Tallu Schuyler took close to ten thousand pictures last year, while working in Nicaragua with a number of food security projects. Church World Service and its partner organizations in Nicaragua are supporting small scale farming to help improve nutrition and encourage community development through local markets.

Why did we ask Tallu to hang all those pictures in the sanctuary? Why did we quite literally surround ourselves with images of food and the people who grow, produce, prepare and sell it, people hungry for life as we are?

The exhibit is part of our hunger:360 ministry project. During Lent this year, we take time to approach hunger from as many angles as we can:

• We prepare  and serve food for Nashville’s homeless and working poor.
• We learn about the work of organizations like Second Harvest Food Bank, Mobile Loaves and Fishes, and Church World Service.
• We are reading a book by Sara Miles who argues convincingly that the bread of the Lord’s Table and the food given away in any soup kitchen or food pantry is the same bread.
• We will participate in the CROP Walk to raise money and awareness for the fight against hunger around the block and around the world.
• Next week, we’ll start Mapping the Pantry to visualize where the food in our pantries and refrigerators is coming from.
• Just this morning, we learned what hunger does to human bodies as well as societies.

We fast and pray, we listen and watch, we walk and study and wonder. hunger:360 is a way to approach and address a human experience from as many angles as possible and to grow as followers of Jesus Christ.

Half of the stories Jesus told about the reign of God speak of seeds and farmers, barns and banquets, fields and vineyards, figs and grapes.

Jesus told Peter, “Feed my sheep,” and to his disciples who wanted to send a crowd of people away because they were hungry, he said, “You give them something to eat.”

When Jesus instructed the disciples about prayer, he taught us that we need forgiveness like we need bread, daily. And on the night before he died, he spoke of his body while breaking a loaf of bread and giving it away to those who would betray, forsake, and deny him. We do indeed need forgiveness like we need bread, daily.

This morning, we come to Jesus waving the newspaper, reciting last week’s headlines, parched thirsty and hungry for answers:

Chile Earthquake Aftershocks Cause Panic

Suicide Attacks Kill at Least 32 in Baquba

With Haitian Schools in Ruins, Children Are in Limbo

We get in line behind those who told Jesus about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. They too are hungry for answers, they want Jesus to explain to them the bloody violence in the Temple.

Was it the Galileans’ fault? Did they provoke the Roman guards with anti-Roman slogans? Galileans were known for that kind of thing. Or was it Pilate’s fault? Was he unable to control his own military, or was he himself behind this blasphemous act? Or did they die in this way because somehow they deserved it?

Jesus asked them, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans?” We hunger for meaning, for knowledge or wisdom that makes sense of  the inexplicable. “Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them – do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem?”

Or those hundreds of thousands who were buried in collapsing buildings when the earth quaked under Port-au-Prince and Concepción – do you think that they somehow deserved to die that way—and you, somehow, did not? Do you think that the fact that you are still among the living in a world where lives are cut short daily and violently by droughts and famines, hurricanes and earthquakes, crimes and tyranny – do you think you are alive because you are good and righteous? Do you think you can just step back and explain the world’s brokenness and the tragedies of life with a concept of divine justice that somehow spared you?

No. The answers you crave are found only by turning around. Turning around is another way of saying repentance. Repentance means you begin with yourself.

Let me tell you a story. A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, “See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?”

That’s one way to think about the fruit of righteousness and divine justice; three strikes and you’re cut. You had Moses to teach you. You had the prophets to remind you. You had John the Baptist to warn you: “Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.” You know he wasn’t talking about figs and olives. Plenty of  teaching, of pleading and warning, but no fruit to be found on the tree. Why should it be wasting the soil?

The story could end there. The story could end with the gardener going to the shed to get the ax. But the gardener hasn’t left yet. Standing beside the fruitless tree, or perhaps kneeling beside it in the dirt the gardener says, “Let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good, but if not you can cut it down.” Or perhaps the gardener says, “... but if not you can cut it down – because I won’t”? And the story ends with the gardener going to the shed to get the cultivator. That’s another way to think about the fruit of righteousness and the work of God.

We can pretend that we are spectators looking over the wall into the vineyard and speculating about the fate of that tree, but in truth we are that tree. We long to live lush and fruitful lives, but the soil is hard and dry. The soil is so packed down that the rain cannot penetrate it and the water cannot get to the roots and we remain thirsty and dry, despite our desire and good intentions.

John the Baptist points to the ax to remind us of the urgency of change and taps into our fear to motivate us to action. Jesus reminds us that we are not alone in our hope for fruitful lives by pointing to the gardener who works with dedication and patience to break and soften the soil.

But we got to let the gardener do some digging. We got to let the gardener break the dry soil in which we are trying to grow roots. When an earthquake buries thousands of people in just a few seconds, there is a moment, just before we start stepping back, distancing ourselves to explain or find blame, there is a moment of pain and truth, a moment when we feel just how fragile life is.

We usually run from that moment. We step back and pretend to be observers who can control the chaos by explaining it. Or we jump into a action to get a sense that we have done something to push the chaos back behind boundaries.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing wrong with trying to understand. There’s nothing wrong at all with responding to tragedy with acts of compassion. But we shouldn’t run too quickly from that moment where we know life as vulnerable, threatened, and in question. We shouldn’t run because that moment is a place where we meet the God who knows and bears our pain. That moment is a dry place where the gardener pours out grace to soften the ground. That moment is a holy place where healing water finds its way to our parched roots. It is in that moment that we come to know our real thirst and say, “O God, you are my God, I seek you, my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.”

They say that in the southwestern United States, where the humidity is low, you may be thirsty and not even know it. It can be extremely hot, but your perspiration evaporates so quickly, you don’t even get a wet spot in your arm pit. You are becoming dehydrated and you don’t have a clue. In Grand Canyon National Park they have signs strategically placed along the trails that say, “Stop! Drink water. You are thirsty, whether you realize it or not.” [Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary: Year B, Vol. 2, 2008, p. 74]

Do you find it hard to imagine that you could be thirsty without realizing it? How about getting so settled into routines that keep you busy and distracted that you can’t tell whether it’s your heart and soul that are hungry, or your stomach? We have a hunger for God and a thirst for life, but we get lost in a culture of insatiable appetites and false promises of fullness and fulfillment.

Isaiah asks just the right question, “Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy?” The prophet reminded God’s people in exile and reminds us, that we are people of a different bread, bread not from the Babylonian bakery, but from God’s kitchen.

Isaiah shouts with urgency, inviting any within earshot to God’s banquet, to the feast where all are fed simply because all are hungry.

“Ho, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat! Listen carefully to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in rich food.”

When we listen, we are given a word as delightful as the richest food. And we have a piece of bread placed in our hands, bread that speaks of God’s faithfulness and mercy like nothing we have ever tasted.

In many ways, Lent is a persistent invitation to get to know our real hunger and to eat the bread of life.

Herod Sr.’s claim to Biblical fame was the massacre in and around Bethlehem, when at the time of Jesus’ birth he had all children under the age of two killed (Mt 2:16-18) just to make sure he got rid of a potential contender for his throne, he thought.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Herod Jr. was nervous because of reports that people were flocking to this rabbi from Nazareth. He was nervous because it was said by some that John had been raised from the dead, by others that one of the ancient prophets had arisen. Herod read the briefs by his intelligence people, and all he could say was, “John I beheaded; but who is this about whom I hear such things?” (Lk 9:7-9)

People knew that Herod wanted to see Jesus, but they also knew that his curiosity was dangerous, and some of the Pharisees warned Jesus to get out of Galilee.

There was something about Jesus that attracted the attention of men in power, although there is no sign of Jesus ever having made any overt political threat to the ruling authorities. He had no interest in Herod’s throne or Pilate’s, he didn’t play by the rules of their game, and that may have been what made him such a threat.

He was fearless, and a man who knows no fear cannot be manipulated.

I imagine Jesus laughing dismissively when he replied to their warning, “Go and tell that fox for me, listen, I do what I do, and I finish my work. I must be on my way.”

He called Herod a fox, a metaphor that paints the ruler as sly and cunning, but also several sizes smaller than a lion or a wolf. Only Jesus didn’t portray himself as a lion or a wolf either, nor as an eagle or a hawk. Instead he spoke of a hen gathering her brood under her wings – and fox and hen make an interesting pair.

I find it curious how we identify human traits and intentions with certain animals, and I wonder what fables and stories animals would tell about us if they could – but that’ll have to wait.

Jesus called Herod a fox and compared his own work to a mother hen’s desire to protect her chicks. Don’t call him a chicken, though, unless you know how far a hen is willing to go in order to protect her young from danger. If you haven’t seen The Natural History of the Chicken on PBS yet, I recommend that you do.  After you’ve watched the last ten minutes of that delightful video essay, you’ll never look at chickens the same way again.  In those ten minutes you meet Eliza, a fluffy Silkie Bantam hen, who literally throws herself between a handful of chicks and a hawk, protecting them with her own body.

Like I said, don’t call Jesus a chicken, unless you know how far a hen is willing to go to protect her young from the hawk or the fox.

Jesus did leave Galilee, but he didn’t leave to escape death. He didn’t turn west and spend a couple of weeks on the beach to give Herod a chance to relax or to allow tensions to cool. He was already on the way to Jerusalem where political and religious power resided, and where he knew he would die.

Jesus didn’t choose death, though. He chose to live the life he was given, and that makes a world of difference. He chose to live in God’s reign, he chose to live a life of compassion and truth, he chose to share his life with all, and he refused to trade it in for mere survival in Herod’s little world, or Pilate’s, or Caesar’s, or whatever their names may be who sit on their thrones, afraid to lose their power, afraid to lose control over their little kingdoms.

Jesus was fearless because he knew who he was; he knew in his bones that he was God’s beloved; and he knew that nothing in the universe is more real than the love of God for God’s creation.
When he had the friendly Pharisees tell Herod, “I must be on my way,” it wasn’t geography he was talking about or the pressures of a crowded schedule. He was talking about his faithfulness to God’s way with God’s people, he was talking about fierce, courageous love.

One moment Jesus was laughing at Herod, and then his voice changed from easy defiance to anguished, divine lament.

Jerusalem. Jerusalem! The city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it. How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!

Jesus gave voice to God’s desire, and more than voice. He embodied God’s desire to gather us closer in God’s embrace, and he bore in his body the wounds of our unwillingness, the wounds of our desire to be human without God.

Week of Compassion has been on our minds quite often recently, particularly in the context of our response to the devastation caused by the earthquake in Haiti. Just yesterday, barely more than 24 hours ago, there was news about another earthquake, this one in Chile, causing death and destruction, and terror as far away as Asia. We may not yet know the full scale of devastation, but we do know that our partners have been at work on the ground literally within minutes.

We call it Week of Compassion because this ministry began with a week-long special offering after W.W. II; it was a gesture of courage as well as compassion to reach out to former enemies and find reconciliation by building peace together.

We know it’s more than a week of compassion; it’s a way of being in the world. Courageous compassion is Jesus’ way of being in the world. It is what brought him to Jerusalem. Courageous compassion is one of the names we give to God’s desire to be with us and gather us in.

Through Week of Compassion we have the privilege of embodying that desire, that love that holds all things, in places of great suffering, places that many would call God-forsaken. We have the privilege of being present through search and rescue workers, medical professionals, counselors, civil engineers, pastors and teachers and farmers and the many who follow Jesus on the way to the place where life has been shattered and hope is in short supply.

Jesus lived fearlessly and with extravagant love, and he calls us to follow him, to enter the life of God’s reign. Courageous compassion is not foolishness in the face of danger, but the courage to trust, more than anything else, the love that raised Jesus from the dead.

The psalm for this Sunday is Psalm 27, and a few verses are printed in today’s bulletin.

The Lord is my light and my salvation;
whom then shall I fear?
The Lord is the strength of my life;
of whom then shall I be afraid?
When evildoers assail me to devour my flesh—
my adversaries and foes— they shall stumble and fall.
Though an army should encamp against me,
my heart shall not fear;
though war should rise up against me,
yet I will trust in the Lord.
One thing I have asked of the Lord, one thing I seek:
that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life,
to behold the fair beauty of the Lord, to seek God in the temple.

I cannot say these words without hesitating; they haven’t yet become fully my own. The only way I can say them without feeling like I’m reading somebody else’s prayer journal, is by saying them with Jesus, by listening to him saying them, and repeating after him.

The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear?

Those words are his, and I follow him.

The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom then shall I be afraid?

Those words are his, and I follow him.

Though an army should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear.

Those words are his, and my voice trembles.

Though war should rise up against me, yet I will trust in the Lord.

Those words are his, and I seek shelter in his faith like a chick under the wings of a mother hen.

One thing I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life.

Those words are his, and I follow him to dwell where he dwells.

Jesus is the fearless one who laughs at Herod. Jesus is the compassionate one who cries in anguish over Jerusalem. We are the ones whose desire is to follow him, to serve him and work with him, to pray with him, to rest and be at home with him. And so we repeat and rehearse the lines and the steps, again and again, repeat and rehearse compassionate presence and attentiveness, repeat and rehearse, repeat and rehearse until God’s extravagant love has driven out all fear.

Every day and everywhere, the gift of life is in question in some way.

Every day and everywhere, there is a need for witnesses who will follow Jesus in the struggle against all that threatens, weakens, and corrupts life.

Every day and everywhere, there is a need for courageous compassion in the face of tragedy or injustice.

Every day and everywhere, there is a need for some who practice with Jesus how to laugh at Herod, how to laugh at fear, and how to hold on to a vision of the city that truly is the city of God.

It all began with the lovely fragrance of garlic from the marinade that had infused the turkey. With the magic of heat and olive oil, all the other flavors emerged and blended, sweet and salty, meaty, malty, musty, hot and mmmh. Cooking a meal is alchemy, beautiful magic.

We loaded the food on a truck - a great truck equipped with heated compartments - and then the miracle continued in the streets of Nashville. We had made lunch for men and women who spend the night in shelters and tents, under bridges, or just walking until morning. We had cooked a good meal for people who spend the better part of the day hoping for better days.

There is hunger in Nashville. Food security is a term from the dictionary of bureaucrats. Hunger is a human experience.

There are food deserts in Nashville. And there are people who help us see and understand and address those realities.

Next Sunday, February 28, following the 10:45 worship service, Tallu Schuyler will talk to us about hunger in Nashville. Tallu is the Executive Director of Mobile Loaves and Fishes, a ministry named after a miracle. We will eat lunch together (rice, beans, and cornbread) and we will learn together - statistics, terms, facts, and the human experiences that so easily get lost behind them.

On Saturday, February 27, you have an opportunity to be part of a little kitchen magic. There will be rice, black beans, onions, peppers, garlic, corn meal, eggs, salt, milk, water and fire. Would you like to be part of turning all that into a meal for many? The cooks will meet in the Vine Street kitchen sometime on Saturday. Just complete the form at the bottom of this post.

Before you scroll down: on Friday, February 26, a group will gather at 9am in the kitchen at Woodmont Christian Church's South Hall to prepare lunch for the homeless. Contact Caitlin Dally caitlin.m.dally@vanderbilt.edu or Tallu Schuyler talluschuyler@gmail.com for details.

This is a benefit concert for Week of Compassion to help fund our disaster relief and development work with our partners in Haiti.

There won't be a charge at the door, but generous donations to Week of Compassion will be encouraged. Gabe Dixon, Andra Moran, Mike Lehman, and others generously contribute their gifts of music and song, and they hope to see you there!

A young couple I know just became first-time parents, and their big question is, “Can we do this?” Their little boy is ten days old, and they wonder, “What’s the world going to be like when he graduates from college?” Their big question: “Can we do this?”

At your work, they have closed entire departments because there aren’t enough orders in the book, and your big question is, “Will things turn around or am I next?”

Your friend’s life has been a complete roller coaster and he barely has time to process anything, and for weeks his question has been, “Is it gonna be OK?”

Between parents and teenagers, the big questions famously clash. Dad asks his daughter the mother of all big questions, “What are you going to do with your life?”, while the daughter can’t stop thinking about the cute guy in the cafeteria, and the only big question on her mind is, “How can I get him to notice me?”

Beginning sometime in early childhood, we begin carrying big questions in our minds. Some of them we all have to answer somehow at some point, they are simply part of being human; others are unique chapters of our life stories.

I remember the moment when, as a child, I stumbled upon the question, “Why is there something rather than nothing?” and how frightened I was when I tried to imagine what nothing would be like.

Most days, though, the big question is much closer to home.

Every time Peter and his partners pulled away from the shore in their boats, the big questions was, “Will we catch enough?”

Enough to feed our families? Enough to take some to market? Enough to pay for boat repairs and other capital expenses? Enough to cover Rome’s steep fishery tax that was due whether or not they caught anything?

The big question every day was, “Will there be enough?” and that’s one we all know, isn’t it? Will there be enough to pay the bills? Enough to stay in school? Enough to keep the business open?

It’s not hard at all to see ourselves all in that boat together, pulling away from the shore at the beginning of a work day, or a work week or a month or a fiscal year, wondering, “Will there be enough?” It’s easy for us to see ourselves all in that boat together, returning to the beach after a long day of work with little or nothing to show for it. We stand in the shallow water, washing our nets, wondering how we’ll make ends meet, hoping that tomorrow will be better.

And then Jesus gets into the boat and he asks Peter to put out a little way from the shore. He sits in the boat, he teaches the crowd, and Luke doesn’t tell us a single word of that teaching. We can only assume that he proclaims the good news of the kingdom of God as he did in Capernaum, and back home in Nazareth where they didn’t want to hear him. We can assume that he brings good news to the poor and proclaims the year of the Lord’s favor to the crowd gathered on the beach.

Then Jesus turns to Peter, and Luke makes sure we know exactly what he tells him: “Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch.” And Peter and those with him, after a long night of working tirelessly and catching nothing, trust Jesus and let down the nets and they pull in the biggest catch anybody has every seen, more fish than the nets and the boats can possibly hold.

Imagine the faces of the fishermen, jaws dropped; imagine the faces of the crowd, eyes wide with wonder; imagine the brief, breathless silence and the sudden eruption of shouting, hollering, and clapping on the beach. Imagine the joy when those boats come ashore.

Now you know why Luke didn’t write down a single word of Jesus’ teaching from the boat: because this is the message, this is the good news, this net-breaking, boat-sinking catch is the good news of abundant life for all in the kingdom of God.

Peter knows it. He falls down on the pile of fish, knowing that he is in the presence of God, fearful that the fire of holiness might consume him. “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man,” he stammers. And the Lord replies, “Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people.”

Everything has changed.

“Will there be enough?” no longer is the big question, because there obviously is so much more than enough. What, then, is the big question?

You may be tempted to say to yourself, “Wow, that’s a lot of fish. Should I can it or freeze it? I’ll need to get a bigger boat, or better yet, two; and I need to get some stronger nets as well. More importantly, I need to ask Jesus to mark all the good fishing spots on my map. Perhaps I can interest him in a business partnership? Should I call it Me & Jesus – Deep Water Fishing or Jesus & Me – Daily Catch Fresh from the Sea?”

If that is not the big question, what is?

In the same waters that we have fished all night long without catching anything, waters we thought we knew like the back of our hands, there, right under the surface of our day-to-day work, is an abundance we can barely imagine, and Jesus has the power to bring it out. Jesus has the power to bring it up.

Once you’ve seen that, the only question remaining is, “Where are the people to share this abundance?”

The crowds that came to the lakeshore to see Jesus and to hear him proclaim the good news, got a taste of the kingdom at the all-you-can-eat grilled-fish picnic on the beach; so many people, and not one of them asked if there would be enough.

For Peter and his friends life wasn’t about fish, boats, bills and other daily worries anymore. They left everything and followed Jesus.

Now their big question was, “How do we live in response to the abundance we have found in the presence of Jesus? How do we live so others can taste and see that God is good and the kingdom so very near?”

It is easy for us to see ourselves all in that boat together, worrying about tomorrow after working all night without catching anything. What isn’t so easy for any of us is to realize that Jesus is in the boat with us; he is done talking and he is waiting for us to put out into the deep water and lower our nets, so the people hungry for good news get to taste and see it.

I don’t believe this story is about a miracle that happened on a lake in Galilee in the first half of the first century; it is about a miracle that began then.

Jesus has the power to open our eyes for the abundance of life that God desires for us.

Jesus has the power to change our big questions from anxious worries about ourselves to passionate compassion for others.

Jesus has the power to bring the kingdom of God into the dreariest, most hopeless moment.

But we must be attentive to his presence and guidance. We must be ready to stop telling fish tales from thirty years ago and get our hands wet again. We must be ready to trust him and lower our nets into the deep.

That is what we did in the summer and fall of 2008 when we got into our little boat for what we called The Journey. The big question was, “Who and what is God calling us to be in 2019?”

We listened prayerfully to God and to each other. We responded faithfully. We put out into the deep water and let down our nets, and we pulled up a vision of the future. It is the vision of a vibrant community of believers with a strong mission focus. A community equally at home in our local neighborhood and with our global neighbors around the world. It is a net-breaking, boat-sinking vision so beautiful, we made it into a movie.

Now the big question is, “How do we live in response to the abundance we have found in the presence of Jesus? How do we live so others can taste and see that God is good and the kingdom so very near? How do we live into the vision God has set before us?”

We didn’t quite leave everything to follow Jesus, but we did leave some old ministry models that no longer worked and we went to work with some new ones, particularly in the areas of communication and education.

We kept our attention on the needs of the most vulnerable among our brothers and sisters, and with wisdom and boldness we finished one of our strongest years in outreach giving during the toughest economic period most of us have ever experienced.

If you haven’t read the year-end report from our finance committee, I encourage you to do so. Most of you have already received it in the mail with your year-end giving statement. Go to our website and you will read about moments of kingdom abundance during a period when everybody else was talking about cut backs.

The big question for us as a congregation at the beginning of this year is not, “Will there be enough?”

The big question is, “How will we continue to live into the story God has put before us? How will we continue The Journey as followers of Jesus Christ here in Nashville and around the world?”

You know that our friends on the finance committee know how to worry, but they also know how to build a budget around mission, not fear. You know that our friends on the Official Board know how to worry, but they also know when it’s time to get our hands wet.

It is time to get out of the shallow water and put out into the deep water with boldness and lower our nets trusting the word and promise of Jesus.

It is time to be an Ephesians 3:20 church. Go ahead, write it down, Ephesians 3:20. No need to put it on a big poster and take it to the Super Bowl party or the next ball game. This isn’t for others to see; this is for us to see and remember when the worries creep in. Let’s write it on the covers of our check books. Let’s write it on the agenda of every board meeting. Let’s write it on every committee report and financial statement: Ephesians 3:20

Here is what it says,

“Now to him who by the power at work within us is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen.”

I have nothing to add to that.