Love Bade Me Welcome

February 19, 2012

2012-02-20T10:10:00.000-08:00

Last Sunday of Epiphany: The Transfiguration
Whenever God makes himself known, when God is manifest, someone is entrusted with a mission. And often that manifestation occurs when someone is in the midst of a crisis. And sometimes the divine manifestation comes to someone who seems an unlikely choice to be entrusted with a mission.

Consider an example from the Old Testament, namely Moses. A native of Egypt, raised in Pharaoh’s palace, he is nonetheless of Hebrew stock, and when he sees an Egyptian abusing a Hebrew, he kills the Egyptian and buries his body in the sand. The murder becomes public knowledge, and Moses flees for his life. He makes a new life for himself in the desert. He marries, settles down, and works for his father-in-law as a shepherd. Yet this is existence in exile, far from home. It seems like the other end of the world from Egypt’s regal splendor.

But he is not so far away that God cannot find him. The divine voice calls out to him from a mysterious burning bush. This God of his ancestors goes on to do more than reveal himself to Moses. This is not just God’s manifestation. Moses is entrusted with a mission. He is to go and do something: to liberate God’s people from their slavery.

Consider another Old Testament example. Elijah the prophet is a marked man. His opposition to idolatry and injustice in the midst of spiritual and social confusion has placed him among a persecuted minority. Indeed, it seems to him that he is alone, utterly alone, in standing up for the name of the Lord. And so Elijah the fugitive seeks refuge in a cave. It’s there he spends the night.

And in the deep darkness of that place the Lord calls out to him, and speaks to him in sheer silence. God does more than make himself known to his beleaguered prophet. God does more than console his loyal servant. Elijah does not simply witness a manifestation. He is entrusted with a mission. He is to go and do something: to designate new leadership who will restore authentic religion and true justice. He is to initiate a new and unexpected beginning.

Let us turn our attention now to a New Testament example, one that concerns the disciples of Jesus, especially his inner circle: Peter, James, and John. These followers are experiencing confusion and turmoil. Peter has identified Jesus as the messiah, yet Jesus has made it clear that he’s a different sort of messiah than anyone imagined: rather than the triumphant warrior king they were hoping for, Jesus asserts that he is a messiah destined to suffer. He tells his disciples what awaits him is rejection and execution and resurrection. They find this mighty hard to swallow.

It’s only a few days later that something happens that had never happened before. Jesus and his inner circle are on a mountain top alone. There he is transfigured, and radiates an unearthly light. Leaders from Israel’s ancient past appear with him: Moses and Elijah. A cloud overshadows the entire scene, and from the cloud a voice thunders, identifying Jesus as the Son of the Most High, the one the disciples should hear and heed. Suddenly Moses and Elijah are gone, leaving Jesus alone with his disciples.

There is wondrous manifestation here: the glory of Jesus bursts forth as never before. But is there mission? Yes, in two ways. First, the command from heaven to listen to Jesus. And then, Jesus then charges his disciples to keep what they witnessed a secret until he has risen from the dead. This remarkable event can only be understood in the context of something even more remarkable: the empty tomb and the resurrected Lord. Then the disciples will be let loose to tell the world, to fulfill their mission.

They are to go and do something. Listen to Jesus and then proclaim the full truth of Jesus. And they are to do this not as they choose, but when God would have them do so, when the time is right.

What happened to Moses, to Elijah, and to Peter, James, and John happens to us as well. I don’t mean the burning bush, the sound of sheer silence, or the mountaintop transfiguration. What I mean is the pattern which is apparent in all these incidents.

We find ourselves in trouble, anxiety, confusion, and in the midst of that unwanted experience, God makes himself known in some new, fresh, and unexpected way. But what happens is something more than manifestation. There is also mission. We are to go and do something: not just anything, nor simply what we want, but what God would have us do to serve his good purposes.

There on the mount of Transfiguration, overcome with amazement, Peter is ready to build three shelters--for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah--in order to commemorate this extraordinary event. His plan comes to nothing, and that is just as well, for here too is part of the pattern that can mark our lives.

When we encounter God’s glory, when the Lord is specially manifest to us, perhaps in the midst of trouble, anxiety, and confusion, we cannot rest content with raising memorial shelters, with building a museum, with placing the occasion in the scrapbook of our minds. We are invited to something far larger than this. God entrusts us with a mission.

Our response can be to go and do something: not just anything, not simply what we want, but what God would have us do when God would have us do it. God’s when is as important as God’s what.

Thirty-six years ago this month, Grace Church was officially started as a mission of the Episcopal Church in Arkansas. By God’s grace and through your dedicated work Grace Church was voted to become a full-fledged parish by the Diocesan Convention in Little Rock yesterday afternoon.

God has called us together to be the Episcopal Church in Siloam Springs, to bring the Christian faith in our unique expression to this place and be about God’s mission of building his kingdom here.

Our work together is not finished now that we are a parish, it is just beginning. God is manifest among us as we hear his word and celebrate together Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection in the Eucharist. As we come to this table today, we come as broken people seeking the wholeness only God can give. And God gives us himself, so that we can serve others. We are the embodiment of God’s mission to Siloam Springs, Northwest Arkansas, and the world. Amen.

February 12, 2012

2012-02-13T07:33:00.001-08:00

6 Epiphany Mark 1:40-45

At first hearing, leprosy seems to be the thread of connection between our Old Testament and Gospel lessons. But I think it’s something more universal than leprosy. The first thing that unites these two passages is — desperation. Namaan and the leper in Mark are both desperate to be healed, to be made whole. They’ll do anything to be made whole. Namaan travels miles and spends a lot of money based on the word of a slave girl, all in the hope that some unknown prophet in some far away conquered land might be able to rid him of this disease. It doesn’t happen the way Namaan had in mind, he has to swallow his pride and eat a little crow, but it does happen, he is healed, and he acknowledges the one true God.

Likewise the leper who approaches Jesus risks everything just by getting close. People lived in absolute fear of leprosy and all those who had leprosy. So, if you had a skin disease you were made into an instant outsider. The law in Leviticus was clear: “The person who has the leprous disease shall wear torn clothes and let the hair of his head be disheveled; and he shall cover his upper lip and cry out, ‘Unclean! Unclean!’ And he shall live alone, his dwelling shall be outside the camp.” (Lev. 13:45-46)

So if you had leprosy you lost everything — job, family, place in the community — everything. The leper who approaches Jesus shows his desperation by breaking the law, by coming into the city, and getting close enough to Jesus that he could talk to him. He’s lucky he wasn’t stoned. But Jesus has pity on this poor desperate leper and heals him. Suddenly, the leper’s desperation is turned to joy! Jesus tells him to go and show himself to the priest, to prove that he’s cured, and also, Jesus tells him, don’t talk about this healing with other people. In other words, Jesus didn’t want to be known only as a healer, or worse yet, as a magician. But so overcome with joy is this former leper, that he can’t control himself. He goes and tells everyone. This former leper becomes not just a proclaimer of the good news, he actually becomes the good news. His joy is absolutely infectious and spreads more quickly than any form of leprosy the world has known.

This “joy factor” is another aspect that unites Namaan and the former leper in Mark. But this sense of joy was not just because they had been healed, it was because they had been made whole; they could re-enter the community, they could go home to their families, they could get back to their jobs, they could live life again.

This is where I think we have to be careful to distinguish between healing and wholeness. Lot’s of people are healed from a disease but go back to living the same dead-end lives they were living before they got sick. To be made whole is something else. It is to be changed, it is to be transformed, it is to know that God is at work in your life, it is to be overcome by joy. To be healed can mean a lot of things. But to be made whole is to be enveloped by a peace that passes all understanding, it is to know a joy that bubbles up uncontrollably, it is to know the power of God’s grace in one’s life, and it is to respond with thanks and with gratitude.

So what we really have is a series of contrasts. We have the contrast between those who have leprosy and those who don’t; between a fearful culture and desperate people; between people who long to know wholeness and the one who can make them whole.

In a lot of ways it sounds like our world. We live among lepers. Sometimes we’re the leper and other times we treat others like lepers. And there’s no question we’re all in search of wholeness. If we’re honest we can admit that there are so many different kinds of barriers that separate us human beings, that make us (or somebody else) a leper — fear, mistrust, misunderstanding, anger loneliness, the inability to communicate with each other - to communicate even with those we love the most. In so many ways, we move through life shrouded in desperation. Either we feel like a leper to the world, untouchable and unclean — or we have chosen others to be treated like lepers, untouchable and unclean.

Stereotypes are a form of leprosy that keep people apart. It’s a form of leprosy that we willingly take on because it offers us a safe haven from having to interact with the unknown. It’s just easier to adopt this form of leprosy than it is to risk reaching out and touching or being touched. It’s not until human beings are able to see one another as children of God that we’ll be able to sit down and begin to try and understand one another.

Because it’s not just a matter of being willing to reach out and touch. We can control that. We can control when we reach out and who we touch. More importantly, it’s a matter of being willing to risk being touched, touched by God and changed, transformed, made whole.

Author and poet Maya Angelou, in talking about the history of slavery in this country, says that on many plantations the slaves were not allowed to laugh. There was a rule against it. So when the urge to laugh became uncontrollable, when the urge to laugh became absolutely irrepressible, they had what they called “the laughter barrel.” At the moment when they couldn’t hold it in any longer they would, under the pretext of getting something out of the barrel, lean way down inside and let it all out. They would laugh and laugh and laugh.

Now, Maya Angelou goes on to say that what was behind such a strange rule was — fear. The plantation owners feared that if the slaves were allowed to laugh, they might laugh at the masters. Or, worse yet, the laughter of the slaves might become so infectious that the masters would start laughing with the slaves. And how can you laugh with a person one day and have that person be a slave the next?

What if the church became the modern day version of the laughter barrel. We live in a world that is in many ways hostile. The church should be a safe place, where we can come and wrestle with the tough issues and not be judged, where we can seek the presence and guidance of God’s Spirit, where we can experience wholeness. It’s where we can come and talk about our experiences of grace.

You see, it’s not just about being together in the church, it’s about being the church. Like the leper in Mark, it’s not just about spreading the good news, it’s about being the good news. And this is where we learn to be the good news. This is where we are touched, where our identity and character is formed by God’s Spirit. This is where we practice being authentic persons, genuine vessels of God’s care and compassion.

May Grace Church be God’s gift of a laughter barrel, where lepers are welcomed and made whole.

Amen.

February 5, 2012

2012-02-06T06:56:00.000-08:00

5 Epiphany Mark 1:29-39

God’s plan of salvation is to bring wholeness to our lives. And he wants us to become his agents in bringing wholeness to others, a wholeness that can happen when we serve one another.

Consider today's Gospel. To fully understand the story we need to examine how illness functioned in Jesus’ day. Most people in 1st century Palestine lived very close to the subsistence level. There was no social welfare net, no medicare, no disability or old age pension provision. If you didn’t have some network of friends or family to support you, life could be grim indeed for the sick and the elderly. Another aspect of any low-technology society is that everyone has a job to do. There is very little room in the economy or in the family for non-productive mouths. Everyone has a task that contributes directly to the survival of the family. If you were unable to fulfill your role a large measure of your identity and security was at risk. Finally, the very nature of illness was mysterious and frightening. Many illnesses were thought to be a sign of God’s displeasure and punishment.

So you can see why illness and healing are so much a part of Jesus’ story. Not only was illness frighteningly mysterious and often fatal, but it threatened your place in the community by taking away your task or function; it made you a burden on a community with very little slack; and it carried overtones of God’s anger and punishment. Thus, when Jesus heals he is not merely responding to physical needs but to a whole constellation of social, economic and spiritual concerns.

Jesus healing of Peter's mother-in-law restores her to her proper position in domestic society. The sign of her healing is not simply that her fever vanishes but that she is once again serving those in her home. We mustn't forget that the healing occurs on the Sabbath when no work is permitted -- including the work of healing -- a great irony since the original purpose of Sabbath-keeping is that renewal, restoration and healing of relationships in God would occur as we take our place in the rhythm of God's Sabbath rest.

Jesus disobeys this social-religious norm to heal this woman and by so doing demonstrates his willingness to transform all norms that have become barriers to the fullness of God's purpose being realized in human lives. By disobeying this norm he restores the intent of Sabbath rest to its original purpose to bring life and renewal by dependence upon God's mercy.

He reaches out his hand to touch the woman's feverish hand, surely shocking those present who knew that no woman was permitted to touch a Rabbi. Again, Jesus sets aside the established norm to bring into being that which God intends for every person, life abundant and whole. He heals this woman and restores her to life in community.

Illness brings the condition where you are bounded by yourself alone, collapsed in upon yourself and isolated from others. Illness promotes the condition where your world is yourself only and you are the main preoccupation. Jesus heals this illness by restoring a fullness of life that breaks the bounds of self pre-occupation and opens up a world of love, forgiveness and deep relationships of compassion, mercy and peace.

This story is remarkable in several respects. Certainly it's remarkable that Jesus cures this woman, and does so in a way that allows her to return to normal immediately. But it is also remarkable that Jesus allows this woman to serve him. Rabbis are not allowed to be served at table by women. But Simon's mother-in-law goes ahead and violates this rule. Jesus has set her free, not only from physical illness, but also from social constraint.

The news of her recovery spreads like wildfire. As soon as they can, people from all over town bring their sick relatives to be healed. The house is now surrounded by a surging, moving mass of humanity. Jesus goes out and heals each sick person. But in time, Jesus becomes weary. Once the crowd disperses, he goes off and sleeps for several hours. He's up again before dawn, however, and goes off to spend time in solitary prayer.

This interlude is soon interrupted by the arrival of Simon and his friends.

And what do they want? They want him to stay. There are still many in their town who need healing. These people who confront Jesus sound desperate. But who can blame them? They are pleading on behalf of their sick relatives.

If we listen carefully to Jesus' response, it may surprise us. "Let us go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do." Jesus is saying that he must leave this town. He will perform no further healings here. He will go to some other town instead, and start the process over again.

This decision is in line with what Jesus has come to do. It is not his aim simply to cure people of their diseases, wonderful though that is. He honors physical health as God's gift, but recognizes that God gives even greater gifts.

Jesus wants to heal not just the body, but the whole person. He wants not only to help individuals, but to transform the world. He wants people he heals to go forth and heal others, disrupting in every corner the forces of destruction, and establishing that reality he calls the reign of God.

With one exception, we don't know what happens to the people Jesus heals that day. The one exception is Peter's mother-in-law. She learns from her encounter with Jesus that God wants suffering to come to an end. She learns also that she can serve as an instrument of God's purpose. From Jesus she gains a new power in her life. That power makes her bold enough to overcome constraints. It makes her willing to meet the needs of others.

When he heals her, Jesus says nothing to Simon's mother-in-law. Yet somehow she begins a new life, marked not by conventional servitude, but by transforming freedom, the true liberty of God's children which empowers her to help others because Christ has helped her. She dies to her old, constricted self, and is born again to an abundant life. She becomes a blessing to those around her.

It's as though Christ tells us, "Get up from where you lie sick with fever, and express your gratitude by responding to the needs of the people around you. Let the reality of my compassion extend ever outward, like a stone dropped in still water."

This is the true purpose of healing that Jesus offers then and now -- that you and I and all persons would find a place to serve freely and with gratitude; restored to community and focused upon a larger world than self alone. We are made whole in Christ, in order to be agents of healing in the name of Christ -- proclaiming good news by the way we live with and for others.

Amen.

January 29, 2012

2012-02-01T09:00:00.001-08:00

4 Epiphany Mark 1

Even though I am what the demographers call a “baby boomer,” I was too young to actually participate in the societal upheaval of the 1960’s and early seventies. But I do remember a popular bumper sticker of those days: QUESTION AUTHORITY. You could usually find it on a rainbow painted VW van or on pins on blue denim backpacks on college campuses.

Our Gospel text this morning raises the question of authority? Jesus has just begun his ministry in Capernaum: "And they were astonished at his teaching, for he taught them as one who had authority, and not as the scribes." Why did people sense authority in Jesus' presence? How did they recognize his authority and what was so compelling about it? It was his teaching. "He taught as one who had authority." What is this teaching that so astonished Jesus' hearers?

We don't know. Not a word of Jesus' teaching is recorded in this passage from Mark. Whatever it was that so astonished people was not written down for us to hear. You may rightly protest that Jesus' teaching is remembered in other Gospels. Yet, it is rather odd that in Mark's gospel, where Jesus is called "Teacher" over and over again ~ by disciples, by the crowd, by Pharisees and Herodians ~ very few of Jesus' teachings are recorded. In Mark, there is no Sermon on the Mount as in Matthew. Nor will you find many of Luke's parables. And we will never know what Jesus taught here in Capernaum ~ we only know how he taught: "as one who had authority, and not as the scribes."

That, too, is rather odd. For authority seems to be precisely what the scribes had! They could claim the authority of written words passed down through many generations. They had the authority of tradition from the time of Moses. They had the prestige of religious leadership, the authority of clerical position and power. But somehow Jesus taught with authority surpassing all these claims. Somehow more compelling, more authentic to those who heard him. What sort of authority was this?

We keep listening, hoping Mark's gospel will reveal the answer.

Suddenly, we're interrupted by a mad man. Right in the middle of Jesus’ teaching, we hear a wild voice, disruptive, disjointed, crazy. "What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth?" His shouting drowns out the teacher. "Have you come to destroy us?" Us. We look around. There is only one man shouting. "I know who you are, the Holy One of God."

Jesus comes down from his place of teaching, departing from whatever text he had, and confronts the man, or rather the voice: "Be silent, and come out of him!" And the unclean spirit, crying with a loud voice, came out of the man.

Is that what we're left with then? Evidence that Jesus' authority was recognized by a man with an unclean spirit? Can we trust the witness of unclean spirits who acknowledged Jesus to be the Holy One of God?

We had hoped for something more. Yet, over and over in Mark's gospel it is the demons who know who Jesus is. Those who were crazy called him the Holy One; those who were sane put him to death. And when Jesus died, it was a Roman solider, an outsider, who proclaimed, "Truly this was the Son of God!"

In Mark's gospel Jesus himself is the content of his teaching. The authority is not in particular speeches, but in his particular life. Jesus lived as one who had authority, an authority beyond that of tradition. Different from what had been expected. To understand this authority we must not only listen, we must also look.

We see Jesus eating with tax collectors and sinners; we see Jesus healing on the Sabbath day, silencing the scribes' objection not with an answer but a question: "Is it lawful on the Sabbath day to do good or to do harm, to save a life or to kill?" We see Jesus moved by the feisty faith of a Syrophoenician woman who dared to argue with him for the healing of her daughter. We hear questions as a source of truth. At the end of his life, brought before the council of religious elders and the power of the state, Jesus' authority stands in silence. "And Pilate asked him again, 'Have you no answer to make? See how many charges they bring against you.' But Jesus made no further answer, so that Pilate wondered." Though pushed to get rid of Jesus, Pilate could not get Jesus out of his mind.

Even in silence, Jesus taught as one who had authority. It is this radically different kind of authority which compels us to re-examine what authority means for us, to look carefully at how authority functions, especially within the church. Jesus did not give us a systematic guidebook on authority. But, in Jesus' life, we have seen and heard clues of how his authority was made known in the world. The people in Capernaum were amazed, so that they questioned among themselves: "What is this? A new teaching!"

The authority of Jesus moves us toward inclusion rather than exclusion. More specifically, this authority includes precisely persons who had been excluded before. It is what some theologians call an authority "from below." Those invited into Jesus' circle included tax collectors and sinners, poor widows and prostitutes, little children as models of the reign of God and foreigners as models of faith. We must, therefore, be suspicious of religious authority which moves toward exclusion, whose aim is to keep certain people out by written rule or tradition. We must judge ourselves by Jesus' move toward inclusion.

Jesus' authority also values persons over rules or traditions. We see and hear this person-centered morality at every turn, but most clearly in Jesus' arguments with the religious leaders over the Sabbath laws and other written traditions. "Is it lawful on the Sabbath to save life or to kill?" At another point, Jesus turned to the leaders and said, "You are making void the word of God through your tradition which you hand on." Does Jesus turn to us with the same accusation? In our longing for greater certainty and clearer religious authority, it is often people who suffer. In order to shore up the tradition, we devalue precious human beings created in God’s image. We must judge ourselves by Jesus' insistence on valuing persons more than laws.

We long for things to be clearer; we feel threatened when there seem to be two or more possible right answers. We would rather check "true" or "false". But Jesus stands with us in the midst of our confused lives, promising to be present with us as we struggle together for faithful answers. If we can acknowledge that our human understanding is not the same as God's, we may come to believe that the Spirit which dwelt with Jesus and is with us today will lead us into all truth.

Jesus' authority cannot be contained on a bumper sticker or a button. It cannot be reduced to a slogan or a tract. Nor is Jesus' authority a word to hurl at our opponents. Jesus is the content of his teaching. We must pay attention to his whole life and listen even to his silence. Perhaps then we will stand with the outsider at the foot of the cross and confess, "Truly this is the Son of God."

Amen.

January 22, 2012

2012-01-24T08:17:00.000-08:00

3 Epiphany Mark 1

Maybe there’s a reason why the core of Jesus’ followers were fishermen. Maybe there is something about fishermen that opens them naturally to hearing the good news of God that Jesus proclaims in this passage from Mark.

My Dad liked to fish, but I never had the patience for it as a kid. So most of what I know about fishing and fishermen I learned from books and movies. The literature about those who make their living from the sea reveals that fishermen have a deep acceptance of the conditions of their lives. There is a holy reverence for the power of the weather and the sea. They are keenly observant of the signs of the times. But they accept their frail mortal limits with an almost primitive resignation to the power of nature. Fishermen simply accept the circumstances of their livelihood. Sometimes the fish bite; sometimes they don’t. Sometimes the weather is favorable and sometimes it storms.

There is another characteristic of fishermen that comes through the literature. They are remarkably brave. There is a fearlessness in the whalers of Moby Dick that allows them to cast their lives into the great depths held afloat by mere inches of wood in the midst of powers and unseen monsters who have the potency to make sport of their flimsy defenses.

Acceptance and courage are profound qualities. In fact, according to the writer, J. Neville Ward, they are the corresponding qualities to the two strongest characteristics of a spiritual life. He says that resentments and fears are the strongest blocks to a religious life. (The Following Plough, p. 25) From the beginning, Jesus’ good news is a message of acceptance and trust: "The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near" — look around you and see God’s presence now, do not be resentful; "repent, and believe in the good news" — don’t be afraid, all is well, trust and follow.

Jesus sees these fishermen and tells them they can take their wisdom of the sea onto the dry land, and with acceptance and trust they pick up and follow him. I think I’d want to know a little more about what he had in mind, wouldn’t you?

You see, most of my life is not like a fisherman’s. Most of my life has a bouncing quality to it, like a ping pong ball bouncing between opposing players, but I tend to meet those bounces more with resentment and anxiety than with acceptance and trust. Maybe you do too.

So many of us are trying to get some control over our lives. There is so much happening that things tend to get out of control. But if you work real hard, you can get it shaped up for the most part, at least temporarily, and then you can be happy... for a while. And that’s what consumes most of life. Hoping and working so that you can manage the trick of having things straighten out for you. Then, when you get your head above water and things work out like you hoped — you feel happy. But then you get swamped again and you feel helpless to overcome what’s been dished out. Back and forth - happiness and helplessness. All posited on a need to control and fed by the energy of resentment and fear, or fear’s more civilized expression, anxiety.

I have this fantasy. If I can clear off my desk and do all of those promises that each of those pieces of paper represents, and I can clear all my email, and I can visit with everyone on my prayer list, then everything in the church will be great. Now that’s a little crazy, I know. But what’s crazier, I take that same controlling insanity from my office to my life. "I’m not as happy as I need to be, so I need to change. I’m not functioning as well as I ought, so I need to be improved upon. So if I can just read the right book, adopt the right technique, work on myself a bit, I’ll be able to straighten myself out." Maybe you’ve had similar thoughts. Well that’s some of the craziness Jesus came to save us from with his refreshing word, "Repent."

But — and this is what’s really crazy — most people hear that word "repent" and think Jesus is telling them that they need to work even harder to fix themselves. NO! Look at the fishermen. Jesus said to them quit trying to mend all those nets so nothing falls through the cracks. You’ve already caught on. Just bring your acceptance and your trust and follow me. Everything’s going to work out just fine. We’ll catch people. And they dropped everything and followed him. What freedom.

Christianity really is counter-cultural. You go to school, watch TV, listen to the grownups and here’s what they’ll tell you. If you want to be a good person, if you want to have the good life, then you’ll need to develop self-determination, self-direction, self-identity and self-confidence. That’s the formula for the good life. "I am in control of my self."

But that’s crazy. Who is the "I" that is going to control my "self"? You make your self into a thing, an object to be manipulated. We are not things; we are not objects to be fixed. We are made in the image of God, we are mysteries, we are wonders - we are restless until our hearts find rest in God. Stop mending those nets. Surrender. Repent. Only God can mend your nets.

How do you grab all of the dials and instruments of your life — and life itself — and operate all the controls when you don’t even know who is driving or where you ultimately want to go, except you want everything to be right, whatever that means? Ah, that’s the forbidden fruit, the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. The hunger to be right, to win the argument. But no one has the whole truth in any absolute sense except for God.. We can only glimpse the greatness of God; we can only appreciate God’s wonder as it is reflected in creation. Fishermen know that. That’s why they observe the signs of earth and sky and sea, accept and respect their wonder, and never make the mistake of thinking the fisherman controls the weather. Neville Ward says, "to be united with Christ is to be making progress in seeing life as it is, not as the child within you wishes it to be, and receiving grace to love its real presence." (Ibid, p. 22) Maturity in spiritual life includes our abandonment of absolutism and perfectionism.

That’s a message that can be freeing. You don’t have to know everything. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to fix yourself or your circumstances. Relax. Repent. Change your outlook from one where you think you are in control to one where you simply trust. Stop trying futilely to fix your self. Relax and be who you are. Sure some of your impulses need to be controlled, but that doesn’t mean that you as a person have to be constantly worrying about yourself. Relax and receive life as a gift. Don’t be afraid. Trust. You are in the arms of a loving God. You are a mystery. God loves you extravagantly. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Let God run the world. Relax and do the best you can. Sometimes the fish bite; sometimes they don’t. Sometimes it’s calm; sometimes it’s stormy. "The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news."

Amen

January 8, 2012

2012-01-09T08:34:00.000-08:00

The Baptism of our Lord – Year B

Mark 1

In the deep recesses of your heart and mind who do you listen to? What voices do you hear telling you the truth about yourself?

Each of the four gospels begins the story of Jesus in a different way. Luke tells us about the annunciation to Mary, the birth at Bethlehem, the visit by the shepherds; Matthew tells us about Joseph's dream, the gifts of the Magi, the flight into Egypt.

John's perspective is different from both of these. His vision exceeds the boundaries of space and time as he announces that before anything, God's Word already was. And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth.

But Mark, the first Gospel written, tells us nothing about the birth of Jesus or his early years. Mark chooses to start with the baptism of Jesus. Jesus walks on to the stage of Mark's Gospel a grown man and begins his ministry.

For Mark, the Gospel in a single phrase, is the message Jesus hears when he is baptized by John the Baptist. As he comes out of the water, the heavens are torn apart, a dove descends on him, and a voice fills his ears and the depths of his soul: "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased."

The baptism of Jesus is a profound new beginning for the whole world. It’s not just any baptism. This is nothing less than the creation of the world beginning over again.

We read the creation story from Genesis 1, with God’s spirit moving on the face of the deep to create the world. And we have a like-minded Psalmist celebrating the creative power of Israel’s God—with God’s voice thundering upon the great waters. In today’s Gospel this is the imaginative backdrop we’re given to the Baptism of Jesus. Here the Spirit of God moves again upon the waters, the voice of the Lord thunders out again: ‘you are my beloved son’—Jesus as God’s new creation, Jesus as God’s new beginning for the world God loves. This is the message we’re meant to take from Jesus’ baptism.

God says this about Jesus his son, and he never turns from saying so. God said this through his betrayal, desertion, humiliation, torture, and death. God never takes back these words. They remain unchanging and unchangeable: "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased."

Here's the great mystery of this day, Jesus accepts baptism as an act of solidarity with the entire human race. His baptism is a symbolic act for all the world, there on the banks of the Jordan, God demonstrates what it means for the Word to become flesh.

God for us all. Every last one of us, without regard to age, race, gender, economic status, or anything else. God for us all, down to the best and worst among us. God for us all, and if God is for us, then who dares to be against us?

That's what living the baptismal life is all about. Jesus lived his life for us. And through our baptism we are now called to live our lives for him.

Our baptism into Jesus means we hear the same voice he hears. The same message from heaven speaks to us. God speaks to you as he speaks to Jesus, and says the same thing: "You are my beloved child; with you I am well pleased."

We may think that to be an outrageous, unacceptable statement. After all, who are we to be children with whom God is pleased? But God says this about Jesus and about us - because of Jesus.

Do whatever you have to do to remember this and not forget that God says to you personally: "You are my beloved child; with you I am well pleased."

Better yet, listen for that message. You don't have to be up to your waist in river water to hear this message come at you like a bolt from heaven. Listen carefully to the cracks and crevices in your life, and by God's grace, that message will sound forth. It may come as a whisper, it may come as a shout, and some days it may even seem like a mumble, but that message will be there, because it is a message to you that God does not withdraw or eradicate. What God does is keep saying it, whether or not you choose to listen: "You are my beloved child; with you I am well pleased."

Some people say that Christianity's a matter of believing. There's truth in that. Some people say that Christianity's a matter of doing. There's truth in that. But I want to add another piece, without which all the rest is sure to fall apart. Christianity is also a matter of listening. Listening for the message from heaven. Listening for what Jesus heard at his baptism. Listening for the same message spoken to us day by day in the cracks and crevices of our lives: "You are my beloved child; with you I am well pleased."

Now this listening, baptismal listening, is no easy business. Why? Because there are other voices echoing in the world and echoing in our hearts, voices that don't say the same thing about us, that deny in one way or another our identity as God's children. These are the voices of temptation. They may sound smooth, they may seem respectable, and sometimes nobody argues with them, but they are a lie. Discipleship is more than a matter of belief and practice; it is knowing how to listen, and which voice to listen to.

In a few moments we will renew our baptismal covenant. It is important for us to renew our baptismal covenant, to say "yes" again to the God revealed in Jesus Christ.

When we renew our baptismal vows we are choosing to listen to the right voice, not the wrong ones, and time and again to hear God's constant message: "You are my beloved child; with you I am well pleased."

This is the new world our God creates in the baptism of Jesus, inviting us to take our part in it. All this has been done for us. God’s power of the new creation has claimed us in our baptism and now comes alive for us today in word and sacrament. It is up to us to go from here and be a Church that lives it. We know who we are; we are baptized into a new way of being and we hear God’s voice say, “You are my child, my beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

Amen.

January 1, 2012

2012-01-03T07:41:00.000-08:00

Holy Name Sunday

I used to love to watch a particular television show as actor George Wendt burst through the front door of a neighborhood bar in Boston and heard a chorus of voices join together and shout his character’s name, “Norm!” And then the theme song of that classic TV series begin playing:

Sometimes you want to go

Where everybody knows your name,

and they're always glad you came.

You wanna be where you can see,

our troubles are all the same

You wanna be where everybody knows

Your name.

We all want to be where everybody knows our name and us.

There is power in naming something, or someone. In the Harry Potter series, the most villainous of all villains is often referred to as “he who must not be named.” Even saying the name of Lord Voldemort meant that something bad might befall the speaker. There is, indeed power in naming.

Even as children we are aware of this power. We are frightened by some strange sound or shadow in our rooms and then, when mom or dad comes in and shows us what was casting the shadow or causing the noise – in other words, names the thing – we can obtain control over the thing, or our fear of it. That’s the power of a name.

Luke tells us that on the eighth day after His birth, Mary and Joseph took their newborn son to be circumcised, as is still the requirement for Jewish males. During the liturgy of circumcision, the baby boy is named Jesus.

Throughout the ancient Near East, it has always been thought that names carried with them a description of the person or thing named. People chose names for their children very carefully because the name should describe some aspect of a child’s character or identity. A “good” name would say something about who the parents hoped and prayed their child would become. “Jesus” is a Latinized version of Joshua or Yeshua which, in Hebrew means “God is Salvation,” “God delivers” or “God liberates”. The Angel of the Lord had come to Mary and told her that she would have a son and would name him Jesus. So, God had ordained that this child would be known as God’s salvation, God’s deliverer, God’s liberator.

One of the tenets of Judaism is that the name of God cannot be spoken or written. People cannot possibly know the true identity of God, so they could not possibly name God. The Hebrews wrote God’s name without the vowels (YHWH). There have always been ways for the Hebrews to express that it is God about whom they are speaking. From the time of Creation to the Exodus from Egypt, or at least until the covenant with Abraham, God was referred to as Elohim meaning “strong God,” which was taken from the name of gods in the days when the people had individual household gods, before they became acquainted with the one true God. Later the chosen name to speak became Adonai, which was translated as “Lord,” in English. Lordship may describe one aspect of God’s character, but certainly not all of it.

The world into which Jesus was born knew only a God who was so distant from the people, so apart, so “other worldly,” that God’s name could not even be spoken. This was the same God who spoke with Moses from a burning bush and warned him not to look at God or else Moses would die. Elijah tried to glimpse this same God in gale force winds, earthquake and fire, but could only find God in the still, small voice. This was the same God about whom the prophet Ezra said the people could not lift their faces heavenward because they were not worthy to be seen by God. No wonder the coming ministry of this little child would be such a challenge and such a threat to Jewish authorities. Jesus – God’s salvation – brought not only a name to God, but a face as well.

Look at the Old Testament stories, full of the wonder and might of God. God sent prophet after prophet to the people to teach them how to live and to help return them to God’s path. Nothing worked. Until finally God decided to try a new way.

As St. Paul tells us in this morning’s reading from the letter to the Galatians,

When the fullness of time had come, God sent his Son … so that we might receive adoption as children. And because you are children, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, “Abba! Father!” So you are no longer a slave but a child, and if a child then also an heir, through God.

God decided to approach us in an entirely different way, as one of us.

In the fullness of time, God sent a baby named Jesus – God’s salvation – to take us from being fearful subjects of a distant God, to being children of our Heavenly Father. Jesus came into the world to redeem us from slavery to sin and to show us the face of a loving God. Jesus brought us close to God in a way that had never been experienced before. He did something that could never have been accomplished by a prophet or a teacher or a great religious leader. He made God personal.

Jesus – the name that brings us to the heart of God.

Amen.

December 25, 2011

2011-12-27T06:55:00.001-08:00

Christmas Day

John 1

I have heard it said that the first chapter of John's Gospel has inspired more theological writing than any other chapter of the Bible. John's Gospel begins with powerful words that make us think about who God is and what God is up to in the person of Jesus Christ. They are majestic words – words that echo the creation story in Genesis, "In the beginning...." These are words that speak about eternity and the life of the world and the light of all people. Good words. Strong words. Poetic words. These are words that beckon us to wonder at the mystery of the incarnation.

Take, for example, verse five in today's text: "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it." It is not a simple piece of Scripture. I struggle with these words because they do not say what I want them to say. I want them to declare that when the light comes into the world it obliterates the darkness. It takes the bleak mid-winter with every sadness, every despair, every raw deal, every horrendous tragedy, every evil plan, every god-awful, life-sucking disease, and tosses the whole mess into the cosmic trash bin. I want the light to arrive and to win, and I want it to win big. I want the light to deal with the darkness in a way that is so overwhelming, so completely devastating, that there is no possible way that the darkness can remain.

Instead of total victory, we get something much more "modest" in John's Gospel. The light came into the world, and the darkness did not extinguish it. The darkness was not able to reach over and pinch out the flickering wick of the light. Or, if you prefer the King James translation, "the light shineth in the darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not." Great!? The light came. The darkness looked up and saw it and thought, "Hm, I don't understand what this light-this candle for the world, this hope for all people-is all about. Well, I guess I'll just go back to being the darkness, being that which drags humanity down, that which nibbles at the edges of people's fractured souls, that which sneaks up on people to devastate them when they least expect it."

Now, while I may not like the perspective on the light given by this text, I do have to admit that it strikes me as being true. In the 2,000 years that have unfolded since that night in Bethlehem, can anyone argue that the darkness has diminished? Is there any less pain, any less meanness in the human spirit, any less heartache? If anything, there is more-more suffering, more nastiness, more agony, because there are more people, lots more vulnerable souls for the darkness to damage. In fact, there is so much suffering that it may seem as if the darkness has already won... that its victory is assured.

A seminary student was preparing a lesson plan on the ninth chapter of Isaiah. We read the section last night for the Christmas eve service, "The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness-on them light has shined." When it came time for this student to lead her class through the lesson, she brought them to the darkest room on campus she could find in a basement with no windows. Then she said, "You are people who live in a land of deep darkness." And she turned out the light. A few students gasped. Then it got pretty quiet. She waited. In the hush and in the dark, they sat and waited. After five minutes, five surprisingly long, silent, and absolutely dark minutes, she read the words, "Those who lived in a land of deep darkness-on them light has shined." With those words she struck a match and lit a small candle. Now, as I understand it, by no means did that small candle fill the vast room with light, but all the same it changed things. It changed them radically. With the flickering of the light, people saw themselves, and they saw each other. They saw faces-surprised faces, puzzled faces, and even a couple of faces streaked with tears. For those in deep darkness, a little light made all the difference, all the difference in the world.

"The light shines in the darkness," writes John. Maybe that's the thing. Maybe that's the gospel writer's point. It is not that the light obliterates the darkness; it is simply that the light is there. This is the message of the incarnation-the story behind the story that we will tell each other this day. God enters into the darkness to sit alongside of us. God refuses to dwell in the heavens above and from a safe distance watch the drama of human life play out. Instead, God climbs right into the darkest places to be with us; and in that holy and luminous action, we find reason enough to hope.

"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it." John's Gospel is clear. The darkness is not an illusion. It is there. It is real. We are always and ever in a battle with it. But we are not alone. The blessing of God almighty is solidarity. It is presence. It is the light coming to be with us. It is, as one translation puts it, God pitching his tent to live among us.

It is my heartfelt hope that all of you will experience the deep truth of these words as we celebrate the feast of the nativity. May you be blessed this day and every day of your lives with the light of Christ. May you take comfort in knowing that, whatever dim shadows surround you, God is with you, to bring light to your darkness and the darkness will not overcome it. Amen.

December 24, 2011

2011-12-27T06:54:00.000-08:00

Christmas Eve

The Roman Emperor Augustus ordered a census to be taken throughout the Roman world. And it would not have mattered at all to the emperor had he heard that somewhere, in some obscure outpost of his empire, a little baby had been born and laid in a manger, because there was no room in the Inn. And it probably would not have even mattered to him had he heard tales of heavenly choirs of angels appearing to shepherds in the fields. Oh, he might wonder at the tale, but such matters are of little consequence to the emperor of the Roman Empire, the greatest kingdom the world had ever known, and himself whom the people considered divine.

He might however have sat up and taken notice if he had been able to listen carefully to Luke’s strange account of what happened. For Luke tells us an angel of the Lord appears to the shepherds along with the chorus of angels. And this angel speaks of ‘good news’ and refers to a ‘Savior’ - and the chorus of angels speak of ‘peace on earth’. And if Augustus had heard that, alarm bells would immediately have begun ringing in his head, for he would recognize these terms. And the reason he would recognize them is because these were all terms which were applied to him. In Rome there stood an altar to the ‘peace’ Augustus had brought to the Empire, and cities in parts of the Empire referred to him as ‘Savior’, and his birthday was spoken of as ‘good news’ for the world.

In other words what Luke reports this angel of the Lord saying to the shepherds is deeply subversive. He is using descriptions of the Emperor Augustus and applying them to this little baby in a manger. And so this great company of the heavenly host singing praises to God, ‘Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace among those whom he favors’ - these are not just the first Christmas carolers trying to feel a bit Christmassy. These are heralds of an alternative king come to rival the Emperor of the Roman Empire.

But this new king will be a very different kind of ruler and his kingdom will be quite different from the military conquests that created the Roman Empire and enforce it’s loyalty. This king will use the power of love to rule the hearts of his people and will conquer through the sacrifice of his own life. This king will come in lowly circumstances, born to a peasant girl out of wedlock, with the announcement of his arrival made to other peasants whom the empire regarded with disdain, simple shepherds.

That explains the manger. Why this stress on the manger? The manger is mentioned three times in this passage and that is because it is a secret sign. The shepherds are being sent off to find this rival ruler, this alternative emperor. How are they going to find him? They can’t go around the pubs in Bethlehem asking if anyone has seen the new king, rival to Augustus, who has just been born. Such matters require delicate handling. Such matters require covert signs and signals and codes. God’s rival to the Emperor is slipping in under the empire’s radar, under cover of swaddling clothes and a manger. You’re looking for a stable and a cattle trough, not a castle with a throne room.

You see, this is not some sentimental religious event that has nothing to do with real life. Here, surreptitiously, an alternative ruler is being born with an alternative empire. The Bible calls it his Kingdom and recognition of this alternative ruler does not just impact what you do on Christmas Eve. To recognize this ruler as the messiah, the promised one, is to pledge your loyalty to a different realm of reality where everything changes and life is lived differently. To recognize this ruler is to say, as it did then, that somehow the way that life is lived under rulers and institutions is failing people. If we hope to find meaning for our lives it will not be found in any ultimate way in a political persuasion or position of power or prestige. We will find meaning when we follow the path of that baby born in an out-building where the animals were fed and sheltered and who grew up to give away his life for others. And as we read on in Luke’s Gospel, we discover in greater detail what recognition of this new alternative ruler means, as people are healed and the poor have good news preached to them and outcasts are welcomed.

If only the emperor Augustus had known. Of course sooner or later the empire recognizes the subversive nature of this baby, who grows up to be a different kind of rabbi, who teaches people a different way to live and they get wise to Jesus. Sooner or later they wake up to the threat revealed at his birth. Because when people follow the Prince of Peace, fear of some other Emperor simply doesn’t have a hold on them any longer. So Jesus winds up on the cross and his followers likewise become martyrs rather than deny their Lord. They have a new savior and with that comes a new peace that cannot be taken away.

Tonight he comes to us again, secretly, covertly, this time under cover of bread and wine. And he says, ‘come, join me, join my kingdom of peace and love.’ Amen.

December 18, 2011

2011-12-19T06:56:00.001-08:00

Advent 4

Frederick Buechner writes about our Gospel lesson today:

“She struck the angel Gabriel as hardly old enough to have a child at all, let alone this child, but he’d been entrusted with a message to give her and he gave it. He told her what the child was to be named, and who he was to be, and something about the mystery that was to come upon her. ‘You mustn’t be afraid, Mary,’ he said. And as he said it, he only hoped she wouldn’t notice that beneath the great, golden wings, he himself was trembling with fear to think that the whole future of creation hung now on the answer of a girl.”

The whole future of creation hung now on the answer of a girl. Imagine all the angels gathered around, looking down, holding their collective breath. “What will she say? Will she do it?” Because they all know the way God works is by allowing people freely to answer "yes."

God would never force a “yes” from anyone, would never trick anyone into a response of love, would never make obedience the best choice if people didn’t truly have the option of disobedience as well.

That’s the way God has been from the beginning. God would even allow people to continue in their own disobedience, turn them over to their own ideas of how to make their own way, to find themselves in the prison of their own designs, hit bottom if necessary, if only to give them a firm place from which to say, “Yes, God. Your will be done.”

God respects our freedom – has, since those days way back in the garden. And now it has culminated in this moment, when the angel Gabriel stands before a teen-age girl named Mary as he and all the angelic host wait. Will she do it? Will she say, “Yes”?

We know the answer Mary gave: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord. Let it be with me according to your word.”

Here am I, the servant of the Lord. With this answer, all the heavens rejoice, and the plan is set in motion that would cause a new light to shine in the darkness, new hope, new peace, new freedom. And Mary’s answer gives words for us too. These are words that change everything.

During Advent, we hear about how to prepare for the coming of the Lord, how to become more and more the follower of Christ we are called to be. We hear about Advent’s gifts to us: a time for self-examination, a time for repentance, for turning away from things and ways of life that keep us from drawing close to the God who is always rushing to meet us, whether we acknowledge God’s open arms of love for us and or not. Today’s Advent gift is the gift of commitment, of turning toward God and making the commitment to offer ourselves as no less than the servants of God, to say, along with Mary, our own “yes”: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord.” These are words that change everything.

Mary wasn’t the first to say these words. She stands in a long line of witnesses who have been brave, or adventurous, or grateful, or obedient enough to say to God’s request, “Here am I.”

Noah said, “Here am I,” and God told him to build an Ark and that he would use him to save God’s creation from total destruction.

Abram said, “Here am I,” and God told him to get his wife, pack his things, and go sight unseen to a land God would show him.

And Moses, and David, and Isaiah and Jeremiah, and the rest of the prophets, and so many more. God calls and we have the freedom and the opportunity to say with Mary, the words that change everything, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord.”

And she would give birth to the one who would make service, even service unto death, the way of life. She would give birth to the one, in the words of our Prayer Book, “in whose service is perfect freedom.” The name of Mary’s baby was Jesus. In Hebrew, his name is Yeshua, which means, God saves or more literally God liberates. God brings freedom.

When we are willing to serve God and do what God asks of us, to be the people God has called us to be, God liberates us from slavery to ourselves. When we can stop asking, “What’s in it for me? How does this help me? What can I get out of it? What have you done for me lately?” then we will know freedom.

When we are freed from all attempts to be self-important and self-serving, we can be truly free – free for service, for purpose, for meaning.

When we present ourselves as God’s servants and are open to hearing what it is God asks of us, we will take our places in a long line of faithful people who have done just that. Then we will find ourselves set free to perform both small acts of care and compassion and large ones. We will be made available for the adventures God has in store for us, for the work God needs us to do, and the work God has designed us, uniquely, to do. We will be free to be who God has created us to be, the loving bearers of God’s Son, in a way different yet similar to Mary. No, not in a physical giving birth way, but in a no less real, but spiritual way. In the same way we say that Christ is really, and spiritually present in the bread and wine in the Eucharist, so Christ is really and spiritually present in each of us as we say, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord.”

That’s the beauty of it. Even though you may never have thought about what God is asking of you, it doesn’t mean that God hasn’t been preparing you. Or that God doesn’t need you, and you in particular.

Mary has already taken care of giving birth to the Divine Word Incarnate, so God isn’t asking you to take that on. But don’t think the angels aren’t all holding their breath to hear your answer when God approaches you with a task. And don’t think, just because you can’t hear it, that all the heavenly hosts aren’t singing, “Alleluia!” when you freely say “yes.”

The Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, challenges us: "How can anyone carry God, bring God to birth in the world? How can you carry the cup without spilling it? But what if the cup is no fragile container but a deep well that can never run dry? Then you know it isn’t just your resource, your decision, but God’s insistent generosity, carrying you as you carry God."

Either way, you don’t need to find new words. These will do: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord.”

Amen.

December 4, 2011

2011-12-05T08:42:00.001-08:00

Advent 2B

The writer Margaret Visser believes that North American society is slipping from a belief in freedom to a belief in fate. For some, this belief in fate appears in fortune telling or astrology or use of a lucky number to play the lottery. For others, it is the belief that our DNA determines everything about us, that we are doomed by our genetic inheritance.

Visser reminds us that Christianity overcame the belief in fate that hung like a dark shadow over the ancient Mediterranean world. She recognizes that Christianity triumphs over fate.

Christianity also dismisses the belief that salvation comes by acquisition, that whoever dies with the most toys wins. Sharing with others and serving others has characterized Christianity from the first, and casts suspicion on every form of selfishness. What's more important than possessions are those things that cannot be bought -- those things that make us who are -- things such as love, hope, faith, mercy, and loyalty.

We are not saved by what we acquire. Yet our society challenges this view every day, especially during the holiday shopping season. Messages come at us that if we get or give this or that, then the deepest longings of the heart will be satisfied. Salvation by acquisition is a popular religion.

Mark's Gospel says nothing about the birth or early days of Jesus. He does not begin with a babe in the manger, but with a word of prophecy, one that addresses both fate and salvation by acquisition.

Consider the scene. Prophecy has been silent in Israel for centuries. Now there steps on the stage a figure who dresses and eats like a prophet, who dwells in the desert like a prophet, and most importantly, speaks like a prophet. He proclaims a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.

Mark reports this to us as the beginning of the good news about Jesus Christ. The opportunity for repentance is good news for us, because it strikes out against two misleading beliefs. The first misleading belief is that our lives are controlled by fate. The second is that salvation occurs through acquisition.

A call to repentance implies that we can repent, that we can take a path different from our present one. Thus fate does not determine our lives. We enjoy a certain degree of freedom, and this is good news.

A call to repentance also implies that we are saved, not by acquiring stuff, but by emptying ourselves of whatever crowds out God. What matters is opening ourselves to God. God wants a place in our lives, and that is good news.

Mark's announcement is part of the Biblical world view that says change can happen. We are not doomed to repeat old cycles.

Time is not simply circular, it is also linear, because God does new and wonderful things. He creates the world, calls Abraham away from home, delivers Israel from Egypt, and promises that someone special is on the way. God keeps doing new and wonderful things and each one brings God's purposes that much closer to fulfillment.

It is from the biblical account of divine intervention that Western society derives much of its notion of hope, of progress, of learning and enlightenment and discovery. When we expect progress in human rights, or look for the next generation to have it better than we do, or imagine that a cure for AIDS or cancer will be found, then we participate in this belief, rooted in Scripture that real change can and does occur.

Centuries after the last prophet has fallen silent, someone comes announcing to Israel once again that change can happen, that repentance is possible, that God is doing something new and unexpected? This is John the Baptist.

The son of a priestly family, he is not content to remain in villages or towns or the holy city of Jerusalem.

Instead, he moves out into the desert, engaging traditions in Israel older than the temple. He is a new version of the prophet Elijah who made the wilderness his home. The people of Israel traveled through the wilderness: God led them for years with a cloudy column by day and a fiery column by night. The wilderness is wondrously free of all that complicates life; it is the place for new beginnings.

John announces that change can happen, that repentance is possible, that God is doing something new, something unexpected.

John's message invites us to become wilderness people in our time. We do not have to imitate his diet, his clothing, or his place of residence. We become wilderness people when we live outside the destructive myths of our society, when we recognize we are not controlled by fate, when we no longer seek salvation by acquisition. All this makes us wilderness people, God’s people.

John announces repentance is possible.

John asserts that change can happen.

    John shouts that God does the unexpected.

John announces the possibility of repentance. Repentance. That's our word in English. Repentance is what we do to acknowledge the mess we've made, with the recognition that we may make this mess again.

Repentance, our English word, needs to give way to the original Greek of the Gospel. It is metanoia. This word metanoia means “changing your mind,” seeing the world differently. Metanoia is a word suited for wilderness people.

The contemporary writer Scott Cairns has written a poem about metanoia which concludes with these lines:

    "The heart's metanoia,     on the other hand, turns     without regret, turns not     so much away, as toward,

    as if the slow pilgrim     has been surprised to find     that sin is not so bad     as it is a waste of time."

We know we have become wilderness people, God’s people, when what happens inside us is a turn to something new that God is doing. When we recognize sin as simply a waste of time, where we can see that fate is not inevitable and acquiring things cannot make us happy. What the open wilderness that spreads before us promises instead is heart-pounding freedom as we run towards God's embrace and find our true home.

Amen.

November 27, 2011

2011-11-28T10:11:00.000-08:00

Advent 1B

In less than a week, Jesus will be dead. Jesus' earthly life is about to end, and he's talking with his disciples about the future. Jesus speaks of wars and rumors of wars, knowing he will soon be gone. And in the midst of this, he offers a word of hope.

We begin Advent with this text about the end of the world. It isn't what we'd expect, but it does tell us something about the curious position that we find ourselves in, looking back to the birth of our Lord, and forward to his coming again.

From the beginning, the church has believed that there will be a fulfillment of history, with the return of Jesus. Here, Mark gives us a glimpse of what that return will look like, and at first glance, the future looks bleak. Nations will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be earthquakes and famine, and "suffering such has not been since the beginning of creation." And after that suffering, "the sun will be darkened and the moon will not give its light." The stars will fall and the very powers of heaven itself will be shaken. Not a very comforting image.

This is Advent, and yet, even as we prepare to celebrate what is one of the happiest times of the year, we know that we live in a world of great suffering. It often seems as if the sun refuses to shine, and the moon gives no light.

In Mark's day, people knew suffering as well. When this gospel was written Christians alike were likely being put to death for their faith. This was a description of his world. It's also the world into which Jesus was born, and it's also our world. The Prince of Peace has come into the world and still there are people all over the world who know only war, suffering, or loneliness. What difference does it make to proclaim the coming of Christ when the sun seems darkened and the stars have fallen?

And yet—when we proclaim the coming of Christ, we proclaim it as good news for this suffering world, and we do that with integrity precisely because we know that there are two halves to the story – his first coming as a baby born in a manger and the other half in what Mark is telling us in this passage. That's why we read this text at Advent. At the same time that we look back upon Jesus' birth, we also look forward to his return. Even in a world as harsh as ours, we celebrate, because we know the past and we know the future.

And what is our future? Jesus tells us with a parable. How will we know when the time is at hand? "Look at the fig tree and all the trees; as soon as they sprout leaves, you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near." In contrast to the dismal description of the present, Jesus offers an image of the future, of the Kingdom of God, as one of tenderness and life. When the budding tree puts forth new signs of life, then we know that the harsh winter is over and summer is near, and when we see these new signs of life amid the death that is our present reality, then we know that he is near, even at the very gates. Just when it looks like the powers of heaven itself are shaken, Christ will return. What was begun in his life here on earth will finally be established once and for all. And that's where our hope lies. We hope not only in the coming of one who will judge this world and set it right, but in the fact that the one who is coming, is the one we already know, the one whose birth we celebrate. The one who is coming is the one whose ministry was to the poor, whose mission was to proclaim release to the captives, and who loves us and gave his life for us. If we want to know what the future will be like, look to the life of Jesus.

Even as we look forward to celebrating our Lord’s birth, the future is breaking in all around us. As the church we maintain a kind of in-between position, to stand with one foot in the present and one in the future. Always looking forward to that coming day, we work now to create a community that foreshadows what the whole world will be like when Jesus returns—a community where people love each other and forgive each other and bear one another's burdens. A community that says to the world, "This is the way it can be! This is the way that God intends it. And, we believe, this is the way it will be one day." As followers of Jesus, we assume the mission of Jesus, the mission started in his lifetime and that will reach consummation at his return. Far from just passively waiting for God to affect justice, we work for justice, even knowing that our efforts will not be completely successful until Justice himself returns and is established forever. It's a paradox, but it's the delicate balance we maintain, proclaiming to a world at war that the Prince of Peace has come, and will come again. It's the hope we maintain in the face of everything in the world that seems hopeless.

Elie Wiesel, in his famous book, Night, describes his experience as a prisoner of the Nazis. He was imprisoned as a boy of thirteen, with his father, having been separated from his mother and sisters. It was 1944, and the death camps that were still relatively unknown to the world nevertheless were fully active. Wiesel's description of the torture and death that were the daily experience of the imprisoned Jews explains the title of his book. Even the train ride to the camp was agonizing and of his arrival he writes. "Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, which has turned my life into one long night, seven times cursed and seven times sealed. Never shall I forget that smoke. Never shall I forget the little faces of the children, whose bodies I saw turned into the wreaths of smoke beneath a silent blue sky."

That was only the beginning for Wiesel, and the others with him. The daily selection meant some chosen to live and others to die, marched to their own deaths in the crematoriums. And in the midst of all this, Wiesel describes the observance of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. "[As night fell,] surrounded by the electrified barbed wire, thousands of silent Jews gathered, their faces stricken.... The voice of the officiant had just made itself heard. I thought at first it was the wind. 'Blessed be the Name of the Eternal!' Thousands of voices repeated the benediction; thousands of men prostrated themselves like trees before a tempest. 'Blessed be the Name of the Eternal!’... I heard the voice of the officiant rising up, powerful yet at the same time broken, amid the tears, sobs, the sighs of the whole congregation: 'All the earth and the Universe are God's’" Though Wiesel was no longer able to pray himself, his praying voice silenced by the sight of death, all around him people prayed to God for their deliverance and the deliverance of their people. The Rosh Hashana service ended with the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead, which they prayed for parents, for brothers and sisters, for their children and for themselves. Standing at the gates of hell, they prayed to God in heaven, and even as they walked to their deaths, they looked to the future and found hope. Though night surrounded them, still they looked forward to the dawn of the Lord's day, and maintained their hope that the God who had delivered them from the Babylonians would deliver them once again. Their story provides a powerful witness to the hope of God's promises, even in the face of death. They did not deny the terror all around them, they hoped in spite of it. With their feet planted firmly in the present, their sights were just as firmly set on the future.

And so we start the Advent season by looking forward to the future. As we begin to tell the story of Jesus' birth, we know that it's only half the story. As the church of Jesus Christ, the one whose birth we remember, we see the difference between the world as it is and the world as it can be, as it will be. When we look around us, we may see only pain and heartache, but when we look ahead, we see Christ, and even in our worst moments, we as the church, declare that hope, so that in our best moments, we may help the world to have hope. The Messiah has come. Even so, Lord Jesus, come.

November 20, 2011

2011-11-21T18:03:00.000-08:00

Christ the King Sunday

Matthew 25:31-46

On this final Sunday of the church year, the feast of Christ the King, our Gospel looks to the future, and paints a picture of how it will be when Christ returns in glory. But first we hear from Ezekiel, prophet of the exile, who announces God’s judgment on Israel’s kings. They have failed in their stewardship. Called to be shepherds of the people, they have abused their privileges and misused their power so that the people have become scattered and lost, broken and exiled. Yet, God has not abandoned the people. God will come to be the people’s shepherd. God will seek them out, gather them up, bind their wounds and lead them to good and abundant pasture. Then God will give them another servant-king. Like the king Israel knew in its days of glory, another David is promised to lead God’s people into God’s reign of justice, abundance, and peace. In these words from Ezekiel, the exiled people of Israel are not only promised release and restoration to their homeland, but a messianic hope in which the people of God begin looking for the day when God gives them this once and future king.

Jesus, in Jerusalem during the days following his triumphal entry, has been teaching about this once and coming king. Using images of a householder, a delayed bridegroom and a master who has gone away on a trip leaving his property in the stewardship of his servants, Jesus urges the people to be prepared for a sudden and unexpected arrival. In today’s lesson he uses yet another image, the Son of Man, who comes without warning, at an unknown hour, following a long delay. But upon his arrival he becomes more than the Son of Man. Upon his arrival he is installed as King and judge of the people.

His judgment, both swift and sure, is based, not on how long or fervently the people have waited for him, nor on how well or fully they recognize him at his coming, and certainly not on the fact that they acknowledge him or call him Lord. The basis for judgment is virtually the same as the one God announced in his judgment on the kings of Israel—have they attended to the needs of "the least of these" among them? In the context of the lessons for the last three weeks, have they remained prepared, have they stayed awake? Has their oil of preparation lasted? Have they invested their talents in the master’s work? Have they attended to the needs of the lost, the lonely, the naked, the sick and the hungry?

The once and future king separates the people—not just Israel, but all the nations—into two groups. To the right, the sheep, to the left the goats. Using the bias of the day, the sheep are declared righteous the goats unrighteous. Those on the right he invites to inherit the kingdom prepared for them from the foundation of the world, while those on the left are consigned to the fire prepared for the Devil and his angels.

Jesus’ words are startling on several levels. First, there is nothing here about a confession of faith. In fact, many of those standing on the left who have called him "Lord" he says he never knew. To make matters even more disconcerting, many of those on the right are themselves confused at being there. "Lord, " they ask, "when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? When was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? When was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?" He responds, "As you did it to the least of these, you did it to me." In God’s reign, not only is the king first and foremost a shepherd of the people, but any form of service to another in need is service to the King himself. Consequently, one can serve the king without knowing it. One can serve the king without knowing his name. Any act of righteousness is service to his reign. But there is yet another warning in this lesson. It is possible to know about Jesus, believe in Jesus, have a personal relationship with Jesus, even call him Lord, and not serve him. Some have not known him but served him while others have known him but not served him. The point, of course, is both to know him and serve him, to call him Lord and make him Lord of life.

The very heart of the gospel is not only knowing that in Jesus, God has come among us as the once and future king, but discovering that as you and I live our lives in relationship with him, as we seek to be his faithful disciples in both word and deed, we are empowered to do so. As we share the good news of his sacrificial love and life, he becomes present in us to bind up the wounds of the broken, to gather in all who are wandering or lost, to feed the hungry, house the homeless and to visit the sick and those in prison. In our acts of faithful discipleship, the once and future king is present now.

This is the hope to which you and I are called in our every day lives. You and I are not only clothed in Christ, we bear him to others each time we reach out to touch them in their need so that our touch becomes his touch. We quite literally bear his power and share it in every act of discipleship, whether that is helping to serve a meal to those who are living on the streets, sharing our clothing with those who will be cold this year, whether becoming an angel to children whose parents are incarcerated, or visiting someone who is lonely and shut in. You serve and bear Christ when, during your grocery shopping, you put something in the Salvation Army bucket. You do it when you invite a friend to join us for worship, or when you turn to one another and offer the peace of Christ, or when you offer a word of encouragement or a prayer for someone in need. In each of those moments, the power of God is released through you, and another is touched by the once and future king.

There is a lot of talk these days about the uncertainty of the economy and the political instability of our world. But there is no deficit of the one resource we absolutely must have to be the church in this place—the love of God. The immeasurable greatness of God’s power was demonstrated in the greatest act of love on the cross, the power by which God raised Jesus from the dead and seated him at his right hand, is here for us as well. But that power only becomes manifest in us as we become the body of Christ for the world. As we do, the once and future king is present to seek and to save, to heal and make whole, to rescue and redeem, to make all of us whole and prepare us for the inheritance reserved for us from the foundation of the world. As that happens, you and I not only know him, we serve him, and in that service, become more and more like him.

You see, this is about much more than simply visiting a jail, handing out a Thanksgiving basket to the needy, or throwing a Christmas party for children whose parents are in jail. This is about much more than where you will stand—to the right or to the left—on judgment day. This is about living into the saving power of God in your own life right now so that it fills not only your life, but the lives of those around you. And in doing so, you are serving Christ the King.

Amen.

November 13, 2011

2011-11-14T09:04:00.000-08:00

22^nd Week after Pentecost

Matthew 25:14-30

What God requires of us is not success, but faithfulness.

The Gospel we just heard is known as the Parable of the Talents. That word "talent" has a double meaning. Its original meaning refers to a huge sum of money. In the ancient world, a talent was worth what an ordinary laborer earned over the course of fifteen years. Thus, giving each of his servants one or more talents, the master in this story is entrusting them with a fortune.

The second meaning of the word "talent" results from one interpretation of this story. As the master entrusts his servants with talents, so God entrusts each of us with abilities. Talent has thus come to mean ability or skill. We say that someone has a talent for music or cooking or business.

But the Parable of the Talents isn’t really about money or ability. It’s about something even more important. The Parable of the Talents is about trust.

The story opens with an act of trust. The master is about to leave town on a journey. He entrusts his wealth to three servants. Each is given a different sum of money. Yet each is given a big amount -- one talent or two or five. It’s clear that the master trusts each of his servants. He even hands over the money without any instructions.

After a long time, the master returns and calls in his three servants. Two of them have doubled his money. The third has made nothing at all; he returns to his master exactly what he received. It turns out that this servant had simply buried the money in the ground, a common security measure in ancient times. He reveals the reason for his action: he was afraid of his master.

His trust in his master was zero, so he reduced his financial risk to zero. Yet he reduced the possibility of profit to zero as well.

The story leaves us with an unanswered question. How would the master have responded to the first two servants if they had not brought in a profit? What if they had put the money at risk and come back empty-handed?

I think the master would have accepted them. After all, in the parable what he commends is not their profits, but their faithfulness. He does not commend the servant who produced five talents more than the one who produced two. Each receives the same commendation: "Well done, good and trustworthy servant." Each receives the same invitation: "You have been trustworthy in a few things, I will put you in charge of many things; enter into the joy of your master."

And in responding to the third servant, the master makes it clear that he would have accepted anything -- even rock-bottom savings account interest -- that was motivated by faith rather than fear.

It’s notable that the servant who is given five talents makes five talents more, and the one who receives two makes two more. It’s not the cleverness of the servants that produces results so much as their willingness to act out of trust.

Again, the parable is not about money or ability so much as it is about trust. The master trusts his servants and acts on this trust. The servants -- or rather two of them -- return the favor by acting out of trust rather than fear, and they come back to their master with one fortune stacked on top of another.

The third servant paints an ugly picture of a grasping master who demands success. What this servant gets for his trouble is exactly the rejection he fears. He’s a small-minded man who insists that his master is just as small-minded.

The other two servants, however, recognize generosity when they see it. The piles of money thrust their way reveal a guy who’s pretty generous, who takes a risk, who accepts them, even honors them. Finding themselves at the receiving end of such outrageous trust, they feel empowered, and are willing to take risks of their own. The love their master has shown them overcomes their fear of failure. They realize that any master who treats his money managers in this open-handed way is more interested in them than in turning a profit.

This brief story about a master and his three servants turns upside down the standards of the world. It announces that the worst thing that can happen to us is not failure. The worst thing that can happen is that we make God out to be an evil task-master who rejects us when we fail.

The story tells us that the worst thing is not losing out. The worst thing is never risking. In the eyes of God, the fear that keeps a treasure in the ground is an act of atheism. The freedom that puts that treasure at risk -- and may even result in its loss -- that is an act of faith.

We can learn from our failures, and often it is failure that provides the most important lessons. But fear alienates us from God and the life he offers.

The gospel stage is crowded with people who are there to shock us into the recognition that not trusting God leads to an unfulfilled life. There's the snide elder brother who refuses to welcome home the prodigal son. The all-day workers who demand that late arrivals receive less than the daily wage. The Pharisee who tries to talk God into accepting him because he’s kept the rules, not because God is merciful. All these live in a dark, fearful world, where grace is absent and slackers get thrown to the wolves.

We understand these people because we too have a tendency to bury our talent out of fear. We’re made anxious by the God we perceive to be an ogre. We know what it's like to misperceive and mistrust God.

What if the true, living, and only God has no interest in keeping score? What if God’s concern is simply that we all get up and take a turn at bat?

The Good News of Jesus gives new meaning to success and security. Success is found, not in accumulating more than we can ever use, but in our willingness to risk in response to God’s invitation. Security is found, not in keeping pace with our rising paranoia, but in the utterly reliable God who trusts us before we trust ourselves, who risks, and asks that we risk also.

The French scientist and theologian Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, in his best-known book, The Divine Milieu, writes this:

"God obviously has no need of the products of your busy activity since he could give himself everything without you. The only thing that concerns him, the only thing that he desires intensely, is your faithful use of your freedom and the preference you accord him over the things around you… The whole question is whether you have learned how to obey and how to love."

The Parable of the Talents is not really about money or abilities. It’s a story about trust, a story about risk. Life is the same way. What's important is not money or abilities in themselves, but our decision to use them in ways that show our willingness to risk and to trust in God. The central question about life is not "What did we accomplish?" but whether we learned to trust, whether we learned to love.

Amen.

November 6, 2011

2011-11-07T06:56:00.000-08:00

All Saints Sunday
Matthew 5:1-12

How would you finish this sentence: "I will be happy when...."

–– I will be happy when I grow up and move away from home.

–– I will be happy when I don't have to go to school.

–– I will be happy when I fall in love.

–– I will be happy when I can buy a new car.

–– I will be happy when I get a new job.

–– I will be happy when I retire.

–– I will be happy –– when they lay me to rest.

When will you be happy? What will it take?

Jesus challenges our vocabulary of happiness with a vocabulary of blessedness - Jesus says, "Blessed are the poor in spirit..." although some translations do use the word happy, blessed is more accurate. Jesus has something different in mind than what we typically call happiness –– something that goes deeper –– something that seems strange when we first hear it. He says:

–– "Blessed are the poor in spirit....

–– "Blessed are those who mourn....

–– "Blessed are the meek....

–– "Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness....

This is not life as we know it. Life says something more like this:

--Blessed are those who have more than I do because their stuff would make me happy.

–– Blessed are the strong, because they can take what they want.

–– Blessed are winners, because it is no fun to be a loser.

–– Blessed are those who hunger and thirst at the best restaurants, because they will be pampered and filled.

But Jesus says, "Blessed are the poor in spirit...."

He gives us a total of nine beatitudes, but I’m only going to deal with the first, "Blessed are the poor in spirit...." The first beatitude is foundational to all of the others. If you are in synch with the first beatitude, you will be in synch with all of them. If you are out of synch with it, you will be out of synch with all.

Jesus says, "Blessed are the poor in spirit...."

The Greek word that is translated "poor" means abject poverty, not being what we think of as poor. True poverty is a cruel thing. It breaks people. They suffer. Confronted daily with their own helplessness, they know the difference that even a small act of mercy can make. They watch eagerly for a gesture or a glance that might promise help. They long for a bit of kindness. They crave a bit of dignity.

Standing before God, the poor in spirit are like that. They bring nothing in their hands that God needs –– and nothing in their hearts that compels God to accept them other than their humility.

–– They come in their poverty hoping for sustenance.

–– They come in their brokenness hoping to be mended.

–– They come in their sin hoping to be forgiven.

–– They come in their grief hoping to be comforted.

–– They come in their illness, hoping to be healed.

–– They do not come bargaining with God, because they have nothing to offer.

–– It is precisely their humility –– their openness –– that makes them fertile soil to receive God's blessings.

And so Jesus says, "Blessed are the poor in spirit...." Blessed are those who come to God on their knees.

That isn't our preferred mode of travel –– on our knees. We prefer to be in control. We prefer to pay for what we get. We prefer not to be in anyone's debt. We prefer to walk up and lay cash on the barrelhead.

But Jesus says, "Blessed are the poor in spirit...."

We fight hard not to be poor in spirit. We work as hard as we can –– and do the best that we can. We try desperately to be in control of our lives.

But Jesus says, "Blessed are the poor in spirit...."

Our best efforts leave us exhausted.

We are exhausted, in part, because we are not poor in spirit. We are proud –– so desperate to be in control –– so desperate to do it our way. And so we spend so much energy on trivial things.

Jesus says, "Blessed are the poor in spirit...."

Henri Nouwen, the Catholic priest and spiritual writer once met Mother Teresa in Rome. He said that the first thing he noticed about her was her constant focus on Jesus. People were asking questions, and she was answering in a way that reflected her total focus on Jesus. Her answers sounded, at first glance, simplistic and naïve. But Nouwen sensed, not only her own personal strength, but also the subtle power of her answers.

When Nouwen finally had the opportunity to speak with Mother Teresa in private, he told her of his problems. He spoke of his struggles. He asked her advice. She answered simply, "If you spend one hour a day in contemplative prayer and never do anything which you know is wrong, you will be all right."

It sounds simplistic, but is really profound. "If you spend one hour a day in contemplative prayer and never do anything which you know is wrong, you will be all right."

Nouwen says, "With these words she answered none –– as well as all –– of my problems at the same time. It was now up to me to be willing to move to the place where that answer could be heard."

"Blessed are the poor in spirit...."

The meaning of this first beatitude –– and of all the beatitudes –– is that God blesses us when we come to God with empty hands –– bowing before the throne of grace –– ready to receive whatever blessing that God chooses to give us –– ready to follow in whatever path God chooses to lead us.

The promise is this. "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." Notice that Jesus does not say, "theirs will be the kingdom of heaven." He says, "theirs is the kingdom of heaven." We do not have to wait for the kingdom. Jesus says that it has come near. We can enter it now.

I am tempted to conclude by saying, "Be poor in spirit so that you will receive God's blessing" –– but that isn't what Jesus says. Jesus doesn't issue an order but, instead, gives a blessing. He promises that, when our need is greatest, there we will find God –– and there we will find blessing.

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."

October 23, 2011

2011-10-24T08:33:00.001-07:00

19^th Sunday after Pentecost (Matthew 22:34-46)

"Now when the Pharisees heard that Jesus had silenced the Sadducees they gathered together and one of them, a lawyer, asked him a question to test him."

When Matthew says that one of them asked Jesus a question to "test" him he uses a word that means something more like "tempt," or "trap," or "trip up." It is a verb whose only other subject in this gospel is Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness by the devil.

We have learned from Matthew not to like the Pharisees, but today I want to take a more sympathetic view of the Pharisees because I know there’s some Pharisee in me…and maybe in you, as well.

The name Pharisee comes from a Hebrew word that means "to separate." They separated themselves from anything unclean or impure. Their motto was taken from the Levitical law, "You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy.” The fact that they believed in the resurrection of the body is important because one day they would stand before God and have to give account of their lives. You wouldn’t want to say that you had frittered your life away on anything trivial. You would want to say that you had spent your life on the most important thing in the world. And for the Pharisees that was following the law.

This is where our story begins to intersect with theirs, because even though we may not be committed to the Jewish holiness code, we do try to spend our lives on what we judge to be important. And what we judge to be important we think other people should think important.

Whatever cause you feel passionate about, you and I tend to judge others for good or bad based on that passion – all kinds of issues and concerns may fall into our categories of what the Pharisees called holiness – politics, environment, child-rearing, you name it. And we tend to think more of the same is better as well.

The Pharisees were the same way about the law. If Ten Commandments were good, twenty commandments were even better. Their rabbis searched the Scriptures for every word that could be taken as law and came up with 613—248 positive commands and 365 negative commands: a "Thou shalt not" for every day of the year.

For a while it must have been exhilarating—to keep those rules and feel yourself growing steadily holier would have been a real ego boost. But 613 rules! Don’t you think that for the Pharisees all that rigid discipline could quickly become exhausting? "Teacher, if you couldn’t keep all 613 commandments day after day, if you found that you could only keep 612, what is the one commandment you wouldn’t want to leave out? What is the most important thing in the world?"

Jesus responds, "`You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And a second one is like it: `You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ All the law and the prophets hang on these two commandments." In one answer, and with these two commandments, Jesus shifts the emphasis from following 613 individual laws - to love. He says, in effect, that it doesn’t matter so much what you do as long as you are loving God and your neighbor. There’s nothing more important than love.

The Pharisees may not have kept all those rules because they wanted to be holy, but because they wanted to appear that way.

C. S. Lewis suggested that when we are born we only love ourselves. We want food, we want sleep, and we want someone to change our diapers. As we grow up a bit, our love grows up with us, so that we are able to love others who are like us. This is the stage in life when you might have one best friend who shares all your interests and sometimes swaps baseball cards with you. As we grow up a little more, we find ourselves able to love others who are not just like us. When love is fully grown, Lewis suggests, we find ourselves capable of loving one who is radically other than we are; in other words, we find ourselves capable of loving God. And this is the problem: we have been too often content to live with stunted love, to pursue what is good and not what is best.

"Love God," Jesus says, "with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.” Grow up into the kind of people whose actions will demonstrate their wholehearted love for God, whose commitments will reflect the full attention of soul and mind. Stop bending down to scoop up the muck of self-interest and instead leap high toward the love of God, reach wide toward the love of others. Exercise the limbs of love until at last they are strong enough to love as God loves.

I think this is why Jesus was so frustrated with the Pharisees; they spent their lives pursuing holiness—which is a good thing—but not love—which is the most important thing in the world.

Jesus throws away all of the legalisms and transactions and tells us that love is everything. Jesus came teaching love and living love to reveal God as love. His life is reflective of a love so vast that it enters entirely into the sordid mess of human life and embraces it fully. Far from being isolated from sin, God in Jesus enters into the real conditions of real people like you and me and brings healing and love. He has a special soft spot for those called sinners. The only people who seem to rile him are those who say they know the rules and are confident of their relative goodness. The ones who think they are especially righteous are the ones he challenges. The ones who know their need of unqualified love and forgiveness are his particular friends.

Everything he reveals about God points toward eternal love. This is a tender Father whom Jesus calls Abba, Daddy, who reaches into the depths of human evil and suffering, and receives it at its violent worst, the crucifixion of the innocent. In Jesus, God continues to love us through his own death and in doing so shows us the divine heart. At the heart of ultimate reality is incredible, eternal, unquenchable love, a power revealed in the resurrection stronger than death. This is a God we can love, because God first loves us. God is love. Perfect love. And perfect love casts out fear.

Jesus invites us into this alternate reality. The reality of love. A love that begins with God’s unqualified love for us. So when Jesus invites us into relationship, it is with Love already given. He says, "Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind." And so you can, because God is wonderfully lovable. And being so embraced, so secure, so loved, makes it possible for us to "love our neighbor as our self." These are the two great commandments. On these, hang all the law and the prophets.

Amen.

October 16, 2011

2011-10-18T06:55:00.000-07:00

Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Matthew 22:15-22

Most of us deal with the problem of divided loyalties. I'm not talking about something that happens between people so much as within them. Between our family members, our workplace, our community organizations, and our friends, we end up making commitments that incessantly challenge one another for our attention and time and resources.

Perhaps the problem of divided loyalties has grown worse as life has become more complicated. But the problem is an ancient one, and it is featured in a story about Jesus and a question that is meant to entrap him.

The people who engage Jesus in conversation include disciples of the Pharisees. These are not leaders of the Pharisee movement, the old, wise men, but they are the young upstarts, guys with far more bravado than stature. Their elders send them on this errand to confront Jesus because the old men don't want to risk their reputations. These young upstarts, however, are still wet behind the ears; they do not yet have reputations to risk.

So these fellows approach Jesus and attempt to butter him up. "Teacher, we know that you are sincere, and teach the way of God in accordance with truth, and show deference to no one; for you do not regard people with partiality." Now the young fellows swoop in for the kill. "Tell us, then, what you think. Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor or not?"

This question is not an honest inquiry. A yes or no answer is sure to get him in trouble. The demand for taxes points back to the bitterly resented occupation of the country by Roman imperial power. For Jesus to say that people should pay these taxes would compromise him in their eyes. For him to call for tax resistance would bring a charge of sedition.

This story addresses more than a question about taxes. It is more than a proof text about issues of church and state. It addresses the incessant challenge of divided loyalties, not only in regard to choices between government and God, but in the many circumstances where we find ourselves pulled in one direction, then another.

Jesus recognizes his interrogators are up to no good. He is aware of their malice, and accuses them of putting him to the test, calling them hypocrites. This is no friendly rap session between teacher and students; it is a full-blown confrontation. Jesus asks for a Roman coin, the sort used for tax payments. Somebody produces one. Jesus ascertains from his interrogators that the image and inscription on this coin are indeed the emperor's.

He then brings the confrontation to its crashing conclusion with a judgment some of us can quote: "Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor's, and to God the things that are God's."

Everyone present there knows what Jesus means by this. The coin can be given to the emperor; after all, it has his name and portrait on it, it is issued by his authority, he is entitled to have what is his. But more importantly, the true king, God himself, is also entitled to his property, to what bears his portrait, and that is every human person, for each of us is created in God's image. We bear the divine image just as much as the Roman coin displays the emperor's profile and name. Giving to God what belongs to God is the big issue; it is through resolving this issue that you come to know what to do about your taxes and about everything else.

What Jesus tells his interrogators in response to their one malicious question offers us a basis for resolving our many questions about divided loyalties.

We also are to give to God what belongs to him, what bears his image and his name. We are to give ourselves to God. Not once only, but repeatedly. Giving ourselves to God is to be the characteristic of our lives, something that defines and shapes who we are.

On that basis, and only on that basis, are we equipped to address competently other claims made upon us. This involves rejecting those that lack legitimacy. It also involves recognizing claims that are legitimate, and acknowledging the proper place for each in the ever-shifting network of our relationships.

We are not called upon simply to give the emperor what belongs to the emperor. We are called upon as well to give to relatives, friends, strangers, co-workers, employees, and all other people whatever it is of us they can rightly claim. We are charged with the creative and challenging task of transforming our diverse and divided loyalties into a unified life governed and directed by our supreme and absolute loyalty, which is to God and God alone.

Nobody says this is easy. All of us make mistakes along the way. But we must recognize the task for what it is. And the wonder of it is that in putting God first the other appropriate demands made of us can fall into their proper places, so that divided loyalties become united in a life that is diverse, ever-changing, and creative.

Loving God first and foremost gives us the wisdom and the orientation to love others in their uniqueness in ways that are right for them and for us. As we continually give ourselves to God, then remarkably we are free to give to others in ways that are gracious and life-giving, rather than distorted and destructive. All of our loyalties worthy of the name then blend into a single one. No longer are these loyalties divided; instead we recognize how, deep down, they are in accord, for each is an invitation from God.

But when we get the tune right, by giving ourselves to God and to others in the best ways possible, then a transformation occurs. We no longer picture ourselves as givers. We are receivers, recipients of divine generosity. This is the truth of our lives and we recognize it and are thankful.

Thus we come to recognize true loyalties for what they are: a single, unbroken love, the electricity of God, bringing power and light to the world. We are not the source of that current, but it is ours to enjoy and transmit.

October 9, 2011

2011-10-11T07:08:00.001-07:00

17^th Sunday after Pentecost (Matthew 22:1-14)

Jesus compared the Kingdom of Heaven to several events and in today’s reading the comparison is a marriage feast. Now, in the land of Israel there are few events more celebrated than marriage. It is a wonderful occasion, and the entire village is usually involved with the celebration.

In Jesus day the marriage feast had became a symbol for the Messianic Banquet, the inauguration of God’s Kingdom and there were definite expectations that revolved around this Banquet. Isaiah had prophesied that God would prepare a banquet for all people. And that death would be defeated.

The Essenes were one of the Jewish groups that believed the Banquet will be specifically connected with the coming of the Messiah. However, the participants would be limited to the wise, the intelligent, and the perfect. These will be assembled by rank. If anyone is a gentile, or an imperfect Jew, they will not be allowed into the banquet.

Jesus would have been aware of this exclusivity. His teaching would be considered radical in light of the accepted viewpoint. Jesus was also aware that preparation for a marriage feast was a very important ingredient for both the host and those who were invited. Usually, two invitations went out for the banquet. The first invitation by the host was to determine how many would be in attendance, similar to an RSVP in our day. According to the Talmud, the number in attendance would determine what kind of animal was to be prepared, depending on the number of guests. Then comes the second invitation, "All is ready. Come to the Feast."

It is considered a huge insult to accept the host's initial invitation and then make an excuse for not being able to attend. After all, the host has already prepared for the banquet. And so in Jesus’ story, the excuses are received by the King with anger. The guests make light of the offer, one goes to his farm, another to his business, and Jesus tells us, “the rest seized his slaves, mistreated them, and killed them.”

This sounds a bit like Jesus’ parable that occurs at the end of the previous chapter in which a landowner planted a vineyard, put a fence around it, dug a winepress, and built a watchtower. But at harvest time the tenants refused to give his servants the produce. After some attempts at sending servants, the landowner sends his son, whom they seize, throw out of the vineyard, and kill. This earlier parable tells of God sending the prophets who were beaten and killed and then God sending his own son who would also be put to death.

The parable for today as well as the one that precedes it fit with our understanding of salvation history – God comes first through the prophets and then through Jesus, and some people reject both. Despite the offers, many choose not to attend the wedding banquet.

The king gives an invitation, he says, “Go therefore into the main streets, and invite everyone you find to the wedding banquet.” Everyone is invited into God’s kingdom, even those who were previously outcasts. All is well until the king bumps into an improperly attired guest and remarks, “Friend, how did you get in here without a wedding robe?” The wrongly dressed guest gives no reply.

Then we get the ending that makes us wonder where Jesus is coming from. The king tells his servants, “Bind him hand and foot, and throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.”

What is so bad about the way this guy is dressed? What’s got the King so upset?

The parable at this point begins to mirror Jesus’ teachings on judgment. Later in this same week before he dies, Jesus teaches that the Great Judgment will be like a shepherd separating the sheep from the goats. Those who took care of the least will be placed on one side. Those who did not feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, clothing to the naked, and so on, are placed on the other. Judgment falls on those who did not care for the needy.

In the same way, the parable of the Banquet from today’s reading is a picture of the coming judgment. The king gives a free invitation to the wedding banquet. No one has to earn his or her seat at the table. Both the good and the bad are encouraged to come into the feast.

Guests to a wedding feast were not expected to provide their own attire. They would be given robes on entering the banquet hall. The invitation was open. The feast was an unearned gift, and so was the necessary clothing. For the first Christians, the parallel was baptism. The early church placed robes on those coming out of the waters of baptism. The white robes were an outward sign of the inward grace of being clothed in Christ. Candidates for baptism were washed clean by the sacrificial death of Jesus.

As the wedding banquet is the judgment at the end of time, the robe expected of the guests was this baptismal robe. The grace is that the guests, both good and bad, did not have to provide the robe. The king wants the man to explain how he is improperly attired after having been offered the garment needed for the feast. He was given the new robe for the Kingdom of Heaven and refused to wear it.

The point of the story is not that we should feel smug because we already have our baptismal robes. No guest to the wedding banquet should enjoy seeing others who were invited failing to join the feast. The cost of the free gift of grace was too high for us to feel self-righteous and to show a lack of concern for others.

It is important to see that even after having his gracious invitation rudely rejected, the king continues to invite others to the banquet. The feast is not reserved for the perfect, but for those willing to be perfected by the generous offer of the host to give us his own robes of righteousness. Far from making us arrogant, this is cause to be humble, knowing that we neither deserved nor earned our invitation.

But as the last line, “Many are called, but few are chosen” hangs in the air, we also see that those who have been robed in Christ are to live into that new life of grace. Having been given new life in Christ does not give us license to continue living the same way. We are to respond to God’s call by conforming our lives ever more closely to Jesus’ life.

To enter the King’s banquet, you simply have to receive the gift freely offered and then, empowered by our new identity in Christ, live into the life to which God has called us. So as you come to the banquet table of the Eucharist today, remember your robe.

Amen.

October 2, 2011

2011-10-03T08:52:00.000-07:00

Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost A

Matthew 21:33-46

Parables are usually surprising. They are often subversive. Jesus used simple stories to break his listeners out of their conventional thinking in order to surprise them with a new way of thinking, a new way of being.

Every time I’ve preached on the Parable of the Wicked Tenants, I’ve interpreted it the way Matthew probably intended it to be interpreted, and the way most have preached it for a couple of thousand years. But looking deeper at this parable, thinking more about its original context and how it was originally heard, I’ve been surprised. I think Jesus’ listeners were surprised too.

Let’s begin with the old way of understanding this story. It’s usually interpreted as an allegory of our salvation history. The vineyard is Israel. God, the owner, has planted a beautiful vineyard, complete with a protecting hedge and lookout tower to keep animals and enemies from damaging the crop. The tenant farmers represent the leaders of Israel who have been corrupt and disobedient to the owner. God sends prophets to Israel over and over, and the leaders reject them. Finally, God sends his only Son, and he is beaten, thrown out of the vineyard, and killed, just as Jesus was tortured and then crucified outside the walls of God’s city Jerusalem. Then comes the punch line. The parable leads them to the logical conclusion. When the day of the Lord comes, God will wreak vengeance upon those leaders and will replace them with a new people who will obey God’s will. Matthew’s listeners would have already experienced the destruction of Jerusalem in 70 A.D. and could nod their heads with confirmation that the rise of the Church throughout the Jewish Diaspora was the passing over of God’s kingdom to a new people. Centuries of Christians have heard that story with satisfaction. Of course, the kingdom has passed from them to us.

But it may not be that simple. Let’s look at this story again, first in the light of a some basic economics. The land of Palestine in the first century enjoyed a good climate for farming and herding. It was located near favorable trade routes. Palestine was a great place to do well economically, if you had the means to take advantage of the opportunity.

During the Roman occupation most of the farmland, especially in Jesus’ home district of Galilee, was controlled by foreign owners. They would make minimal investments in the property and try to maximize their return. During the long reign of King Herod the Great, crop surpluses were common. But most of the food was exported, and Palestine itself experienced regular food shortages. The food shortages drove up the prices. That economic stress combined with Rome and Jerusalem’s high taxes drove many of the poor into indentured servitude. They would sell themselves in order to provide food for their families.

The tenant farmers had freedom, but they didn’t fare much better. They would rent the land from the absentee landlords, work long hours for long seasons, and return the lion’s share of the profit to the foreign owner. Typically the tenants barely provided enough food to keep their families alive. Pilate the Governor was ruthless in his willingness to suppress any possibility of rebellion. The power of the state and the economic interests of the powerful were intricately tied together.

So here’s the picture: abundant crops, food shortages, and absentee landlords. How do you think Jesus’ listeners felt about a story where the tenants get fed up and take matters into their own hands? The death of a few landlords, or even their kindred, would not cause any tears in Galilee. This was an oppressive system. Most hearing this story would have been rooting for the workers. They also would have known the predictable outcome of the workers’ rebellion. They would be dealt with ruthlessly, a miserable death.

With that picture in mind, imagine how shocked his listeners would be when Jesus uses the image of the hated absentee landlord as an image for God. Imagine how they would feel hearing Jesus condemning the violence of those poor tenants. "The kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom." What does he mean? I think that the key moment that gives us a clue to Jesus’ message is the passage that comes between the story and its punch line.

At the end of the parable, when Jesus asks his listeners, "What will the owner do?" they answer predictably, "He will put those wretches to a miserable death." That’s just the way it is. But Jesus never gives that answer. Instead, he quotes from Psalm 118: "The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone; this was the Lord’s doing, and it is amazing in our eyes."

That’s the key. God didn’t send an army to crush the oppressors. No, God sent his gentle son who is rejected. He dies. And then God raises him from the dead. This is truly amazing in our eyes. This is the new life and the new thing that God is doing. It’s a new kind of power. A kind of power that gives life instead of taking it.

So Jesus winds up condemning the anger and violence of the tenants. He illustrates the ancient truth—violence begets violence. He leaves his listeners hanging with the ugly consequences of a power-driven society, silently condemning them for their lack of hope and faith. "Haven’t you heard the scriptures?" he chides them. It’s not about power and violence. It’s about the rejected stone. It’s about the path not taken. It’s about love, a love so steadfast that it is willing to be rejected, hoping in faith that the power of God will nonetheless bring about resurrection.

This is an utterly different way of being. It is subversive to conventional ways of doing things. Conventional, power-driven thinking tells us you’ve got to step in with a little tough authority when you are challenged. You put those wretches to a miserable death. But Jesus wades into this violence and this injustice and says that it is the tossed-aside that is the keystone—the little and the lost and the loser. That’s who the kingdom is for. The fruits of the kingdom are not power and control, they are "love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control." (Gal 5:22f)

But, they didn’t believe him. Or maybe they did. Maybe they were so afraid that this subversive way of being would undermine all of the power structures that their authority was based on. He became the "stone that the builders rejected," put to a miserable death. That should show him. Power is what wins in this world. Love loses.

But Easter turns everything around. "This was the Lord’s doing, and it is amazing in our eyes." God raises Jesus from the dead and invites everyone into the new work of love that God is doing. Amen.

September 25, 2011

2011-09-26T07:02:00.001-07:00

Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost Year A

You might say that Jesus has authority issues. On the day before the incident in our Gospel reading, Jesus boldly challenged the religious and political authorities by riding a donkey into the crowded capital of his nation in the same way the promised Messiah/King was supposed to come. His noisy and disorderly street demonstration proceeded to the Temple, the very symbol of religious authority. He strode into the outer court where the Temple vendors had set up shop, selling animals to religious pilgrims for sacrifice and begins overturning the tables. Quite a challenge to authority.

The very next day when he returned to the scene —they were waiting for him: the chief priests and elders of the people. They believe in the authority of their positions. They regard a challenge to their authority as a challenge to the God they represent. And they’re stunned and angry at the presumptuousness of this Rabbi from Nazareth. And so they ask a very natural question, "By what authority are you doing these things and who gave you this authority?"

Actually, it is a pretty good question, don’t you think? "By what authority are you doing these things and who gave you the authority?" In fact, it’s a question you and I might very well ask.

Most of us grew up in a time and environment when the issue of authority was crystal clear. You respected and abided by the authorities, whoever they might be: the police, the government, the school, the church, grown-ups in general. Over all of life hovered the mystical authority of big institutions.

We are in a new place in regard to authority these days. A slow shift away from the traditional way of thinking about authority began about 40 years ago. It had something to do with Vietnam and the cultural revolution that occurred simultaneously. It had to do with Watergate. And it had to do with a general loss of certainty about what we know for sure and what we can count on. We’re not so certain about anything anymore. A famous 1960’s bumper sticker put it bluntly and eloquently "Question Authority." I still see one occasionally — mostly on oldVolkswagen vans.

One of our most thoughtful scholars, Walter Brueggemann, thinks a lot about the topic these days. "There was a time…when the Christian preacher could count on … a consensus. There was a time when the assumption of God completely dominated Western imagination."

No longer: Atheism is quite credible, Brueggemann observes and something of a complete reversal has occurred. To actually believe in God and claim to live life in relation to that belief, or worse yet, as an expression of that belief, is a "risky intellectual outpost." [Deep Memory, Exuberant Hope, P.5]

Religious authority, which used to be invested in institutions, now resides with the individual. One of Robert Bellah’s interviews for his important book “Habits of the Heart” became a household name by eloquently capturing this new reality. Her name was Shelia. When asked about her practice of religion, she said that she was religious but not interested in the church. Faith for her was a safe internal spiritual comfort zone. She was, she said, her own little church. My religion, she said with amazing candor, is "Sheliaism." Sheilaism is individualism raised to the status of authority. We are, we think, in charge here. There is no authority beyond my values, my priorities, my opinions, my wants, my personal needs, my desires … .

Peter Gomes, former minister of Harvard’s Memorial Church, describes a genuine revival of interest in religion and not just academically, religion as a set of intellectual propositions to be analyzed, debated, or critiqued, but religion as authentic guidance for life: not just feel-good religion, but religion as authentic authority, a life to be lived. Gomes comments, "A cynic might say that if adolescent rebellion thirty years ago was to drop out of church, adolescent rebellion today is to drop in. Sometimes their parents are bewildered by it." [The Good Book, p.334] Gomes tells about a frantic mother of a Harvard freshman who made an appointment to see him. She told him that she and her husband were not anti-religion, that they were agnostics and their family life simply had no place for or concern about things religious. "But now," she said, "my daughter’s apparently gone off the deep end. You’ll have to help us Dr. Gomes." "What has she done?" Gomes asked, fully expecting the woman to report that her daughter had joined the Hari-Krishna’s. "Why, she’s become an Episcopalian!" the distressed mother said.

Gomes says that the world of secular assumptions is fast coming to an end because those secular assumptions did not prove to be helpful and certainly didn’t deliver on the promises of meaning, purpose, or even happiness, for that matter.

The churches are filling up with "those whose faith was in the exchangeable commodities of the world, and who have lost their faith in mammon and are seeking out God. [p. 345]

There is something like a search for genuine authority going on and it focuses on the person of Jesus Christ.

What makes a Christian is the act of trusting Jesus Christ with your life: accepting him as the authority, the crowning of him as sovereign of your heart.

Sometimes that authoritative sovereignty of Jesus Christ challenges other authorities, the authority of the state for instance — as it did for the faithful German Christians who formed the Confessing Church and resisted Hitler’s Nazism; as it did for brave young Americans who, a generation ago, broke the law in the name of racial justice.

After his conversation with the religious authorities about authority, Jesus told them a little story. A man tells his son to go to work in the vineyard and the son refuses, but later changes his mind and goes. The man orders another son who agreed to work but changes his mind and does not go. "Which son did the father’s will?" The answer is obvious, the son who initially refused but went to work.

Faith, Jesus was saying, authoritative faith, goes to work in the vineyard regardless of verbal affirmations. Faith does the work of God regardless of creeds and intellectual formulas, doctrines, orthodoxies. Authoritative faith doesn’t just talk about God. It does God’s work in the world. Authoritative faith begins for you — not when you finally resolve all your theological questions: faith begins when you decide that Jesus Christ is authoritative in your life and you show up for work in the vineyard.

Faith began for Peter, not when he finally figured out who Jesus was, got his Christology pinned down. Faith happened when Peter, scared to death, stepped out of his boat in a storm to follow. Faith began for James and John, not after they had a seminar on self-discovery, but when they dropped their fishing nets and got up and followed Jesus.

Faith begins, authoritative faith, when you and I hear the call of Christ to come, follow, go into the world, serve, love, rejoice, give your life away in some improbably adventure — tutor a child, embrace a homeless man, provide for a hungry and cold woman, empty your pockets, share the identity you have found in Christ and lose your very life.

The authority of Jesus derives from his doing just that — showing us how to live an authentic human life by giving away our lives in love. Who is ultimately in charge of your life? The invitation is to acknowledge Jesus Christ, to acknowledge that in him, in what he said and what he did, and who he is, is the very authority of God. The invitation is to give him the authority in your life that is his already, by God’s grace: to crown him sovereign in your heart. And somewhere deep in your heart and mine is not only a need to do that, but a deep desire that answers the question, will you go to work in my vineyard today?

Amen.

September 18, 2011

2011-09-19T07:05:00.000-07:00

14^th Sunday after Pentecost Year A

The scene in Matthew is becoming more and more familiar. People are waiting for work, waiting to be hired, waiting to earn a day’s wage – which in those days was just enough to feed one’s family. The issue then is one of daily bread. Just like manna in the Exodus narrative. Just as it is in the prayer Jesus gives us when we ask him how we should pray.

To be hired late in the day and get less than a day’s wages means belt-tightening for the entire family. Not to mention what it does to one’s sense of self-worth to be overlooked or passed by when the hiring is being done. To not be chosen to work creates anxiety.

The lesson here is one of extraordinary generosity. Everyone got a day’s wage. Everyone could go home and feed his or her family. Just as it was with manna, everyone got enough, no one got too much, nothing was left over. “Give us this day our daily bread.”

We say this every time we say the Lord’s Prayer. But does it ever occur to us just what it is we are praying? How many of us have experienced living one day to the next? Jesus is somehow trying to engineer a return to the wilderness sojourn – a return to manna season – a return to utter and radical dependence on God and God’s daily provisions. God makes it clear to Moses that you cannot gather the stuff up and save it for a rainy day. It goes sour on you. It spoils. It starts crawling with worms and moths. Take it one day at a time and all will be well.

So with Jesus, everyone is given a day’s provision, those who worked all day and those who worked just a few hours. Like any household with children, the cries of those hired early in the day are oh-so-familiar. “It isn’t fair!” they whine. “We were there first. We deserve more because we did more.” And we glibly reply, “Life isn’t fair.”

Or is it? What Jesus seems to be getting at is that what is fair and what is just is established by God, not by our standards of merit, qualifications, and grounds for staking a claim. What Jesus is talking about is God’s kingdom – life lived under the reign of God, a God who is generous to a fault, a God whose generosity offends us and baffles us.

As Marguerite Shuster observes in The Lectionary Commentary:

“Grace is not grace if it is qualified by superior virtue in the recipient. Sinners are not sinners if some are less dependent on grace than others. Besides, if one has enough oneself … why would one even want more than someone else, unless out of some sense of pride and self-righteousness? That it seems odd to put the question that way shows the depth of our sin. The more we insist on our tit-for-tat way of thinking, the more baffled and angry we will be at God’s whole way of dealing with us.”

Again, consider what it feels like to be hired late in the day with the anxiety of going home empty handed intensifying as each hour passes by. Is even laboring through the heat of the day any worse than having one’s hope of a meal for the family fade away as the sun begins to set?

Even apart from the need for daily bread, work is an integral part of creation, and those denied the opportunity must feel a deeper sense of despair and a keen lack of purpose and meaning in life. Work can be stressful, monotonous, and difficult, but to be out of work can be even worse.

The temptation is always to assume God serves our sense of what is fair, our sense of “justice.” The temptation is always to believe that somehow those who come to the vineyard first and early are more deserving and have stake to a higher claim on God’s generosity, love, and forgiveness. The temptation is to believe that we can really earn the right to more than what is given daily. An even worse temptation is to think that it is too late for me to accept the Master’s invitation to work in God’s vineyard.

The good news is that God’s grace is so great and so surprising that it can provide enough no matter how late in the day it is – on the deathbed, in the jail cell, after repeated failures – because the recipient need not add anything to the grace, but simply receive it in order for it to do its life-sustaining work. Even as the sun sets on this life, it is not too late to accept God’s Amazing Grace.

And it is never too soon for the rest of us to begin to consider that heaven’s “enough,” heaven’s daily bread, and heaven’s daily wages make all earthly comparisons look meaningless and silly.

Jesus’ assurance that the last shall be first and the first shall be last is tied to manna season, and settling for bread and wages that are given daily. We are called to be those people who pray, “Give us this day our daily bread,” and really make an effort to live that out. To live life in God’s kingdom is a journey to return to manna season.

Jesus seems to be announcing a great reversal of places in the kingdom. People outside the church in the first centuries called Christians “those people who are turning the world upside down.”

So if Bill Gates or the Sultan of Brunei are 10s on a scale, and 1 is the poorest of the poor, it has been suggested that those who are really clever will live around number 5. That way, when it all turns upside down, they will feel the least amount of disruption in their lives.

Manna season: when everyone has enough, no one has too much.

Sounds easy! But on a global and even national scale, most of us are living conservatively at number 9, when compared to the poor in this world. Looked at from this perspective, the journey to number 5 looks like a long, long journey. But, says Jesus, it is the journey to life lived at its fullest!

One suspects this journey begins with being as generous to others as God is with us. After all, there must be some reason that God has created us in God’s own image. After all, “God so loved the world that God gave … .”

God loves and God gives. We are created in God’s image. We are created to love and to give. And to be as surprisingly generous with others as God is with us.

And at the end of the day to realize, God’s grace is waiting for us as well.

September 11, 2011

2011-09-12T08:45:00.001-07:00

13^th Sunday after Pentecost

Matthew 18:21-35

In William Shakespeare's, The Merchant of Venice, Portia tries to convince Shylock not to pursue vengeance. She says, "The quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed: it blesseth him that gives, and him that takes, `tis mightiest in the mightiest, it becomes the throned monarch better than his crown: his scepter shows the forces of temporal power, the attribute to awe and majesty, wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings: but mercy is above this sceptred sway. It is enthroned in the hearts of kings. It is an attribute to God himself; and earthly power doth then show likest God's, when mercy seasons justice..."

Maybe Portia is right. Maybe the quality of mercy is twice blessed. But if so, what sense can we make of the Parable of the Unmerciful Servant in Matthew's gospel? I hear that story and I almost agree with his punishment. How dare he act the way he does? How dare he not have mercy when he was shown such mercy? It is easy for me to feel judgement for him.

My feelings don't get any warmer upon a closer look. The king has forgiven this scoundrel the equivalent of the national debt. The king doesn't insist on his rightful pound of flesh. He doesn't beat the servant or set up a payment plan or even make the servant work off his debt. He simply cancels it. The story does not get warm and touching at this point; it gets crass and crude. The forgiven servant turns around and presses another to pay off a small debt. The one who has been shown abundant mercy will not show any mercy. And, in one way, he was within his rights. He was owed money. It was his right to insist on it. And he did.

It was not long before word reached the king, and the servant who called in his debt soon sat in prison. Scott Gustafson comments, "Many people believe forgiveness is the same as forgetting, but if our text is so, forgiveness is more accurately described as `not insisting on your rights.'" The warning of the parable is this: "You will find yourself in prison should you insist on living this way!"

The sad truth of the parable is that the unmerciful Servant was in prison long before the king put him there. He was imprisoned in the world of personal rights. He asked for nothing more than was his. He would relinquish nothing that was his. In the oldest part of the tower London, directly below the Chapel of St. John, is the most terrible of all its dungeons. Frederick Buechner describes it this way, "Its oak door blocks out all light and all ventilation. It measures only four feet square and four feet high. There is no way to either stand upright in it or to lie down at full length. It is known as `The Little Ease.'"

To live an unforgiving life of restricted mercy is to live in that dark, airless, crippling place, where there is no ease at all. In that place, we feel only our wounds. We hear only our hearts beat with rage. We'll rot before we forgive and forget. And, that's precisely what we is happening to us on the inside.

The unmerciful Servant was quite content to be once blessed. He was glad to relish in this windfall loan reversal by the King. He had no problem accepting forgiveness. The King could do what he chose to do, but as for this man he would not relinquish his rights or forgive any of his debtors.

The unmerciful Servant had been forgiven a great debt. He was once blessed. What he never knew was the second blessing. He did not know the joy of forgiving the debt of another. He was still in his own Little Ease, with his pocket calculator and well kept ledger accounting for every favor, every pain, every dollar, every little thing anyone owed him.

On his deathbed, Martin Luther said, "We are all beggars, this is true." The haunting truth of Jesus' parable is though we may think ourselves the king, most often, we are the scoundrel in this parable. The Unmerciful Servant is that part of us which refuses to close the book on anyone's debts.

One phrase used among AA groups is "Let Go and Let God." On the surface, it sounds simple and even trite. But for many these words are a light to safe harbor. "Let Go and Let God." Let go of our need to control our lives, as if we could. Let go of our need to get everything we deserve—to miss nothing that should be coming our way. Why let go and let God? Maybe, it is because there is no other door out of "The Little Ease."

How can the Unmerciful Servant ever get out of the prison of his own making? Once an adulteress woman was brought to Jesus to condemn. You remember the end of the story: "Let the one who is without sin among you cast the first stone." Jesus continued doodling on the ground, and when he looked up the place was empty. C.S. Lewis said it this way, "To be a Christian means to forgive the inexcusable, because God has forgiven the inexcusable in you."

Twice blessed is not only to embrace God's forgiveness, but to become a forgiving child of God. Sounds easy as if I were giving out a lawn care tip or a recipe for a delicious dessert. Sounds inexpensive as if it won't cost us dearly to choose the path of mercy. Few things in life are any more difficult or any more expensive.

Rod Hunter writes, "It is painful to forgive others, and equally if not more so to forgive ourselves. Finding the inner resources to let go the stranglehold of rage, guilt, or pride, to relinquish claims of retribution and the assertion of rights, requires a special gift of a `spiritual' sort to forgive and to live in a spirit of forgiveness—a readiness to forgive—is ultimately a gift of God."

Whatever happened to the Unmerciful Servant whom the king had thrown into jail? Part of me rejoices that justice was done and hopes that he learned his lesson. But if that is my hope for him, it must also be a hope for myself, because I have failed to show mercy more times than I dare to remember and more often than I even know.

The best part of me prays that the Unmerciful Servant awoke one morning to appreciate the sweet taste of mercy. And when he did, the oak door of the Little Ease opened into a room of healing and forgiveness and hope that Jesus called God's Kingdom. That is my best prayer for the Unmerciful Servant, as it is my best prayer for you and for me.

Though centuries old, Portia's words to Shylock still speak with the eloquence of God, "The quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed: it blesseth him that gives, and him that takes."

"Twice Blessed." Jesus put it this way when he taught his disciples to pray – “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

Amen.

September 4, 2011

2011-09-06T07:33:00.000-07:00

12^th Sunday after Pentecost

Matthew 18:15-20

Many of us know all too well how painful conflict can be. And it seems the closer we are to the person, the more the conflict hurts. Most of us also suppose that the church should be a kind of “conflict-free zone,” but we also know that wherever there are human beings, there will be disagreements. What makes us the body of Christ in this place we call Grace Church is not whether or not we fight, disagree, or wound each other, but how we go about resolving these issues and loving one another in the midst of our disagreements.

Jesus instructions are really quite simple and straightforward. If one of your brothers or sisters in Christ sins against you (and by the way, that is the literal translation here), you are to go and in privacy point out the wrong done to you. If you get less than a redemptive response, you are to ask a couple of others to serve as witnesses and go back with you to visit with the offending party. And if you still get nowhere with the person who has wronged you, as a last resort, tell the church about it. If the one who has offended you will not listen to the church, you are to treat them like a Gentile and a tax collector. And remember that Jesus welcomed both to his fellowship.

But Jesus’ method of conflict resolution starts to make a bit more sense when you consider the spirit of what he says and not just the three steps to resolving disagreements. In other words, we need to get a feel for what Jesus is talking about. And if we do, we might just find something we can use when it comes to dealing with people with whom we’re having problems.

For one thing, Jesus puts the burden on the victim, on the person who has been sinned against.

Isn’t that just like Jesus? He always seems to have this way of turning things around from the way we think they ought to be. “The first shall be last, the last first”... that sort of thing. That’s what he’s doing here. And it fits the context of this passage. You see, this chapter in Matthew’s gospel begins with the disciples coming to their Master with a question. “Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?”

That should come as no surprise. They had this highfaluttin idea of what the coming kingdom was going to be like. Jesus would be the king and they would be his princes. All he would have to do is snap his fingers and they would see that his orders would be carried out. Oh, the power they would wield! Everywhere they went, their conversations amongst themselves were about the kingdom. Really what they are asking is, who of us is going to be greatest?

Jesus says, “Gather round, boys, and I’ll let you in on the secret.” They come in close to hear what he has to say. As they do, he takes a toddler and places the child in the center of their little group, and then he says, “ I tell you, unless you become like this child, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”

What did he say? Did they understand him correctly? Not only will they not have the prime places of power, they won’t even get in... unless they become like children. What does that mean?

Then Jesus talks about the importance of finding that one sheep out of ninety-nine and how much the shepherd rejoices over that one who went astray and yet is found. Finally, he gets around to these instructions about how to deal with someone who has wronged them. And the first thing they are to do is take the initiative. Even though they are the ones who have been offended and have been sinned against, they are to go to the offender and try to work things out. It is an act of utter humility.

You’ve already been made vulnerable by the very fact that someone has offended you. Now, Jesus says you are to really stick your neck out and risk becoming even more vulnerable. You are to go, hat in hand, to the person who has wronged you and give that person the opportunity to set things right.

That’s just like Jesus, isn’t it?

Jesus is more interested in getting that relationship made right again than in keeping score over someone’s pride. In our way of thinking it should be the one who wronged you that should take the initiative, but not so says Jesus, it is the one who has been wronged.

Some of us have an amazing ability to remember the slightest offense done, the less-than-kind remark, the tiniest snub. We let it fester in our souls until it just gnaws away at our hearts and little is left but resentment and anger and a really terrible case of heartburn. But in the end, especially as far as the kingdom of heaven is concerned, the only thing that matters is not what’s been said or who got the short end of the stick. The only thing of consequence is the relationship, reconciliation, healing, and wholeness.

In his book The Great Divorce, C. S. Lewis draws a stark picture of hell. Hell is like a great, vast city, Lewis says, a city inhabited only at its outer edges, with rows and rows of empty houses in the middle. These houses in the middle are empty because everyone who once lived there has quarreled with the neighbors and moved. Then, they quarreled with the new neighbors and moved again, leaving the streets and the houses of their old neighborhoods empty and barren.

That, Lewis says, is how hell has gotten so large. It is empty at its center and inhabited only at the outer edges, because everyone chose distance instead of honest confrontation when it came to dealing with their relationships.

Are we really so willing to give up our relationships with others – relationships that have come about and been forged by our desire to follow Jesus? Nowhere in the gospels will you find Jesus saying that the first order of things is to always be right. But he does have a great deal to say about forgiveness, about relationship, about reconciliation, about service and humility and vulnerability.

He makes it sounds like family, doesn’t he? Being family is not easy. But it’s where Jesus chooses to be when it comes to being with us. “Where two or three are gathered in my name,” he says, “I am there among them.”

It is when we are together that arguments can break out, and disagreements come to the surface. It is when we are together that hurts occur and apologies sometimes need to be spoken. It is when we are together that controversy can split people apart. But it is when we are together that God chooses to be with us, breathing his Spirit upon us and calling us to be his people, the family of God.

Amen.

August 28, 2011

2011-08-28T16:04:00.001-07:00

11^th Week after Pentecost

This morning I’d like to tell you about two ordinary people who took Jesus at his word and took up their cross and followed him.

For more than a decade Sam had operated a successful counseling business in a mid-sized industrial city in the southeast. His contracts were with major corporations which had brought growth and progress to the area. The center's contract with each corporation enabled employees to seek help with a guarantee of anonymity. Each employee's problems and progress were treated as completely confidential, and it was well known that client files were for the eyes of the counseling staff only.

One day the executive vice president of the largest firm under contract made an appointment to meet with Sam. To Sam's shock and amazement, this executive demanded to see the files for his employees. Sam told him politely but firmly that this was impossible. The files were completely confidential. The vice president's face became red, and he spoke loudly and harshly to Sam as he repeatedly insisted that the files about his employees be delivered to him immediately. Sam continued to refuse.

Finally, the vice president stood up and moved toward the door. As he touched the doorknob, he turned around, paused, and stared at Sam. "Very well. Since you insist, tomorrow our legal department will contact you to terminate our contract with you immediately. How many of our employees do you suppose have availed themselves of your services? More than a hundred?"

Sam again reminded him that this was confidential information.

"No matter. You won't be seeing them any more, unless you give me their files right now, and I mean right now."

Sam had a vision of his counseling practice collapsing like a building demolished by explosives. He pictured his own personal finances also reduced to rubble. Then he addressed the executive in as measured a voice as he could muster.

"Dick, how many times do I have to tell you? It can't be done. It just can't be done. My center's work with your employees is completely confidential. Cancel the contract if you must, but you'll never get those files. Never!"

 The vice president walked back and took his seat again. "Okay," he said, in a subdued voice. "If that's the way it is, then I guess it's safe to tell you why I came. I have a problem, and I need your help."

When he uttered his final refusal of the vice president's demand, Sam stepped into a kind of death. It was a death freely chosen, one that followed from all that he was as a professional, a counselor, a Christian, a human being. When he uttered that final refusal, he gave up his life as he knew it, trusting that somehow God would be there on the other side.

Sam had no idea what the next minutes held for him. In the language of today's Gospel, he simply took up his cross, and by his own choice walked behind Jesus down the road to Calvary. All he could see ahead of him was professional death.

Sam held out against the vice president's insistent demands as a matter of professional and personal integrity. Yet putting it that way makes his decision sound too abstract. He held out, at the cost of his life, because he could not forget the faces of clients who had trusted him and his agency, people in whom he had recognized the face of Christ. He could not fail to do for Jesus what Jesus had done for him.

Sam knew the demand Jesus makes of every disciple. There are different ways to phrase it:

-- Pick up your cross and follow me.

-- Give up your life for my sake.

-- Surrender the whole world.

In the end, however, they amount to the same thing. Jesus asks of us no more -- and no less -- than he himself did for us. And this request shatters the life of every Christian like a rock thrown through glass. Echoing Peter's refusal, we don't want a suffering messiah, one who calls us to no better place than his own, a cross with our name on it.

Yet the message somehow reaches us. We are called upon to die for the right reason. Sometimes -- though not always -- our chance comes in one unforgettable moment, as it did for Sam that day in his office. The formation of Christian character over time then shows itself decisively. Jesus offers us a cross, and we take hold of it, guided more by faith than fear.

Let me tell you another story of a decisive incident, and how one Christian was able to respond in faith.

Frederic Ozanam was a Frenchman whose life of only forty years ended in 1853. The France in which he lived remained torn as a result of the French Revolution of the late 1700s. The Roman Catholic Church had suffered the loss, not only of property and power, but of many lives, and its leadership had become reactionary. As a result, the Church, and even Christianity itself, was treated with distrust by the working class, and with disdain by many intellectuals.

Ozanam was in his late teens when he arrived at the University of Paris to study law. He was appalled to encounter there an atmosphere of bitter hostility to the Christian faith. With a number of his fellow students, he formed a study circle in order to present a positive intellectual witness to their faith. The group engaged in many debates and public controversies on behalf of Christianity. Then one day, a student threw at Ozanam this derisive challenge: "You Christians are fine at arguing, but what do you ever do?"

It was in that moment that young Frederic Ozanam was struck by a basic insight: Christianity is not just about ideas, but about deeds inspired by love. His fine arguments were useless unless they were validated by how he lived his life. He resolved to start a fellowship of Christian lay people who would immerse themselves in the world of the poor and perform acts of service at personal sacrifice. This fellowship became the St. Vincent de Paul Society.

In making this commitment, Frederic Ozanam died to himself. He picked up his cross, and followed after Jesus.

The poor people of Paris were all around him, and their world was one of intolerable squalor. It is these people that Victor Hugo describes in "Les Miserables" as eking out their existence in overcrowded, disease-afflicted slums. There, the average lifespan of a factory worker's child was estimated to be nineteen months.

Ozanam ministered not only to the poor, but also to the Christian community. He earned doctorates in law and literature, and became a distinguished and popular lecturer at the University of Paris. He believed strongly that the Church must overcome its attitude of defensive isolation and nostalgia for a bygone era. It was time, in his view, for the Church to ally itself with the people rather than be captive to political reactionaries.

In our time, many presentations make Christianity seem something easy, a bargain that nobody can refuse. That God's grace comes to us free and undeserved is a wondrous truth, but too often that truth is perverted. No mention is made that we are offered a cross as well as a resurrection, a death as well as a life. The idea is that if we simply trust Jesus, he will make life easy for us.

The life of Frederic Ozanam and the story of Sam both illustrate that there can be for us pivotal moments when we must decide whether or not to pick up the cross which is extended to us, whether or not to die so that we -- and others -- can truly live. Amen.

August 21, 2011

2011-08-22T10:33:00.001-07:00

10^th week after Pentecost
Matthew 16

Ask a group of people to keep a secret, and you're looking for trouble. More than likely, someone will let it out. Especially if the secret is astonishing.

Simon Peter is the first disciple to recognize that Jesus is the messiah. He's the first to discover that this man he knows so well is the one anointed by God, the messiah sent to deliver Israel from bondage. Peter says as much when Jesus asks him, point blank, "Who do you say that I am?"

Peter's answer marks him as the star student, and he receives his reward. Jesus promises to build his church upon the rock foundation of this faith. He gives Peter executive authority; promises to support him. Here Peter stands for the whole Church. Jesus entrusts his mission to all who recognize him as messiah.

What a glorious development! Now should be the time to call in the media, get out the word, let everybody know that the messiah has come and is setting up his organization. But it's not time for press releases, for photo opportunities, for sound bites. Far from it.

Listen again to the ending of today’s Gospel: Jesus "sternly ordered the disciples not to tell anyone that he was the Messiah." Nobody. Not a one. Mum's the word. Can the publicity. Keep the secret.

Why is Jesus intent on keeping his messiahship a secret? Why not let it out? And now that he has admitted who he is, and the disciples all know it, does he really think that this secret can be kept? Won't it travel from mouth to ear at the speed of novelty? The voices that ask, "Have you heard?" will multiply rapidly across the land.

It's not just this once that Jesus wants his identity to stay a secret. Repeatedly throughout the Gospels he tries to keep from becoming the talk of whatever town he's in. Yet when he performs such deeds as healing the sick, raising the dead, feeding the hungry, when he fulfills the messianic job description, how are people expected to keep his identity to themselves? And why should they? What he does in one community after another is a publicist's dream. The guy's got the makings of a star. He's going to be big, really big.

There's a name for everything Jesus does in an effort to pass unrecognized for who he is. Students of the Bible call this the Messianic Secret. So what is this Messianic Secret?

The most convincing explanation is that Jesus does not want to be acknowledged as the messiah outside of his death and resurrection. Only in the light of those events can people begin to recognize what his messiahship really means.

If they hear he is the messiah before he even gets to the cross, they are sure to misunderstand him.

Rather than a messiahship of sacrifice and triumph, they will see him as someone who has come to solve their problems, a Mr. Fix-It from on high.

Rather than recognize him as the one who calls them to their own death and resurrection, the crowds are likely to view him as a messiah sent to pamper their egos, to make their lives comfortable.

Jesus does not want his ministry to be seen in the wrong light. For this reason, he prefers that only his immediate circle know that he is the one God has sent. The opportunity will come later for them to announce his messiahship. That opportunity will come once the crucifixion takes place, and he is raised from the dead.

The Messianic Secret helps us understand what goes on in the Gospel story, why Jesus sometimes behaves in a way that seems incomprehensible. But the Messianic Secret is more than that, for it has a contemporary application.

People in his own time were ready to misunderstand Jesus because they wanted, indeed expected, a messiah of a different kind to be sent to them from God.

People today are also ready to misunderstand Jesus. We want, we expect, a messiah different from the one sent to us. We expect someone who saves us easily and asks from us nothing much at all. We want a Jesus who doesn't die, or at least doesn't expect us to follow him in doing so. While we hope for something easy, what the Gospel offers us is a scandal.

What is scandalous about the Good News of Jesus?

First, we can know God best through this one person, a single life where the Word becomes flesh. But this particularity is only the start of the scandal.

The Gospel goes on to insist that we know him most completely not just through the notable events of his life, but by his dying and his incomprehensible resurrection.

The scandal becomes even greater. His cross and triumph do not adequately reveal him until we become participants in them and accept them as our own. With Jesus we must die and rise if he is to be our messiah.

In our time, the Messianic Secret has changed. Once it meant not announcing Jesus as the promised one until his death and resurrection revealed him completely. Now it means not announcing Jesus without the cross and the empty tomb, not announcing him unless we are ready to die and rise together with him.

There are plenty of versions of Jesus abroad in the world today. Once again, he has become a star; he is big, really big. Some of these versions are authentic; many of them are not.

If we are to call ourselves Christians, members of his Church, then we will accept the messiah crucified and risen not only two thousand years ago, but crucified and risen inside our own life as well. Then, and only then, are we dealing with the real Jesus.

We will not keep this messiah a secret, we must not. For the world still waits for him and is dying to meet him--through us.

Amen.

August 14, 2011

2011-08-15T09:08:00.000-07:00

9^th Sunday after Pentecost

Matthew 15:10-28

As is often the case, this morning’s Gospel reading picks up in the middle of the story. Let me fill in a few of the details.

The scribes and Pharisees have come from Jerusalem to challenge Jesus. They accuse him of allowing his disciples to ignore details of the tradition of the elders, rules about hand-washing before eating, but Jesus accuses the religious leaders of making void God’s word for the sake of human tradition.

This is where our reading picks up today, when Jesus calls the crowds to him to explain what really defiles a person, not eating with unclean hands, but living with an unclean heart - and he has to explain himself to his own disciples who don’t yet understand.

Jesus then leaves that place. Maybe he wants some fresh air, a break from the headaches of controversy. He goes off to where there are no scribes and Pharisees to criticize him. Yet where he goes may seem like a strange choice: it's Gentile territory, outside the boundaries of acceptability, an area filled with people who dwell in spiritual darkness. He enters the district around Tyre and Sidon, two cities on the Mediterranean coast. It is there that he encounters not opposition or misunderstanding, but faith that he finds worthy of praise.

The episode starts in a way that seems less than promising. A woman appears and shouts at him! She is not only a woman, but a Canaanite. She belongs to a people who have been enemies of Israel from the time of the Exodus.

She calls Jesus "Lord" and "Son of David," and asks for mercy for herself. The shrieks from her pagan throat are phrases from the piety of Israel. And what is the reason that she cries out from the depths of her soul? A demon is tormenting her daughter. This is a human issue: a child in agony.

In response to her outburst, there is a strange, inexplicable silence. Jesus does nothing, says nothing. In effect, he ignores her. We are told that "he did not answer her at all."

The disciples propose an inhuman solution. "Send her away, for she keeps shouting after us." It's the same indifferent attitude that these disciples demonstrated when thousands were in the wilderness to hear Jesus teach and they became hungry, and all the disciples could propose was to "Send them away." Out of sight, out of mind!

What the disciples say does not surprise us. But what surprises us are the next words from the lips of Jesus. "I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel".

Jesus speaks, but the woman acts. She draws closer, violates his personal space, as we would say today; kneels on the ground before him, and begs her case with utter simplicity: "Lord, help me."

Here begins a verbal contest. Jesus answers her request, but disappoints her. "It is not fair to take the children's food and throw it to the dogs."

She understands what he says:

-- The children are the people of Israel.

-- The dogs are pagans such as herself. The term used for dogs is not as hostile as it sounds; it refers to pets, house dogs, animals permitted near the family table, but still there is a vast difference between these dogs and children who have places at the table.

-- The food is Jesus, everything he says and does.

We wish for more clues to Jesus' meaning when he says, "It is not fair to take the children's food and throw it to the dogs."

The woman responds with unusual candor and insight: "Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters' table." Her need, her faith, her humility, her love for her daughter allow her to take this lowly position. She's willing to be a fool for love: love for her daughter in dire straits, love for the God who helps her through this Hebrew teacher.

After hostile scribes and Pharisees and thickheaded, thick-hearted disciples, this Canaanite woman must seem to Jesus like a breath of fresh air. She and he are reading from the same page. There, kneeling before him, she is a fool for love. Later, hanging on a cross outside Jerusalem, he will be the fool for love.

And so Jesus praises the faith of this unorthodox foreign female. He calls her faith great, and on that basis tells her that what she wants will happen. Not much got done with the Pharisees and scribes, or with the uncomprehending disciples; but here Jesus partners with this woman who should be an enemy and something happens: the demons disappear, and the daughter is restored to health and wholeness.

Thus the insiders don't appear in such a great light, whether they are the disciples of Jesus, or his opponents, the scribes and Pharisees. It's this foreign and unorthodox woman who shines -- who gets what Jesus is about. She provokes him into the place that awaits him not simply as the savior of Israel, but as the savior of all the world. The full revelation of Jesus awaits his death and resurrection, but her urgent hunger for mere scraps of salvation puts to shame those of us who enjoy full access to the groaning table.

It's a wonder that the early Church kept this story and enshrined it in Matthew's Gospel. Here the ever-steady Jesus appears reaching out for balance, coming to terms with the scandalous breadth of his mission.

Yet the story reminds us how the Church, the earthly body of Jesus, is repeatedly taught, not so much by respectable insiders, but by those on the margins, the people without power and credibility.

These marginal people storm in, insisting that the Church should live up to the pattern offered by its Lord. They rock the boat.

Advocates of social change look for Christians to follow Jesus down the path of the Beatitudes and offer a costly witness.

Children naturally assume that the Church will speak up for them just as Jesus did when he offered a child as a model of his kingdom.

Often these and others like them come to the Church with a commendable faith, even as that Canaanite woman drew near to Jesus. They may come from outside the bounds of power and acceptability, yet they're eager even for scraps from the table. What they need, what they deserve, is a seat with the rest of us. There is much we can learn from them.

The story of Jesus and the Canaanite woman reminds us that God’s grace is not dependent on nationality or skin color or anything else that seems to divide us. It depends only on our loving response in faith, the same kind of faith which Jesus responded to in this Gentile woman.

The Dalai Lama, an outsider to most Christians, offers this wise words: “The more you are motivated by love, the more fearless and free your action will be.” This is exactly what Jesus shows us today.

May we be so motivated by love that Jesus would say to each of us, “Great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.”

Amen.

August 7, 2011

2011-08-15T09:07:00.000-07:00

A SERMON FOR GRACE CHURCH SILOAM SPRINGSby the Rev. Charles E. Walling

August7, 2011 Proper 14 A

Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary
Matthew 14:22-33

Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side, while he dismissed the crowds. And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone, but by this time the boat, battered by the waves, was far from the land, for the wind was against them. And early in the morning he came walking toward them on the sea. But when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were terrified, saying, "It is a ghost!"And they cried out in fear. But immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid."

Peter answered him, "Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water." He said, "Come." So Peter got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came toward Jesus. But when he noticed the strong wind, he became frightened, and beginning to sink, he cried out, "Lord, save me!" Jesus immediately reached out his hand and caught him, saying to him, "You of little faith, why did you doubt?" When they got into the boat, the wind ceased. And those in the boat worshiped him, saying, "Truly you are the Son of God."

Have you heard that there is another problem plaguing our planet? It really is not a new problem, but it seems to grow in significance and intensity as time goes by. The problem is the “YB Problem”. The simplest definition of “YB” is “Yes But”. It seems to come to children almost by second nature. “Did you do your homework Johnny? The teacher asks. Johnny replies, “Yes, but the dog ate it”. The state trooper pulls us over and says, “Did you know that you were exceeding the speed limit?” And we reply, “Yes, but everyone else is going 95 miles an hour and I am just trying to keep up with the flow of the traffic”.

Well I get a severe case of “Yes But” when I hear certain portions of scripture. Today’s Gospel is one of those “Yes But” pieces of holy writ. What are we to make of this strange episode? There are two popular somewhat pious interpretations. The first is that when you are up to your neck in crocodiles, when you are drowning because of the circumstances of life, keep your eyes on Jesus and everything will be fine. The second pious interpretation is that the boat represents the church and the members of the church are called to take risks by stepping out in faith. Of course, we should keep our eyes on Jesus and faith does mean taking risks. “Yes But…it all sounds too good to be true. “Yes but”…there is something about those interpretations that does not ring true for me.

Let me suggest that we pause to consider a couple of things regarding miracles in the Bible. Miracles in the Bible do not produce a bunch of folks raising their arms in the air shouting “Thank you Jesus”, nor do miracles in the Bible produce an immediate rendition, even if off key, of the Hallelujah Chorus. Miracles in the Bible do not produce sweetness and light. Miracles in the Bible produce only two things consistently: people are dumb founded, blown away and are left scratching their heads or they are frightened, fearful, or scared out of their wits. In other words miracles do not produce faith, nor do they bring people necessarily closer to God or an understanding God’s will and love.

The second observation that we can make about the miracle of walking on the water is that it is but another incident where Jesus becomes the Great Inviter. Think about it? Wherever Jesus went, whomever he spoke with, there was the invitation. Sometimes the invitations were rather blunt and simple: “Remove the log from your own eye before attempting to remove the speck from your neighbor’s eye”. Jesus invited people then and He invites us now to follow, to carry, to give up, to not look back, to seek, to serve and in today’s Gospel like Peter we are invited to step out. Jesus was and is the Great Inviter and that seems to have been the practical down to earth message of His ministry.

William Paul Young captures the invitational character of Jesus rather magnificently in his book THESHACK. Jesus and Mackenzie are walking on a dock by the lakeside. When they get to the end of the dock, Jesus says, to Mac, “after you”. “Why is this so hard for me” asks Mac. Jesus counters “what are you afraid of Mac?” “Well, responds Mac, “I am afraid of looking like an idiot. I am afraid that you are making fun of me and that I will sink like a rock. I imagine that….””Exactly” Jesus interrupted. You imagine. Such a powerful ability, the imagination! That power alone makes you so like us. But without wisdom, imagination is a cruel taskmaster”.

“Mackenzie” said Jesus, the person who lives by his fear will not find freedom in my love. I am not talking about rational fears regarding legitimate dangers, but imagined fears and especially the projection of those into the future. To the degree that those fears have a place in your life, you neither believe I am good nor know deep in your heart that I love you. “
Mac looked down once more at the water and breathed a huge sigh of the soul. “I have so far to go”.

“Only about a foot, it looks to me. Jesus laughed and then placed his hand on Mac’s shoulder. It was all he needed and he stepped off the dock”.

Maybe the final observation we can make about this miracle and a miracle in general is that they are more about the power, presence and identity of God, than they are about anything else. The focus in the walking of the water is not about Peter. It is about the identity of Jesus. The miracle is not about how much faith Peter or we can have so that through our own efforts we decide ultimately whether will sink or swim. No the great miracle is that Christ does not abandon us even when our faith is incomplete and imperfect. The real miracle is not so much that Jesus calmed the storm and the raging of the sea, but that He comes to us even when we have little faith. He comes to still the storms and the raging that is going on inside of us.

The episode ends when those in the boat worship Him and exclaim, “Truly you are the Son of God”. Similar words will be said about him by a centurion at the crucifixion. It is through worship, the acknowledgement that Jesus is Lord, that we proclaim the Good News and in the process are drawn closer to Him and perceive more truly who this Jesus is for us and for the world. (957)

William Paul Young, THE SHACK: WHERE TRAGEDY CONFORNTS ETERNITY. Windblown Media2007, pages 142ff.

July 31, 2011

2011-08-01T06:55:00.000-07:00

7^th Sunday After Pentecost

This week's reading from Genesis betrays one of the most popular lies of our culture. We've all been told it. Even more painful, we've each told it to ourselves. Even though deep down we know it's false, we still sometimes whisper it to ourselves, hoping it might be true. I suppose our attachment to this particular lie is understandable, as most of us learned it early in life. It goes like this: sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.

As most of us have learned over the years, of course, names do hurt. Whether they are names we have been called by others or those we have called ourselves, names hurt a lot. You know what I mean: names that exaggerate our inadequacies or herald our failures; names that expose our weaknesses or pay tribute to bad decisions. We wear these names on our backs like a snail does its shell, dragging them with us into each new episode, encounter, or chapter of our lives.

The main character in our Old Testament reading today had a name like that. From the day of his birth, Jacob was a trickster and an operator, grabbing and scrambling, figuring the angles to outsmart and outmaneuver his brother Esau -- indeed, cutting a deal to swindle him out of his rightful inheritance -- then later jockeying for economic advantage with his equally devious father-in-law, Laban. But -- as is always the case -- the day of reckoning was coming. After a long absence, Jacob is returning home, preparing to face his estranged brother Esau, whom he had defrauded. And it is under these circumstances that Jacob meets God.

God does not come to him as some sweet, forgiving presence. Rather, under the cloak of darkness, God comes as a mysterious adversary, appearing from nowhere to accost Jacob in a wrestling match. The struggle is lengthy and inconclusive, but Jacob hangs on for dear life, refuses to let go without receiving a blessing. And the blessing he receives includes a new name: Israel -- the one who strives with God. The name Israel recalls a protracted struggle in the dark -- a struggle that leaves Israel lame, permanently limping as a reminder of surviving a strange face-to-face encounter with God.

This is what Jacob runs smack into at the bridge at the river Jabbok. His hopes and fears. His dreams and nightmares. His past, present, and future, all tied up in his name. It's a strange story, make no mistake. If it sounds familiar, it's because many of its elements probably are. We're used to these kinds of mythic elements depicting turning points in the lives of heroes. Except that, up to now, Jacob hasn't been much of a hero.  

In fact, he's been pretty much an unrelenting scoundrel -- swindling his brother for his birthright and then cheating him of his blessing, Jacob fled his home to the backdrop of his brother's howls of grief and anger. Then, for the next fifteen odd years or so, he went head-to-head with his equally devious uncle Laban, squabbling and double-dealing over everything from wives to livestock, until he is once again on the run, this time bringing with him his family, servants, and all the wealth he can carry. Which is where today's reading picks up, as Jacob receives about the worst news he could imagine: Esau his brother is coming to meet him...with an army of 400 men.

Jacob is terrified. True to his nature, Jacob sends ahead of him gifts to bribe his brother's favor. After that he sends his wives and children, perhaps hoping that even if his brother can't be bribed, he will at least take pity on him. With everyone across the river, he paces its muddy bank, contemplating his dicey future. And then it happens: he is set upon by what must seem like an advance attack from one of his brother’s henchmen. They struggle all night, until as the sun comes up and the attacker's strength ebbs he reaches out and dislocates Jacob's hip. And then Jacob knows -- he is in the presence of something supernatural, and so he asks for a blessing.  

It's at this point that the story takes what may seem to modern ears a strange twist, as Jacob's opponent demands to know Jacob's name before he will bless him. But names in the ancient world are never simply names; rather, they are descriptors, tell-tales, indicators of one's very character. And Jacob's name -- literally, "heel" -- is no exception. For he was the one who was grasping at his twin brother's heel as they were born. And he's been grasping ever since -- living from his wits and cunning, trusting no one and proving himself untrustworthy at every step of the game. So when the attacker, who turns out to be the Lord, demands that Jacob confess -- confess his ill-gotten gains and checkered past, his fears and failures, his shifty arrangements and dubious social interactions -- he is asking Jacob to die. For nothing is more terrifying to the cheat and scoundrel than having to come clean, tell the truth, 'fess up.  

Once he does, however, an extraordinary thing happens: the Lord refuses to accept Jacob's confession as the end of the story, refuses to allow that Jacob's name is all there is to him. Indeed, the Lord gives Jacob a new name -- Israel -- the one who wrestled with God and humans and prevailed. It is an act of generosity and grace, as Jacob has wrestled but hardly prevailed. Yet with this new name, Jacob enters into a new future, and passes his name, faith, and future on to his descendants, who bear that name even until this day.

It is a strange story, but I find in it a profound corollary to a part of our own story, when we, too, gathered by water, were given a new name. At baptism that is just what happens, as we are given through water and the Holy Spirit the name of Christ. It's where the popular word "christening" comes from. Way before we used this word to name ships or homes, it described Holy Baptism, the place where we were, quite literally, Christ-ened, given the name of Christ and God's promise to regard us always as Christ.

So back to our names. The challenge and opportunity before us is to ask ourselves to confess -- to confess those names we've been called and call ourselves, the names that haunt us at night and pursue us during the day. We are called to share our fears and our failures, our setbacks and disappointments, our resentments and regrets. We are called to confess so that we might hear God's response, "You are more than that name that has been given to you in failure or weakness."  How many of us can even imagine, let alone believe, that in Baptism we have God's promise to regard and treat us always as God's own beloved children, even as God's own Beloved Child? But that is what we are. And so after we have died in our confessing we are raised to new life as God names us anew and calls us to life and love and abundance and grace. Names do hurt, sometimes very much, but they can also heal, and help, and raise to new life.

Today we are invited to tell the truth about who and what we are and then receive the Good News that there is a second truth, bigger and more expansive and far more gracious than we'd imagined, a second truth that creates an open future and girds us with the hope and the courage to embrace it. We are reminded me that whatever other names we may have collected over the years, our primary name is beloved, child of God.

Amen.