synoptic Gospels, Jesus seems to be in the middle of pretty important conversations when these children are pushed forward.

I’m sure it was not much different than an over-excited mother pushing her kids to the front of the line to see Santa. You see, back then, for a well-known and well-respected rabbi to bless your child was important. It invoked God’s protection on your son or daughter, and greatly aided them in growing up to be healthy, prosperous people. You did not want to miss your chance for your kids to receive this blessing.

9.16.12--Sermon on Mark 8:27-30

A few days ago, as I was driving home, I witnessed a wonderful occurrence. As the sun was going down and evening approached, an older gentleman was lowering an American flag from the flagpole in his front yard. I stopped at the stop sign a little longer that I needed to, because I was enthralled by the care and respect he was showing this flag. He did not simply unhook a piece of cloth and walk back inside with it balled up in his hand; no, he carefully undid the clasp, folded this small standard in his hands, and reverently laid it over his forearm, gently holding it in place as he unhurriedly made his way back inside.

His eyes never left that flag. It was as if the most important thing he would do all day was bearing this banner safely inside.

Now, I drive by this house almost every day, and I’ve seen this flag quite often as it perched atop its pole and allowed the wind to whip it back and forth. I gotta tell you, this was not the nicest or biggest or boldest-colored flag that I’ve ever seen. It was a small nylon sheet, the reds and blues faded almost into pastels of their once dominant primary colors and the whites in need of brightening. It was probably something that you could find on sale for less than $10 at Walmart if you went the week leading up to the 4^th of July.

But to watch this man interact with it, you would have thought that this was the same star-spangled banner that so long ago did wave o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

It was inspiring to watch. It was beautiful.

Now, I do not know this man’s story, and I do not know why the American flag means so much to him personally. Maybe, like my dad, he is one among the brave men and women who fought for our country to protect our rights and our freedoms. Maybe the flag means so much to him because the flag reminds him of the cost of our freedom and our ways of life. Maybe honoring the flag every evening as he lowers it from its pole is a way to remember and honor the dead, those who served alongside him and did not make it home.

I don’t know. All I know is that I will never forget watching him and thinking to myself, “I wish that we as the church had that kind of loyalty and devotion to our God.”

9.2.12--Sermon on Mark 7:1-8

Have you ever heard of TED Talks? They are these short video presentations done by individuals and posted on the web for all to see. These talks range in topic from how-to’s to business and leadership techniques to expositions on new inventions, and almost all of them are worth watching. They are hosted by the non-profit company, TED, which stands for Technology, Entertainment, Design, and they include talks from some of the best and brightest people from around the nation and around the globe.

I will never forget the first TED Talk that I watched. A friend had posted it to my wall, and it was a short clip of man teaching the world how to open a banana. He said that we have been doing this wrong for thousands of years, and making a giant mess in the process. You see, when most people pick up a banana, they cannot help but see the stem and think: handle. We might have a few different methods for how to work this handle, but 99% of the time, we use this stem to open our banana.

I’m fond of the method where you use your thumbnail to break the skin of the peel before you pull it back so as not to risk bruising the banana if the stem does not immediately peel back.

But apparently, by studying chimpanzees and other apes, primatologists—that is, scientists who study apes—have discovered a much easier and quicker means to open bananas. If you flip the banana over and simply pinch at the bottom, the peel practically comes apart for you. There tends to be less mess because most of the little stringy bits stick to this side of the peel and peel away with it, and there is little to no chance of it bruising the banana.

This might seem like a random thing, but it blew my mind. I’ve been opening my bananas wrong for years! Who would have thought?

But you know what’s weird? I don’t like to open my bananas the “right way” even though I have now seen the light about it. It has been ingrained in me from birth that you open bananas from the stem, and every morning when I am getting breakfast ready, I pull off a banana from the bunch, grab it by its stem, and pull.

It’s become a ritual for me, one to which I cannot help but stick. In a weird way, its become a part of who I am. I am Wes Cain: banana stem puller. 

August 19, 2012 Sermon on John 6:51-59

Brothers and sisters, I know that I’ve shared this news with you already, but I have to share it again because I do not think that it has completely sunk in yet for me. Jess and I are having a baby! Wow! I mean, I knew going into our marriage that the next logical step after getting married was to start growing the family, but it is still crazy to think that by the end of the year, I will be holding a tiny baby in my arms, one that I helped bring into the world.

Honestly, it’s kind of scary. I keep praying that God will allow me wake up one morning feeling completely ready and prepared for this new adventure, but so far this hasn’t happened. Instead, I wake up every morning with the knowledge that I’m one day closer to being a dad, and I feel this electric jolt of both unbridled excitement and uncontrollable fear.

This week marks Jess’ twenty-fourth week of pregnancy. During the past six months, we have both learned a lot about the 40-week process of pregnancy. We’ve read books, listened to professional advice, and done the best we could to equip ourselves with as much knowledge as possible as we prepare for our bundle of joy.

And I have to tell you, one of the most interesting aspects of this journey so far has been learning about the cravings that pregnant women endure and why they crave certain… substances. According to a number of sources, many women deal with cravings for all sorts of foods that range the spectrums from healthy to artery-clogging, from breakfast foods to deserts, from staple foods to out-of-the-box delicacies. Some women’s diets completely change while they are pregnant; Jess told me about a case of a life-long vegetarian who had such strong cravings for meat that she ended up eating steak or bacon almost every day until the baby came!

Sometimes, though, it is not an actual food that the mother-to-be will crave. Sometimes, they crave non-food substances as well! Jess read one day that she might develop cravings for things like clay or iron. Apparently, these cravings come about because her body knows that she needs to eat a certain kind of nutrient or protein, and sometimes the only way to best relay this message from her body to her brain is as a desire for something completely inedible. She read that if this happens, she should consult her doctor to find out what exactly she needs to eat to satisfy this yearning for a non-food.

I told her that if she started craving iron I’d just get her a piece of rebar to chew on. I don’t think she appreciated that…

I think this is extremely interesting, though. Your body sends you a message that you need a certain type of nutrient, but your brain only hears “CLAY! GIVE ME SOME CLAY!”

It is as if it completely misses the point. It’s not about iron. It’s not about clay. 

8.5.12--Sermon on John 13:31-35

When I was a senior in high school, one of my classmates decorated and taped a sign up onto her locker. It had Rom 1:16 written on it and stated in big fancy letters: “I’m not ashamed of the Gospel!” It was up there just a few hours before someone walked by and ripped it off. She didn’t know who did it, or why, but during the next period, she make herself a new sign, near identical to the first, and taped it on her locker as she moved to her next class.

That was on a Monday. Tuesday morning, upon arriving at her locker to get her things for first period, she was aghast to see that her sign was once again removed. So she started the process again: make a sign, post a sign, lose a sign. This continued throughout the day and the next.

Make a sign, post a sign, lose a sign. Make a sign, post a sign, lose a sign.

By Wednesday afternoon, she was pretty upset about it. That night, at FCA, she shared her discouragement with us. She was simply trying to share her beliefs, and someone was tearing her down every time. So we decided as an FCA group that we were going to join her in declaring our faith for everyone at Burnet High School to see. A group of about thirty of us made our own signs that stated in big bold letters: “I am not ashamed of the Gospel!”

It sparked a movement. Soon more and more people were putting up their own locker signs in support of the faith. It did not take long before every third locker or so was wearing its own Romans 1:16 sign. They were multicolored and sported handwriting spanning from completely illegible to seemingly professional calligraphy, and they all declared what we thought was a strong stance on hard issue.

We were standing up for our faith, and supporting a fellow Christian’s right to stand up for her faith as well.

The signs kept coming down, though. No matter how many people put them on their lockers, every passing period saw more and more ripped off and thrown on the ground. We would work in groups to make extra signs, intent on winning this extremely important cultural battle. And the cycle escalated. Make 20 signs, post 20 signs, lose around 12 signs. Make 20 more signs, replace the 12 signs and post 8 more signs, lose a few more signs.

And so on and so on.

We were winning, though! More signs were popping up than were being torn down. And it didn’t take long before a group of us spotted one of the perpetrators vandalizing our pious property. We jumped on him, yelling at him and calling him names and humiliating him in front of the student body for his heinous crimes. Soon we even figured out whom the other people were who were ripping down our signs. We didn’t seek most of them out to verbally destroy them, we just made sure that everyone else knew who they were so that we could collectively shun them and teach them a lesson about attacking us in such a way.

And we won. After a while, no one ripped our signs down any longer.

The guy whom we so well shunned was the son of two members of my church at the time. He didn’t attend except when forced to do so, but his parents were strong members and avid supporters of the youth ministry. They came up to me after the service one Sunday and asked me if I knew what had happened with their son at school. They said that he came home so upset one day that he had refused to go back, that he said everyone hated him and it wasn’t worth it.

I pleaded ignorance, but I knew what had happened.

It was at that moment that I was realized that I was ashamed, deeply, deeply ashamed. Not of the Gospel, but at myself and at my fellow classmates that we would do such a thing in the name of our God. We were trying to stand up for our faith in the one whom we believed was the epitome of love, and in doing so we had shown hate and alienation for those who truly needed to know that love.

The next day I tore my own sign down, for I realized that what it stood for was not love, and therefore was not God.