I preached today for the seminary chapel service. February 2 is the Festival of the Presentation, so the Gospel text was Luke 2:22-40. You can read the lesson and my sermon below.
Luke 2:22-40
When the time came for their purification according to the law of Moses, they brought him up to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord (as it is written in the law of the Lord, “Every firstborn male shall be designated as holy to the Lord”), and they offered a sacrifice according to what is stated in the law of the Lord, “a pair of turtledoves or two young pigeons.”
Now there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon; this man was righteous and devout, looking forward to the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit rested on him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. Guided by the Spirit, Simeon came into the temple; and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him what was customary under the law, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying,
“Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace,
according to your word;
for my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples,
a light for revelation to the Gentiles
and for glory to your people Israel.”
And the child’s father and mother were amazed at what was being said about him. Then Simeon blessed them and said to his mother Mary, “This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your own soul too.”
There was also a prophet, Anna the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher. She was of a great age, having lived with her husband seven years after her marriage, then as a widow to the age of eighty-four. She never left the temple but worshiped there with fasting and prayer night and day. At that moment she came, and began to praise God and to speak about the child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.
When they had finished everything required by the law of the Lord, they returned to Galilee, to their own town of Nazareth. The child grew and became strong, filled with wisdom; and the favor of God was upon him.
Sermon
God’s grace and peace be with you all.
As we gather today in worship, we are celebrating the festival of the Presentation. The Gospel of Luke tells us that Mary and Joseph, in accordance with the law, brought Jesus to the temple forty days after Jesus’ birth. They brought their sacrifice—two birds, because they could not afford the lamb—again following the instructions of the law. Luke is careful to emphasize the piety and proper obedience of this family.
But Luke is also eager to demonstrate the unique and extraordinary character of this family, and of course the infant Jesus most of all. Mary and Joseph are approached, even accosted, by the Spirit-driven Simeon. Simeon has a prophetic message to share about Jesus. The prophet Anna also speaks about the child in the Temple. As Luke’s readers, we can have no doubt that Jesus is the Messiah.
I can’t help but think that Mary was getting tired of strangers who had dramatic messages about her son. But Luke tells us that Mary and Joseph were amazed at what was being said. Certainly this was unexpected. Most first-born sons presented in the Temple did not rate a prophetic statement, much less two prophetic statements.
In the midst of ritual, in the familiar patterns of religious life, in the midst of the ordinary, God’s word breaks through in extraordinary ways. In bringing their firstborn son to the Temple to present him to God and make the expected sacrifice, Mary and Joseph are surprised by unexpected encounters with the divine through the prophetic utterances of Simeon and Anna.
God breaks in to the ordinary, the predictable, the expected. The same thing happens today. As I read this text, an example jumped immediately to my mind:
Three weeks ago, when the appointed time had come, and in accordance with the law, my husband and I went up to Denver to present ourselves to our candidacy committee, as it is written. Ordinary. Predictable. Expected.
Those of us who have gone through—or are still going through—the candidacy process know that it can at times seem painfully bureaucratic. We know why it’s necessary. But that doesn’t mean we always feel the presence of God in the process. It feels like law and not gospel, if I can use those terms: a requirement and not a blessing. The same could be said of the academic requirements of our seminary education, or even the practices of our liturgy.
In the face of our boredom and discouragement, the Festival of the Presentation tells us something quite remarkable and important: in this story, the law and the gospel are inextricably bound together. Mary and Joseph go to the Temple in accordance with God’s law, and they find there God’s good news. God’s divine action comes through the ordinary, predictable, expected actions of religious ritual. When Steve and I went to Denver to meet the candidacy committee, we met God there, too.
This is the promise for us in the Festival of the Presentation: the promise that, when we come to God in ordinary religious rituals, God will respond with the extraordinary. The promise that, when we are bored by predictability, God will surprise us. The promise that, when we feel like we are just going through the motions and doing what is expected, God will overwhelm us with the unexpected.
May we all come before God and be surprised. May we all experience God’s word breaking through our predictable rituals with a message of good news. May we all find our boredom and discouragement overcome by God’s unexpected, life-changing word. Amen.
Showing posts with label sermon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sermon. Show all posts
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Supply Preaching
I supplied at a congregation in Maryland this morning. Here's my sermon, based on the gospel reading from John 1.
Good morning. I am so glad to be with you all this morning. I pray for God’s grace and peace among us in our worship.
Last week, you may remember that the gospel reading was from Mark. And Mark talked about a familiar figure: John the Baptist. John is one of those characters you learn about as a kid in Sunday School, right? You remember him. He lived in the desert, ate locusts and honey, dressed in camel hair. Told people to repent of their sins and baptized them in the River Jordan. Eventually, he baptized Jesus, too, which was the kick-off for Jesus’ ministry. That’s John the Baptist.
Or rather, that’s the John the Baptist we heard about in Mark’s Gospel last week. Today, we’re reading from the Gospel of John, and this version of John the Baptist might seem like a totally different guy. For one thing, he’s never called “John the Baptist” in this Gospel. And although he does baptize people, that’s not really the essential thing here. What’s important for this Gospel is what we hear in the first verses of our reading: “There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light.” A witness. He came as a witness. The whole purpose of what John did was to be a witness to the light which was coming into the world.
In our Gospel reading for today, I think it would be better to talk about “John the Witness” than “John the Baptist.” In this Gospel, John’s primary role is to witness to Jesus Christ. And that’s exactly what he does. He tells the priests and Levites who question him, “Among you stands one whom you do not know, the one who is coming after me; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal.” John is acting as a witness to the one who is coming, the light, Jesus.
I want us to take a closer look at how John the Witness fulfills his role, how he testifies to Jesus’ coming into the world. The priests and Levites question John about his identity. They ask him if he is the Messiah, the hoped-for king of the Jews. John says, “I am not the Messiah.” They ask him if he is Elijah, the prophet who was expected to return before the Messiah came. John says, “I am not.” They ask him if he is the prophet, referring to a “prophet like Moses” whose appearance was also predicted. John says, “No.” Again and again, John defines himself in the negative, by saying who he is not. Finally, John admits that his identity is the voice of one crying out in the wilderness. But his identity, his role in this story about Jesus Christ, is primarily defined as the “I Am Not.”
Why does this matter? I think we are supposed to pay attention to John the “I Am Not,” because Jesus in John’s Gospel is the “I AM.” All those beautiful statements of Jesus: “I am the bread of life,” “I am the light of the world,” “I am the true vine,” “I am the good shepherd,” “I am the resurrection and the life”—all of these I AM statements come from the Gospel of John. Jesus is the “I AM,” and John the Witness is the “I Am Not.”
At the heart of it, John is telling the priests, “I am not God.” John is telling all of us, “I am not God.” And that’s a message we all need to hear. John is not God. I am not God. None of you is God. You know what I have to say to that? Thank God! My pastor once told me that every morning, when you look in the mirror, feeling anxious about the day ahead and all of your responsibilities, you should say to yourself, “There is only one savior of this world. And it’s not me.” Thank God. Thank God that we’re not God. The weight of the world doesn’t rest on your shoulders, or mine, or John’s. We don’t have to save the world. We don’t have to carry that burden. And thank God for that, because we can’t carry that burden. The savior, the resurrection and the life, the good shepherd, the light of the world—Jesus is all of those things. Jesus is the “I AM.” We are the “I Am Not.”
But if we’re not God, then who are we?
John freely admitted that he was not God. But John still had an important calling: he was a witness, a witness to the light of Christ that was coming into the world. We’re called to be witnesses, too. God doesn’t ask us to save the world. God doesn’t ask us to be in charge. God doesn’t ask us to be God. God asks us, calls us, to be witnesses like John. Why are we supposed to witness? To testify that Jesus is the light of the world, and we’re not. To testify that Jesus is the Messiah, and we’re not. To testify that Jesus is the one the whole world has been hoping for, aching for, longing for. Just like John, we are called to share that good news. We are called to be witnesses.
We’re in the season of Advent this month. We’re getting ready for Christmas and all that entails. As soon as we finished cooking those turkeys and mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving, we set out to buy Christmas gifts. We have to make sure we have something for everyone on our list, wrap all those gifts, put them in the mail. We have to decorate our houses, put up our Christmas trees, climb around on our roofs with lights and reindeer and Santa Claus. We have to make sure everything is clean for family visiting, stock the refrigerator, plan the holiday menu. We have to do so much to get ready for Christmas. But I think there’s one more thing we have to do. Each of us has to stop, and sit still, and say, “I am not God.”
Getting ready for Christmas is wonderful, but it’s not essential. The fate of the world is not at stake in our Christmas planning. In the season of Advent, we need to remember what’s really essential: that the light of the world came into the world, that Jesus is Christ, that God has come down to live with us because God loves us so much. We are not God. But we are called to be witnesses to the amazing love and grace God has given us. Amen.
Good morning. I am so glad to be with you all this morning. I pray for God’s grace and peace among us in our worship.
Last week, you may remember that the gospel reading was from Mark. And Mark talked about a familiar figure: John the Baptist. John is one of those characters you learn about as a kid in Sunday School, right? You remember him. He lived in the desert, ate locusts and honey, dressed in camel hair. Told people to repent of their sins and baptized them in the River Jordan. Eventually, he baptized Jesus, too, which was the kick-off for Jesus’ ministry. That’s John the Baptist.
Or rather, that’s the John the Baptist we heard about in Mark’s Gospel last week. Today, we’re reading from the Gospel of John, and this version of John the Baptist might seem like a totally different guy. For one thing, he’s never called “John the Baptist” in this Gospel. And although he does baptize people, that’s not really the essential thing here. What’s important for this Gospel is what we hear in the first verses of our reading: “There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light.” A witness. He came as a witness. The whole purpose of what John did was to be a witness to the light which was coming into the world.
In our Gospel reading for today, I think it would be better to talk about “John the Witness” than “John the Baptist.” In this Gospel, John’s primary role is to witness to Jesus Christ. And that’s exactly what he does. He tells the priests and Levites who question him, “Among you stands one whom you do not know, the one who is coming after me; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal.” John is acting as a witness to the one who is coming, the light, Jesus.
I want us to take a closer look at how John the Witness fulfills his role, how he testifies to Jesus’ coming into the world. The priests and Levites question John about his identity. They ask him if he is the Messiah, the hoped-for king of the Jews. John says, “I am not the Messiah.” They ask him if he is Elijah, the prophet who was expected to return before the Messiah came. John says, “I am not.” They ask him if he is the prophet, referring to a “prophet like Moses” whose appearance was also predicted. John says, “No.” Again and again, John defines himself in the negative, by saying who he is not. Finally, John admits that his identity is the voice of one crying out in the wilderness. But his identity, his role in this story about Jesus Christ, is primarily defined as the “I Am Not.”
Why does this matter? I think we are supposed to pay attention to John the “I Am Not,” because Jesus in John’s Gospel is the “I AM.” All those beautiful statements of Jesus: “I am the bread of life,” “I am the light of the world,” “I am the true vine,” “I am the good shepherd,” “I am the resurrection and the life”—all of these I AM statements come from the Gospel of John. Jesus is the “I AM,” and John the Witness is the “I Am Not.”
At the heart of it, John is telling the priests, “I am not God.” John is telling all of us, “I am not God.” And that’s a message we all need to hear. John is not God. I am not God. None of you is God. You know what I have to say to that? Thank God! My pastor once told me that every morning, when you look in the mirror, feeling anxious about the day ahead and all of your responsibilities, you should say to yourself, “There is only one savior of this world. And it’s not me.” Thank God. Thank God that we’re not God. The weight of the world doesn’t rest on your shoulders, or mine, or John’s. We don’t have to save the world. We don’t have to carry that burden. And thank God for that, because we can’t carry that burden. The savior, the resurrection and the life, the good shepherd, the light of the world—Jesus is all of those things. Jesus is the “I AM.” We are the “I Am Not.”
But if we’re not God, then who are we?
John freely admitted that he was not God. But John still had an important calling: he was a witness, a witness to the light of Christ that was coming into the world. We’re called to be witnesses, too. God doesn’t ask us to save the world. God doesn’t ask us to be in charge. God doesn’t ask us to be God. God asks us, calls us, to be witnesses like John. Why are we supposed to witness? To testify that Jesus is the light of the world, and we’re not. To testify that Jesus is the Messiah, and we’re not. To testify that Jesus is the one the whole world has been hoping for, aching for, longing for. Just like John, we are called to share that good news. We are called to be witnesses.
We’re in the season of Advent this month. We’re getting ready for Christmas and all that entails. As soon as we finished cooking those turkeys and mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving, we set out to buy Christmas gifts. We have to make sure we have something for everyone on our list, wrap all those gifts, put them in the mail. We have to decorate our houses, put up our Christmas trees, climb around on our roofs with lights and reindeer and Santa Claus. We have to make sure everything is clean for family visiting, stock the refrigerator, plan the holiday menu. We have to do so much to get ready for Christmas. But I think there’s one more thing we have to do. Each of us has to stop, and sit still, and say, “I am not God.”
Getting ready for Christmas is wonderful, but it’s not essential. The fate of the world is not at stake in our Christmas planning. In the season of Advent, we need to remember what’s really essential: that the light of the world came into the world, that Jesus is Christ, that God has come down to live with us because God loves us so much. We are not God. But we are called to be witnesses to the amazing love and grace God has given us. Amen.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Follow-up to Pentecost Sermon
The sermon this past Sunday was a success. After I preached my written sermon (below), I invited people to turn to their neighbors and share with one another how God was speaking to them. Then I invited those who were willing to share with the whole congregation. Probably a dozen people spoke up. It was really powerful to hear the congregation participating and getting involved in the preaching experience. As I said on Sunday, thanks be to God for the Holy Spirit working among us!
Friday, June 10, 2011
June 12 - Pentecost Sermon
This Sunday will be my last sermon at my internship site. It's Pentecost, so I'm doing something creative and (gasp!) Spirit-led. I'm focusing primarily on the Acts 2 text, the story of Pentecost. We're going to have congregants speaking in many languages as part of the reading. Then I want to encourage further participation in the sermon itself. Check it out! I'll let you know how it turns out.
Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
When I was in high school, I attended an event called Invitation to Service. It’s a youth event, a discernment retreat for teenagers to help answer the question: What is God’s call for your life?
I first attended Invitation to Service when I was 16, and I’ve been back every summer since then except one. Invitation to Service is one of the main reasons I’m standing here today, nearing the end of my seminary internship, preparing to become a pastor.
Invitation to Service is a powerful event, and I want to share with you one part of that three-day retreat. Every year, the youth who attend ITS have a mountaintop experience. They go for a hike up a mountain (or, as a child of the Rockies like me would say, a glorified hill) and get to hear a story—a call story, the story of how one pastor heard God’s call and followed it.
But it’s actually what happens after that mountain top experience that I really want you to hear. After the youth hike back down the hill, there’s a block of time set aside for a kind of open mic, a time called “How is God Speaking to You?”
These youth at Invitation to Service have heard pastors, leaders, adults talking about God’s call. But then the question is posed to them: How is God speaking to you? It is a time for their voices to be heard, for them to speak up. And they do, every year. It’s a blessed and a heartwrenching time. These youth speak about their hurts and their fears, their encounters with illness, loss, and death. They speak about their hopes and their dreams, their passions for the world around them. They speak up to say how God is calling them, how God is acting in their lives.
In our reading from Acts this morning, Peter quotes the Hebrew prophet Joel: “In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy.” Your sons and your daughters shall prophesy. Your young men and women shall see visions, and your old men and women shall dream dreams.
These words from Joel allow Peter to interpret what was happening on that day of Pentecost. We’re familiar with the story—after Jesus ascends into heaven, the followers of Jesus are gathered together. A rushing wind fills the house, and tongues of fire rest on each of them. Suddenly, they gain the ability to speak in many languages, every language of the earth. And you can imagine how they came tumbling out of the house and into the street, speaking a jumble of foreign words, somehow proclaiming the power of God to the startled crowds. It was something none of them had experienced before. I think Jesus’ followers, this early Christian community, must have been as bewildered as the crowds were. Some of these listeners wonder what is happening. Others make jokes at the expense of the followers of Jesus.
Peter steps forward to explain what is happening, and he uses the words of Joel: In the last days, God declares, I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy. Peter identifies the work of the Holy Spirit in all those languages. The followers of Jesus are able to proclaim God’s deeds of power because of the power of the Spirit.
I know that same Spirit was working within and among the youth at Invitation to Service. It is the Holy Spirit that inspires these young people to stand up and proclaim how God is working in their lives. The Holy Spirit commissions many languages, many voices, working together to tell one amazing story.
The Holy Spirit inspires God’s faithful people to speak in many voices. That tells us something important about God. God does not want all God’s people to speak one language. God does not want us all to say the same things, in the same language. God wants and needs people to speak in many languages, with many words. In short, God’s kingdom is founded on diversity. The people of God should not look the same, sound the same, speak the same, act the same. The people of God, when the Holy Spirit is working among us, are diverse. We speak all the languages of the world—you heard many of those languages in this very space this morning. We have different stories, hopes and fears, like the young people at Invitation to Service. We have different visions and dreams for the world and for God’s church. And through the Holy Spirit, God lifts up and blesses all of that diversity, all of our differences.
I warned you at the beginning of the service that this sermon would require congregational participation. Now I can tell you why. The Holy Spirit empowers many voices, not just mine. I can’t preach a sermon about the diversity of God's kingdom if I’m the only one who speaks. So I have a question for you, the same question posed to the youth at Invitation to Service: How is God speaking to you? How do you see the Holy Spirit working in your life or in the world around you? What story of God’s power do you have to tell? What are your fears, your pains; what are your dreams and hopes? How is God speaking to you?
[At this point there will be time for other people to speak. When they're finished, I'll say a few more words to wrap things up.]
Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
When I was in high school, I attended an event called Invitation to Service. It’s a youth event, a discernment retreat for teenagers to help answer the question: What is God’s call for your life?
I first attended Invitation to Service when I was 16, and I’ve been back every summer since then except one. Invitation to Service is one of the main reasons I’m standing here today, nearing the end of my seminary internship, preparing to become a pastor.
Invitation to Service is a powerful event, and I want to share with you one part of that three-day retreat. Every year, the youth who attend ITS have a mountaintop experience. They go for a hike up a mountain (or, as a child of the Rockies like me would say, a glorified hill) and get to hear a story—a call story, the story of how one pastor heard God’s call and followed it.
But it’s actually what happens after that mountain top experience that I really want you to hear. After the youth hike back down the hill, there’s a block of time set aside for a kind of open mic, a time called “How is God Speaking to You?”
These youth at Invitation to Service have heard pastors, leaders, adults talking about God’s call. But then the question is posed to them: How is God speaking to you? It is a time for their voices to be heard, for them to speak up. And they do, every year. It’s a blessed and a heartwrenching time. These youth speak about their hurts and their fears, their encounters with illness, loss, and death. They speak about their hopes and their dreams, their passions for the world around them. They speak up to say how God is calling them, how God is acting in their lives.
In our reading from Acts this morning, Peter quotes the Hebrew prophet Joel: “In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy.” Your sons and your daughters shall prophesy. Your young men and women shall see visions, and your old men and women shall dream dreams.
These words from Joel allow Peter to interpret what was happening on that day of Pentecost. We’re familiar with the story—after Jesus ascends into heaven, the followers of Jesus are gathered together. A rushing wind fills the house, and tongues of fire rest on each of them. Suddenly, they gain the ability to speak in many languages, every language of the earth. And you can imagine how they came tumbling out of the house and into the street, speaking a jumble of foreign words, somehow proclaiming the power of God to the startled crowds. It was something none of them had experienced before. I think Jesus’ followers, this early Christian community, must have been as bewildered as the crowds were. Some of these listeners wonder what is happening. Others make jokes at the expense of the followers of Jesus.
Peter steps forward to explain what is happening, and he uses the words of Joel: In the last days, God declares, I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy. Peter identifies the work of the Holy Spirit in all those languages. The followers of Jesus are able to proclaim God’s deeds of power because of the power of the Spirit.
I know that same Spirit was working within and among the youth at Invitation to Service. It is the Holy Spirit that inspires these young people to stand up and proclaim how God is working in their lives. The Holy Spirit commissions many languages, many voices, working together to tell one amazing story.
The Holy Spirit inspires God’s faithful people to speak in many voices. That tells us something important about God. God does not want all God’s people to speak one language. God does not want us all to say the same things, in the same language. God wants and needs people to speak in many languages, with many words. In short, God’s kingdom is founded on diversity. The people of God should not look the same, sound the same, speak the same, act the same. The people of God, when the Holy Spirit is working among us, are diverse. We speak all the languages of the world—you heard many of those languages in this very space this morning. We have different stories, hopes and fears, like the young people at Invitation to Service. We have different visions and dreams for the world and for God’s church. And through the Holy Spirit, God lifts up and blesses all of that diversity, all of our differences.
I warned you at the beginning of the service that this sermon would require congregational participation. Now I can tell you why. The Holy Spirit empowers many voices, not just mine. I can’t preach a sermon about the diversity of God's kingdom if I’m the only one who speaks. So I have a question for you, the same question posed to the youth at Invitation to Service: How is God speaking to you? How do you see the Holy Spirit working in your life or in the world around you? What story of God’s power do you have to tell? What are your fears, your pains; what are your dreams and hopes? How is God speaking to you?
[At this point there will be time for other people to speak. When they're finished, I'll say a few more words to wrap things up.]
Sunday, May 15, 2011
May 15 Sermon
Here's my sermon for this morning, based on the John 10:1-10 text (in which Jesus declares, "I am the Gate for the sheep."). I made use of some images, so I embedded those in the sermon text at roughly the correct places.
Grace and peace to you from our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
"I am the gate for the sheep," Jesus says. "I am the gate." The Gospel of John is punctuated by seven famous "I AM" statements, from "I am the bread of life" to "I am the true vine." Perhaps "I am the gate" is not the most familiar, since it's not quite as dramatic as "I am the light of the world" or "I am the resurrection and the life."
When you hear our gospel reading this morning, with its talk of sheep and shepherds, bandits and gatekeepers, you may be expecting to hear another famous "I AM" statement: "I am the good shepherd." In fact, that statement comes just after the end of today's gospel reading. But this morning, Jesus does not identify himself as the good shepherd. Instead, he wants us to see him as the gate for the sheep.
I don't know about you, but I'm not very familiar with sheep farming. Perhaps some of you grew up on farms or in farming communities. Maybe you raised sheep. But I suspect that, like me, many of you are more familiar with government contractors than you are with nomadic shepherds.
For many of us, the agricultural language that would have been so familiar to Jesus' followers is worlds away from our own experience. When we think of gates, is this what comes to mind? A departure gate? Jesus saying, "I am the gate for the airline commuters?" And then maybe we could rewrite Jesus' parable: "Truly I tell you, anyone who does not enter the airport through the TSA security checkpoint but sneaks in another way is a threat and a terrorist. Please report any suspicious activity to airport personnel." That doesn't have quite the same ring, does it?
I think we often read this passage in John like it's describing airport security. You have to go through the checkpoint - pass a test - in order to get to God. When Jesus says, "No one comes to the Father except through me," we interpret that to mean that the "right people," the ones who believe in Jesus, are allowed past the checkpoint, while the "wrong people" are kept out. That's how TSA works, right? After all, the TSA, the security checkpoints, all the precautions we have to go through every time we want to fly - that's all intended to keep the wrong people, the "bad guys," out.
To be honest, I don't think Jesus would have used airport security as a way to describe himself. I don't think Jesus intended for us to focus on excluding others. I don't think the purpose of the gate was to be closed against the "wrong people." I'm not sure there were any "wrong people" in Jesus' eyes.
Maybe we do need to let ourselves sink into the language of the nomadic shepherds from Jesus' time. The sheepfold was not a permanent structure, fixed in place. Shepherds would travel with their flocks from location to location, looking for the best places to graze and for good sources of water. The shepherd would build a fence or wall of brush to enclose the sheep and keep them safe at night.
Jesus reminds us of this nomadic way of life in our gospel reading when he says, "The sheep hear the shepherd's voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out." The sheepfold is not a permanent destination for the sheep; the shepherd leads them out through the gate and on to a new pasture. Whether going in or coming out, the gate is the open door that lets the sheep follow the shepherd's caring guidance.
If we are the sheep and the Lord is our shepherd, as Psalm 23 says so beautifully, then we can learn something from this nomadic lifestyle. Jesus, the gate, isn't the way into a permanent heavenly resting place. Our shepherd is constantly leading us on to new and better pastures. Sometimes, the gate lets us in to a safe place to rest; other times, the gate lets us out into the wider world, following and trusting the shepherd.
Having God as our shepherd and Jesus as the gate is vastly different from our experiences with airport security. God is not creating a "checkpoint," to only let through those who follow the rules and to keep out undesirables. And God is not letting us in to a permanent pasture-like heaven. Being one of God's sheep means being on the move, being led out into the world. The gate is open to us both coming and going.
Above all, having God as our shepherd means we are watched over, cared for, and loved. God leads us to green pastures and still waters. God welcomes us, opening the gate for us again and again. Today, God opens the gate for a large group of our children to receive communion for the first time. God welcomes all of us to the table, to the baptismal font. God welcomes us to worship. Then God welcomes us back into the world God made, leading us out through the gate to take to others the same love and care we have received.
In the housing development where my husband grew up, there was a road that led into the neighborhood. At the entrance, there was a large sign that said "Nellie Gail Ranch" - the name of the community. On either side of the road were large metal gates, wide enough to stretch across the road. But these gates literally could not be closed - they had no hinges. They were bolted to the ground. The gates were there to make you feel welcome as you arrived. These gates were not capable of keeping anyone out - their purpose was to welcome people in.
Jesus says, "I am the gate for the sheep." Jesus is the invitation, the open door that welcomes us into God's loving care. Jesus is the gate that lets us into God's pasture, and Jesus is the gate that sends us back into the world. Amen.
Grace and peace to you from our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
"I am the gate for the sheep," Jesus says. "I am the gate." The Gospel of John is punctuated by seven famous "I AM" statements, from "I am the bread of life" to "I am the true vine." Perhaps "I am the gate" is not the most familiar, since it's not quite as dramatic as "I am the light of the world" or "I am the resurrection and the life."
When you hear our gospel reading this morning, with its talk of sheep and shepherds, bandits and gatekeepers, you may be expecting to hear another famous "I AM" statement: "I am the good shepherd." In fact, that statement comes just after the end of today's gospel reading. But this morning, Jesus does not identify himself as the good shepherd. Instead, he wants us to see him as the gate for the sheep.
I don't know about you, but I'm not very familiar with sheep farming. Perhaps some of you grew up on farms or in farming communities. Maybe you raised sheep. But I suspect that, like me, many of you are more familiar with government contractors than you are with nomadic shepherds.
For many of us, the agricultural language that would have been so familiar to Jesus' followers is worlds away from our own experience. When we think of gates, is this what comes to mind? A departure gate? Jesus saying, "I am the gate for the airline commuters?" And then maybe we could rewrite Jesus' parable: "Truly I tell you, anyone who does not enter the airport through the TSA security checkpoint but sneaks in another way is a threat and a terrorist. Please report any suspicious activity to airport personnel." That doesn't have quite the same ring, does it?
I think we often read this passage in John like it's describing airport security. You have to go through the checkpoint - pass a test - in order to get to God. When Jesus says, "No one comes to the Father except through me," we interpret that to mean that the "right people," the ones who believe in Jesus, are allowed past the checkpoint, while the "wrong people" are kept out. That's how TSA works, right? After all, the TSA, the security checkpoints, all the precautions we have to go through every time we want to fly - that's all intended to keep the wrong people, the "bad guys," out.
To be honest, I don't think Jesus would have used airport security as a way to describe himself. I don't think Jesus intended for us to focus on excluding others. I don't think the purpose of the gate was to be closed against the "wrong people." I'm not sure there were any "wrong people" in Jesus' eyes.
Maybe we do need to let ourselves sink into the language of the nomadic shepherds from Jesus' time. The sheepfold was not a permanent structure, fixed in place. Shepherds would travel with their flocks from location to location, looking for the best places to graze and for good sources of water. The shepherd would build a fence or wall of brush to enclose the sheep and keep them safe at night.
Jesus reminds us of this nomadic way of life in our gospel reading when he says, "The sheep hear the shepherd's voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out." The sheepfold is not a permanent destination for the sheep; the shepherd leads them out through the gate and on to a new pasture. Whether going in or coming out, the gate is the open door that lets the sheep follow the shepherd's caring guidance.
If we are the sheep and the Lord is our shepherd, as Psalm 23 says so beautifully, then we can learn something from this nomadic lifestyle. Jesus, the gate, isn't the way into a permanent heavenly resting place. Our shepherd is constantly leading us on to new and better pastures. Sometimes, the gate lets us in to a safe place to rest; other times, the gate lets us out into the wider world, following and trusting the shepherd.
Having God as our shepherd and Jesus as the gate is vastly different from our experiences with airport security. God is not creating a "checkpoint," to only let through those who follow the rules and to keep out undesirables. And God is not letting us in to a permanent pasture-like heaven. Being one of God's sheep means being on the move, being led out into the world. The gate is open to us both coming and going.
Above all, having God as our shepherd means we are watched over, cared for, and loved. God leads us to green pastures and still waters. God welcomes us, opening the gate for us again and again. Today, God opens the gate for a large group of our children to receive communion for the first time. God welcomes all of us to the table, to the baptismal font. God welcomes us to worship. Then God welcomes us back into the world God made, leading us out through the gate to take to others the same love and care we have received.
In the housing development where my husband grew up, there was a road that led into the neighborhood. At the entrance, there was a large sign that said "Nellie Gail Ranch" - the name of the community. On either side of the road were large metal gates, wide enough to stretch across the road. But these gates literally could not be closed - they had no hinges. They were bolted to the ground. The gates were there to make you feel welcome as you arrived. These gates were not capable of keeping anyone out - their purpose was to welcome people in.
Jesus says, "I am the gate for the sheep." Jesus is the invitation, the open door that welcomes us into God's loving care. Jesus is the gate that lets us into God's pasture, and Jesus is the gate that sends us back into the world. Amen.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Palm/Passion Sunday sermon
I'm preaching this morning for the awkwardly named Palm/Passion Sunday. There's a challenge with this festival every year - how much of the story do you tell? If people only come to hear about the palms and the hosannas, and then come back for Easter, they're missing a vital part of the story (yes, that cross thing matters). At the same time, I think it's important to respect the integrity of the festival of Palm Sunday and not steal from Maundy Thursday and Good Friday.
So, I tried to balance the royal entry with the Passion narrative. We had three gospel readings for the service. Matthew 21:1-11 was the processional gospel, telling the story of Jesus' royal entry into Jerusalem. During the Word section of the service, we read Matthew 21:23-46, emphasizing Jesus' conflicts with the religious authorities and their desire to get rid of him. (We also used Psalm 118, which tied in nicely with the "chief cornerstone" image.) Then at the end of the service, in place of a benediction, we read Matthew 26:1-5,14-25. This ends ominously with Jesus predicting his betrayal and Judas saying, "Surely not I, Rabbi?" Jesus responds, "You have said so." The congregation then leaves singing "Jesus, Remember Me." My hope is that this sets the stage for Holy Week, reminds us that the triumphal entry is not the real reason Jesus came to Jerusalem, and leaves people feeling unsettled.
Anyway, somewhere in the midst of all of that is my sermon. And here it is for your reading pleasure:
So today is Palm Sunday, the Sunday of the Passion. We celebrate a complicated festival today because we worship a complicated God, a God who defies expectations and breaks free from every limit. This is good news! But it should also be a word of warning to us. How do we try to contain God? How to we try to limit Jesus? What expectations do we have that will be turned on their heads?
From time to time, we are like the crowds shouting "Hosanna!" outside the city. We assume that God will solve our civil and political problems, taking charge over human affairs. We claim that God favors our nation, our people. We set God up as an earthly king.
From time to time, we are like the priests, thinking we can trap God with our words. We try to bargain with God - promising our loyalty in return for God's support. Or we act like those wicked tenants from Jesus' parable. We believe that we can behave wickedly and manage to steal the blessings that God provides.
From time to time, we are even like Judas. When God does something we don't like, something that frightens or intimidates us, we turn our backs. We refuse to follow where God is leading. We would rather betray God than accept God.
We have so many expectations of God - expectations of what we think God should do, and expectations of what we think God shouldn't do. Expectations about what God accepts and what God rejects. Expectations about what God wants - either from us or from others. Too often, we try to force God into a box of our making.
Yet Palm/Passion Sunday, this awkward festival, reminds us that God will not be contained. Whether we expect a king or a dead man, Jesus will surprise us. No matter what kind of box - or tomb - we try to force Jesus into, he will burst free in the most unexpected ways.
Jesus will always surprise us. This is good news indeed. It frees us from our limiting expectations, our petty ideas of what God can be. Because God is far greater than we can begin to imagine. The crowds welcoming Jesus into Jerusalem thought that an earthly king was the greatest possibility. The priests and elders couldn’t imagine a new reality. Yet God brings us this new reality, this new life. If we allow ourselves to be surprised by Jesus, the humble king, we will step into a new life with him.
So, I tried to balance the royal entry with the Passion narrative. We had three gospel readings for the service. Matthew 21:1-11 was the processional gospel, telling the story of Jesus' royal entry into Jerusalem. During the Word section of the service, we read Matthew 21:23-46, emphasizing Jesus' conflicts with the religious authorities and their desire to get rid of him. (We also used Psalm 118, which tied in nicely with the "chief cornerstone" image.) Then at the end of the service, in place of a benediction, we read Matthew 26:1-5,14-25. This ends ominously with Jesus predicting his betrayal and Judas saying, "Surely not I, Rabbi?" Jesus responds, "You have said so." The congregation then leaves singing "Jesus, Remember Me." My hope is that this sets the stage for Holy Week, reminds us that the triumphal entry is not the real reason Jesus came to Jerusalem, and leaves people feeling unsettled.
Anyway, somewhere in the midst of all of that is my sermon. And here it is for your reading pleasure:
Grace, mercy, and peace be with you all in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
We celebrate many festivals and holy days in our church year. Our greatest holiday, Easter, is just a week away. We celebrate Christmas, Epiphany, the Baptism of Jesus, the Transfiguration. We have a day commemorating Pentecost and a day to celebrate the Holy Trinity. We have a Sunday to remember the Reformation and we have a Sunday to remember the faithful who have died.
Yet out of all our festivals, today's might be the most confused. The church has taken to calling this day Palm slash Passion Sunday. We call to mind Jesus' royal entry into Jerusalem, with palm branches and crowds shouting "Hosanna!" Yet we also remember Jesus' conflicts with the authorities of his time, his betrayal, his arrest, humiliation, and eventual death.
So what exactly is this festival, this Palm slash Passion Sunday, all about? Do we remember Jesus as the powerful Son of God, the heir to the royal line of David? Or do we remember Jesus as the lowly one, betrayed, going to his death? We could ask the same question about this whole week, this Holy Week, that stretches ahead of us. What do we remember about Jesus - the royal entry, the last supper, the betrayal and arrest, the cross? The empty tomb that we know lies at the end of this journey?
I think the celebration of this holiday is so complex, even confusing, because we have a God - a savior - who is complex. Jesus defies expectations at every turn. He refuses to be pigeonholed, refuses to be limited. Jesus constantly surprises us by being so much more than we expect him to be.
Look at the crowds who welcomed Jesus into Jerusalem. By calling him "the Son of David" and shouting "Hosanna!" they are praising Jesus as a king. Jesus is lifted up as the heir of the royal line, stretching all the way back to King David. The crowd identifies Jesus as a political figure, a promised Jewish king in opposition to the foreign Roman rule. Yet Jesus will upset their expectations, for a royal heir should not be shamefully executed. Jesus does not come to Jerusalem as an earthly king.
Look again at the priests, the religious authorities in the Temple. Almost as soon as Jesus enters Jerusalem, he goes to the Temple - the heart not only of Jewish religion, but Jewish life. The chief priests and elders try to trap Jesus with their words, try to contain his power and authority. But Jesus will not be contained. In fact, he turns the situation around and traps them in their words instead. His parables about the two sons and the wicked tenants are clearly meant to shame the religious authorities. The priests are a like a child who claims to do the will of the parent but actually does nothing. The leaders in the Temple are like tenants of an absentee landlord, who think they can seize the inheritance by killing the heir. Their own words condemn them when they say, "The landlord will put those wretches to a miserable death, and lease the vineyard to other tenants who will give him the produce at the harvest time."
At the end of our service today, you will hear the story of Judas, who tried to contain and control Jesus by betraying him. Yet Jesus cannot be stopped even by the authority of the Roman Empire or the very power of death itself. No limitations can restrict him. No expectations can encompass him. Jesus is a surprise to everyone, whether the crowds, the priests, or his own disciples.
Sometimes, our clearest expectations are completely reversed. The expectations of the crowds, the priests, even Judas, are turned on their heads by Jesus. I’m reminded of a Native American story about Coyote. Now, Coyote is the trickster character, the one who’s always trying to fool or ensnare others. But more often than not, Coyote gets his comeuppance. In one story about Coyote, he sees a rabbit out in the open. He sneaks up behind a log to get a closer look. The little rabbit sits there, very still, brown-grey in color. Coyote laughs to himself—this rabbit is oblivious, it has no idea what’s coming. Coyote craws quietly around the log, getting closer and closer to the rabbit. Finally, he pounces, mouth wide open—and breaks all his teeth, for it was not a rabbit but a rock he was hunting. Just when our expectations are the strongest, sometimes we are in for a shock. Perhaps the people who watched Jesus as he entered Jerusalem, the priests who eyed him in the Temple, were about to find out that he was not a humble rabbit, but a stone—the chief cornerstone, as Jesus himself says.We celebrate many festivals and holy days in our church year. Our greatest holiday, Easter, is just a week away. We celebrate Christmas, Epiphany, the Baptism of Jesus, the Transfiguration. We have a day commemorating Pentecost and a day to celebrate the Holy Trinity. We have a Sunday to remember the Reformation and we have a Sunday to remember the faithful who have died.
Yet out of all our festivals, today's might be the most confused. The church has taken to calling this day Palm slash Passion Sunday. We call to mind Jesus' royal entry into Jerusalem, with palm branches and crowds shouting "Hosanna!" Yet we also remember Jesus' conflicts with the authorities of his time, his betrayal, his arrest, humiliation, and eventual death.
So what exactly is this festival, this Palm slash Passion Sunday, all about? Do we remember Jesus as the powerful Son of God, the heir to the royal line of David? Or do we remember Jesus as the lowly one, betrayed, going to his death? We could ask the same question about this whole week, this Holy Week, that stretches ahead of us. What do we remember about Jesus - the royal entry, the last supper, the betrayal and arrest, the cross? The empty tomb that we know lies at the end of this journey?
I think the celebration of this holiday is so complex, even confusing, because we have a God - a savior - who is complex. Jesus defies expectations at every turn. He refuses to be pigeonholed, refuses to be limited. Jesus constantly surprises us by being so much more than we expect him to be.
Look at the crowds who welcomed Jesus into Jerusalem. By calling him "the Son of David" and shouting "Hosanna!" they are praising Jesus as a king. Jesus is lifted up as the heir of the royal line, stretching all the way back to King David. The crowd identifies Jesus as a political figure, a promised Jewish king in opposition to the foreign Roman rule. Yet Jesus will upset their expectations, for a royal heir should not be shamefully executed. Jesus does not come to Jerusalem as an earthly king.
Look again at the priests, the religious authorities in the Temple. Almost as soon as Jesus enters Jerusalem, he goes to the Temple - the heart not only of Jewish religion, but Jewish life. The chief priests and elders try to trap Jesus with their words, try to contain his power and authority. But Jesus will not be contained. In fact, he turns the situation around and traps them in their words instead. His parables about the two sons and the wicked tenants are clearly meant to shame the religious authorities. The priests are a like a child who claims to do the will of the parent but actually does nothing. The leaders in the Temple are like tenants of an absentee landlord, who think they can seize the inheritance by killing the heir. Their own words condemn them when they say, "The landlord will put those wretches to a miserable death, and lease the vineyard to other tenants who will give him the produce at the harvest time."
At the end of our service today, you will hear the story of Judas, who tried to contain and control Jesus by betraying him. Yet Jesus cannot be stopped even by the authority of the Roman Empire or the very power of death itself. No limitations can restrict him. No expectations can encompass him. Jesus is a surprise to everyone, whether the crowds, the priests, or his own disciples.
So today is Palm Sunday, the Sunday of the Passion. We celebrate a complicated festival today because we worship a complicated God, a God who defies expectations and breaks free from every limit. This is good news! But it should also be a word of warning to us. How do we try to contain God? How to we try to limit Jesus? What expectations do we have that will be turned on their heads?
From time to time, we are like the crowds shouting "Hosanna!" outside the city. We assume that God will solve our civil and political problems, taking charge over human affairs. We claim that God favors our nation, our people. We set God up as an earthly king.
From time to time, we are like the priests, thinking we can trap God with our words. We try to bargain with God - promising our loyalty in return for God's support. Or we act like those wicked tenants from Jesus' parable. We believe that we can behave wickedly and manage to steal the blessings that God provides.
From time to time, we are even like Judas. When God does something we don't like, something that frightens or intimidates us, we turn our backs. We refuse to follow where God is leading. We would rather betray God than accept God.
We have so many expectations of God - expectations of what we think God should do, and expectations of what we think God shouldn't do. Expectations about what God accepts and what God rejects. Expectations about what God wants - either from us or from others. Too often, we try to force God into a box of our making.
Yet Palm/Passion Sunday, this awkward festival, reminds us that God will not be contained. Whether we expect a king or a dead man, Jesus will surprise us. No matter what kind of box - or tomb - we try to force Jesus into, he will burst free in the most unexpected ways.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Funeral Sermon - Vernon Stuart Foote, Jr.
I've decided to post the sermon that I wrote for my grandfather's funeral, which was back in February. It was my first time preaching a funeral sermon, and I was honored to be able to do this for him and for my family.
Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
Let me begin by saying that I am deeply honored and profoundly saddened to address you all today. On behalf of my grandfather's family, I thank you for being here today and for your expressions of love and support.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that the Foote family loves to tell stories. This fact probably comes as no surprise to any of you here today. Get two or three – or sometimes just one – of us together, and the stories will flow like water. And the stories we love to tell the most are stories about ourselves. Family stories.
Stories about Marilou's fear of heights. Stories about Lise or Stuart or Kim getting into trouble as children. Like the story about Lise running away and taking the baby Kim with her. Or about the time the kids and Stuart, my grandfather, decided to determine the relative densities of everything in the liquor cabinet, which could only be done by trial and error. Or about Stuart standing on Marilou's wedding dress but being unable to hear her whispered, “Stuart! You're on my dress!” until she said it loud enough for everyone in the wedding congregation to hear.
Funerals, I think, are the best time to tell stories. When we are grieving, when we are lonely, when we feel abandoned – then we need to remember, to share, and to laugh together. We need to tell stories. I have no doubt that everyone here today has a story to tell about Stuart. My hope and my advice for you is that you share your stories with one another today and in the weeks to come, as we all fondly remember Stuart.
The stories about my grandfather reveal who he was: an intelligent, dedicated, loyal man who loved his family. I'll tell you just one story that is special to me, because it's the story of how Stuart saved me as a baby. We were at the family house in Vermont one winter when I was only a year and a half old, and there was lots of snow in the sloping backyard. My grandfather took me on his lap as he sledded all the way down the hill - through the blueberry bushes at the bottom - and into the freezing creek. The sled tipped and he would have landed on top of me in the water. In order to protect me, he wrenched himself around and lifted me up to safety. He broke three ribs in the process, and of course he didn't go to the doctor because after all, they're just ribs.
That, to me, is a perfect story about Stuart - that was his dedication to the people he loved. He didn't hesitate to put himself in harm's way to protect others. He did what needed to be done. And we could all laugh about it later.
Story telling. It's the way we remember our past. It's the way we grieve and celebrate those we love who have died. The Foote family loves to tell family stories. And today we also remember another kind of story, a story that we are all a part of: the story of faith.
As Christians, we tell the story of our faith, the saving story of God's grace. God's mercy and love is a story that stretches from the prophet Isaiah proclaiming hope to God's people, through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, to the faithful proclamation of Paul, and down to us here today. When we read the Scriptures, when we recall the words of Christ and proclaim the Gospel, we are telling the story again and again.
As we tell this story, we are woven into it ourselves. The story of faith becomes our story. The ancient promises become our promises. When we tell the story of Isaiah's prophecy that "Those who wait for the LORD shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles," we ourselves are lifted up. When we tell the story of Christ's promises that "Because I live, you also will live," we are holding onto those promises ourselves. We are wrapped up into this same story, connected like threads woven into a great tapestry.
The story of Scripture is the long story of God’s love and grace. God brought a message of salvation to the people of Israel through the prophets. Jesus brought the message of salvation to his disciples and followers. And we hear that same story today in our own lives. We can trust that Stuart is held in God’s loving care until the promised resurrection. We can trust in God’s promises and in God’s love.
Indeed, love is the heart of this great story. As Paul writes to the Corinthians, “Love never ends.” All the impermanent things of this life - sickness and death, grief and pain - will pass away, but love will always remain. God’s love for us is eternal. So is our love for Stuart and for one another. Paul reminds us that faith, hope, and love will remain; and the greatest of these is love.
Story telling: it’s a favorite family activity, and it’s a central part of our faith. As we remember Stuart, I pray that we can share our stories of how he touched our lives. And at the same time, let us remember and tell the story of God’s love, for in this story we find the comfort and hope of God’s promises. Let us celebrate Stuart’s life by telling our stories, and see how our stories are woven into the great story of God’s love for us. Let us care for one another and love one another. Let love be the story we carry forward from this place. Amen.
Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
Let me begin by saying that I am deeply honored and profoundly saddened to address you all today. On behalf of my grandfather's family, I thank you for being here today and for your expressions of love and support.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that the Foote family loves to tell stories. This fact probably comes as no surprise to any of you here today. Get two or three – or sometimes just one – of us together, and the stories will flow like water. And the stories we love to tell the most are stories about ourselves. Family stories.
Stories about Marilou's fear of heights. Stories about Lise or Stuart or Kim getting into trouble as children. Like the story about Lise running away and taking the baby Kim with her. Or about the time the kids and Stuart, my grandfather, decided to determine the relative densities of everything in the liquor cabinet, which could only be done by trial and error. Or about Stuart standing on Marilou's wedding dress but being unable to hear her whispered, “Stuart! You're on my dress!” until she said it loud enough for everyone in the wedding congregation to hear.
Funerals, I think, are the best time to tell stories. When we are grieving, when we are lonely, when we feel abandoned – then we need to remember, to share, and to laugh together. We need to tell stories. I have no doubt that everyone here today has a story to tell about Stuart. My hope and my advice for you is that you share your stories with one another today and in the weeks to come, as we all fondly remember Stuart.
The stories about my grandfather reveal who he was: an intelligent, dedicated, loyal man who loved his family. I'll tell you just one story that is special to me, because it's the story of how Stuart saved me as a baby. We were at the family house in Vermont one winter when I was only a year and a half old, and there was lots of snow in the sloping backyard. My grandfather took me on his lap as he sledded all the way down the hill - through the blueberry bushes at the bottom - and into the freezing creek. The sled tipped and he would have landed on top of me in the water. In order to protect me, he wrenched himself around and lifted me up to safety. He broke three ribs in the process, and of course he didn't go to the doctor because after all, they're just ribs.
That, to me, is a perfect story about Stuart - that was his dedication to the people he loved. He didn't hesitate to put himself in harm's way to protect others. He did what needed to be done. And we could all laugh about it later.
Story telling. It's the way we remember our past. It's the way we grieve and celebrate those we love who have died. The Foote family loves to tell family stories. And today we also remember another kind of story, a story that we are all a part of: the story of faith.
As Christians, we tell the story of our faith, the saving story of God's grace. God's mercy and love is a story that stretches from the prophet Isaiah proclaiming hope to God's people, through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, to the faithful proclamation of Paul, and down to us here today. When we read the Scriptures, when we recall the words of Christ and proclaim the Gospel, we are telling the story again and again.
As we tell this story, we are woven into it ourselves. The story of faith becomes our story. The ancient promises become our promises. When we tell the story of Isaiah's prophecy that "Those who wait for the LORD shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles," we ourselves are lifted up. When we tell the story of Christ's promises that "Because I live, you also will live," we are holding onto those promises ourselves. We are wrapped up into this same story, connected like threads woven into a great tapestry.
The story of Scripture is the long story of God’s love and grace. God brought a message of salvation to the people of Israel through the prophets. Jesus brought the message of salvation to his disciples and followers. And we hear that same story today in our own lives. We can trust that Stuart is held in God’s loving care until the promised resurrection. We can trust in God’s promises and in God’s love.
Indeed, love is the heart of this great story. As Paul writes to the Corinthians, “Love never ends.” All the impermanent things of this life - sickness and death, grief and pain - will pass away, but love will always remain. God’s love for us is eternal. So is our love for Stuart and for one another. Paul reminds us that faith, hope, and love will remain; and the greatest of these is love.
Story telling: it’s a favorite family activity, and it’s a central part of our faith. As we remember Stuart, I pray that we can share our stories of how he touched our lives. And at the same time, let us remember and tell the story of God’s love, for in this story we find the comfort and hope of God’s promises. Let us celebrate Stuart’s life by telling our stories, and see how our stories are woven into the great story of God’s love for us. Let us care for one another and love one another. Let love be the story we carry forward from this place. Amen.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
March 27 Sermon
For this Sunday's sermon, I am trying something a little different. I'm making use of a video as part of my message. Check it out for the full effect. The Gospel reading is from John 4, the story of the Samaritan woman at the well.
Grace, mercy, and peace to you from the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
We continue this morning our time in the Gospel of John. Last week, we got to listen in on Jesus’ conversation with Nicodemus, who wondered how a person could be born again. This morning, we witness Jesus at a well, a Samaritan well, a well belonging to a people rejected and outcast by the Jews. Though the Samaritans claim the same heritage as the Jews, being descendants of Jacob, yet they are considered a different people, an inferior people. But this morning, Jesus stops at this well, the Samaritan well, the outsider well.
And at the well, he finds a woman, there at midday - alone, because everyone else draws water in the early morning. Jesus asks a drink of her - a Samaritan, a woman, an outsider among outsiders. Jesus asks her to give him a drink, beginning a conversation that will have dramatic results. And this unnamed Samaritan woman at the well proves to be one of the most remarkable characters in John's Gospel. This woman, as we shall see, is known by Jesus and comes to know him better than his own disciples do.
But before we examine this story in the Gospel of John, let's hear it in her own words.
The woman at the well is so different from Nicodemus, who encountered Jesus in our Gospel reading last week. Nicodemus was a person of authority, privilege, and power; the woman at the well is none of these things. She is an outsider among outsiders. Yet her story begins very much like Nicodemus’. Both of these characters misunderstand and misinterpret the words of Jesus, trying to understand spiritual matters in earthly terms. Nicodemus was confused how anyone could be born again, how a grown person could return to the mother’s womb. Likewise, the woman at the well does not understand what Jesus means by “living water.” At first, she thinks he means running water, water of higher quality than stagnant water. But Jesus corrects her: “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.”
Though the Samaritan woman at the well initially shares Nicodemus’ confusion, she moves beyond it in a way that Nicodemus never does. When confronted with the promise of living water, she tells Jesus, “Give me this water.”
This is her first revelation. She desires what Jesus offers; she is bold to ask for it. Now Jesus can move their conversation further, turn it from what is offered to the identity one who offers. He reveals that he knows her, understands her. He knows, as she says “everything she has ever done.”
And notice what happens. Because Jesus knows the woman, she knows something about him: she calls him a prophet. To be known is to know, to come to a deeper understanding. To be known by Jesus means knowing Jesus more fully.
Now, faced with a prophet, she asks him a religious question, a question which drives to the heart of her outcast status. The Jews worship in Jerusalem, but the Samaritans worship on this mountain. They worship the same God, but their differences drive them apart. She is outcast, excluded from Jewish society, for these religious differences. Now she wants Jesus to resolve them for her. She wants the one who has included her to include her whole people.
Once again, Jesus turns her mind from the earthly to the spiritual; for the place of worship, Jesus says, does not matter in the end. It does not matter where God is worshipped, but how God is worshipped. A God who is spirit will be worshipped in spirit and in truth. And among those who worship in spirit and in truth, there are no divisions, no exclusions, no outcasts.
Once again, the woman moves beyond her initial question to a deeper understanding. And now is her second revelation: her mind turns from prophets to the promised Messiah, the one who will “proclaim all things to us,” just as Jesus has been proclaiming to her.
This moment is striking: throughout the gospels, for various reasons, people come to see who Jesus is. They are driven to a confession of Jesus as the Messiah. Yet Jesus never takes this title for himself except here, with the woman at the well. When the woman at the well wonders aloud about the Messiah, Jesus definitively tells her, “I am he.”
To be known is to be loved, and to be loved is to be known. Too often we read this story as a morality tale, a story about a sinful woman - some even call her a prostitute - who is redeemed from her sin. But this story has nothing to do with morality; sin is never mentioned. This is a story about identity. This is a story that teaches us the miraculous power of being known, truly known, fully and completely known.
Jesus knows the woman at the well, and she comes to know Jesus as the source of living water, eternal life - the Messiah.
Because she has been known and has come to know, the woman at the well leaves Jesus to proclaim the good news to her people. The women who followed Jesus are often credited as being the first apostles, because they were the first to spread the news of Jesus’ resurrection. Perhaps the woman at the well became an apostle even before those women who went to the tomb. The woman at the well proclaims the good news, the good news about Jesus, the Messiah, the one who knows everything she has ever done.
If you read on in this chapter in John’s Gospel, you will find that the Samaritans are compelled by the proclamation of the woman at the well. They ask Jesus to stay with them, and many of them come to believe.
This is the miraculous power of being known. Because one woman found that she was fully known, her life was changed. She could not help but share this good news with everyone around her. Because one woman found that she was known, many came to know Jesus the Messiah, the Christ.
To be known is to be loved and to be loved is to be known. Each one of us is known by God, precious children in God's sight. Each one of us is known, and to be known is to be loved. We are constantly surrounded by God’s love. And loving the one who has first loved us, we come to know this man, Jesus, who stopped at a Samaritan well at midday to perform a miracle. Amen.
Grace, mercy, and peace to you from the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
We continue this morning our time in the Gospel of John. Last week, we got to listen in on Jesus’ conversation with Nicodemus, who wondered how a person could be born again. This morning, we witness Jesus at a well, a Samaritan well, a well belonging to a people rejected and outcast by the Jews. Though the Samaritans claim the same heritage as the Jews, being descendants of Jacob, yet they are considered a different people, an inferior people. But this morning, Jesus stops at this well, the Samaritan well, the outsider well.
And at the well, he finds a woman, there at midday - alone, because everyone else draws water in the early morning. Jesus asks a drink of her - a Samaritan, a woman, an outsider among outsiders. Jesus asks her to give him a drink, beginning a conversation that will have dramatic results. And this unnamed Samaritan woman at the well proves to be one of the most remarkable characters in John's Gospel. This woman, as we shall see, is known by Jesus and comes to know him better than his own disciples do.
But before we examine this story in the Gospel of John, let's hear it in her own words.
The woman at the well is so different from Nicodemus, who encountered Jesus in our Gospel reading last week. Nicodemus was a person of authority, privilege, and power; the woman at the well is none of these things. She is an outsider among outsiders. Yet her story begins very much like Nicodemus’. Both of these characters misunderstand and misinterpret the words of Jesus, trying to understand spiritual matters in earthly terms. Nicodemus was confused how anyone could be born again, how a grown person could return to the mother’s womb. Likewise, the woman at the well does not understand what Jesus means by “living water.” At first, she thinks he means running water, water of higher quality than stagnant water. But Jesus corrects her: “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.”
Though the Samaritan woman at the well initially shares Nicodemus’ confusion, she moves beyond it in a way that Nicodemus never does. When confronted with the promise of living water, she tells Jesus, “Give me this water.”
This is her first revelation. She desires what Jesus offers; she is bold to ask for it. Now Jesus can move their conversation further, turn it from what is offered to the identity one who offers. He reveals that he knows her, understands her. He knows, as she says “everything she has ever done.”
And notice what happens. Because Jesus knows the woman, she knows something about him: she calls him a prophet. To be known is to know, to come to a deeper understanding. To be known by Jesus means knowing Jesus more fully.
Now, faced with a prophet, she asks him a religious question, a question which drives to the heart of her outcast status. The Jews worship in Jerusalem, but the Samaritans worship on this mountain. They worship the same God, but their differences drive them apart. She is outcast, excluded from Jewish society, for these religious differences. Now she wants Jesus to resolve them for her. She wants the one who has included her to include her whole people.
Once again, Jesus turns her mind from the earthly to the spiritual; for the place of worship, Jesus says, does not matter in the end. It does not matter where God is worshipped, but how God is worshipped. A God who is spirit will be worshipped in spirit and in truth. And among those who worship in spirit and in truth, there are no divisions, no exclusions, no outcasts.
Once again, the woman moves beyond her initial question to a deeper understanding. And now is her second revelation: her mind turns from prophets to the promised Messiah, the one who will “proclaim all things to us,” just as Jesus has been proclaiming to her.
This moment is striking: throughout the gospels, for various reasons, people come to see who Jesus is. They are driven to a confession of Jesus as the Messiah. Yet Jesus never takes this title for himself except here, with the woman at the well. When the woman at the well wonders aloud about the Messiah, Jesus definitively tells her, “I am he.”
To be known is to be loved, and to be loved is to be known. Too often we read this story as a morality tale, a story about a sinful woman - some even call her a prostitute - who is redeemed from her sin. But this story has nothing to do with morality; sin is never mentioned. This is a story about identity. This is a story that teaches us the miraculous power of being known, truly known, fully and completely known.
Jesus knows the woman at the well, and she comes to know Jesus as the source of living water, eternal life - the Messiah.
Because she has been known and has come to know, the woman at the well leaves Jesus to proclaim the good news to her people. The women who followed Jesus are often credited as being the first apostles, because they were the first to spread the news of Jesus’ resurrection. Perhaps the woman at the well became an apostle even before those women who went to the tomb. The woman at the well proclaims the good news, the good news about Jesus, the Messiah, the one who knows everything she has ever done.
If you read on in this chapter in John’s Gospel, you will find that the Samaritans are compelled by the proclamation of the woman at the well. They ask Jesus to stay with them, and many of them come to believe.
This is the miraculous power of being known. Because one woman found that she was fully known, her life was changed. She could not help but share this good news with everyone around her. Because one woman found that she was known, many came to know Jesus the Messiah, the Christ.
To be known is to be loved and to be loved is to be known. Each one of us is known by God, precious children in God's sight. Each one of us is known, and to be known is to be loved. We are constantly surrounded by God’s love. And loving the one who has first loved us, we come to know this man, Jesus, who stopped at a Samaritan well at midday to perform a miracle. Amen.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
March 6 Sermon - Transfiguration Sunday
I preached this past weekend for Transfiguration Sunday. I did something a little different with my sermon this time around: I enlisted some help from the congregation to do a sermon drama. I used this as a way to explain Moses' and Elijah's stories and their relevance to the Transfiguration event. My "actors" did a wonderful job, and I was pleased with the sermon.
(The text was Matthew 17:1-9.)
In our gospel reading for today, Jesus takes three of his disciples, Peter, James, and John, and climbs a high mountain. [Jesus walks up to the altar steps.] In this high and holy place, Jesus is transfigured; his face shines and his clothes dazzle. Suddenly, there appears to them Moses and Elijah...
[Moses and Elijah appear from the sacristy. Jesus stands between them. Peter, James, and John kneel in awe.]
Moses: I am Moses, the great leader of the people of Israel. I was called by God to lead the people out of their slavery in Egypt. I spoke to God face-to-face on a mountain, Mount Sinai. There God gave me the law to give to the people. Though I died before we entered the promised land, it is said that another prophet like me will arise. For it is written in the Torah, the law, “The LORD your God will raise up for you a prophet like me from among your own people; you shall heed such a prophet.”
Elijah: I am Elijah, a man of God and a prophet of the Lord. I was faithful to God even when my life was in danger. God met me on a mountain and spoke to me, instructing me to anoint kings and promising to preserve those who remained faithful. I was lifted up to heaven by a chariot of fire in a whirlwind, and it is said that I will return. For it is written in the prophets, “I will send you the prophet Elijah before the great and terrible day of the Lord comes.”
Moses: Jesus is the prophet like me!
Elijah: Elijah has returned!
Peter: [stands] What is this we are seeing? Six days ago, I called Jesus the Messiah and the Son of God. Then Jesus told us he would suffer and die in Jerusalem and be raised on the third day. Now, Jesus is shining white, standing with Moses and Elijah – how can this be? Surely the presence of God is in this place! We are trespassing on holy ground!
[to Jesus, nervously] … Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah –
[Interrupting] And a voice from the cloud said, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; stop what you are doing, stop talking, and listen to him!”
And Jesus came and laid his healing hands on the disciples and said, “Get up and do not be afraid.”
[All characters return to seats.]
This is Transfiguration Sunday. This festival marks the last Sunday of the season of Epiphany, and it leans forward into the season of Lent and, eventually, Holy Week and Easter. Transfiguration Sunday commemorates the events we have just seen reenacted here: Jesus ascends a mountain with three of his disciples, where he is transfigured – not a term we use every day. With him appear Moses and Elijah, and the disciples are awed. A voice speaks from heaven, apparently interrupting Peter. Moses and Elijah vanish, and Jesus comforts the terrified disciples. As they return from the mountain, Jesus instructs them to keep this secret until the right time: when the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.
Transfiguration Sunday is a multi-faceted festival, full of different ideas and implications. We are reminded of Jesus' baptism by the voice from the clouds. We cannot help but think of Jesus' resurrection when we are given this mighty, glowing image of Jesus. And there are dark undertones in this text, as well: The “six days” at the beginning of the text are marked from Jesus' first prediction of his death. As Jesus descends from the mountain, he begins an inevitable march to Jerusalem, where he will be killed.
In this text, we also are confronted with strange images and references that may be hard to understand. Why is the mountain so significant? Why do Moses and Elijah appear? What is Peter trying to accomplish? Fundamentally, I think this text presses on us again the question: “Who is Jesus?” According to Matthew, just six days before, Jesus asked his disciples, “Who do you say that I am?” Today, we must also try to find an answer: “Who do you say that I am?”
When Jesus asked his disciples, “Who do you say that I am,” Peter proclaimed, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God.” It seems to me that the Holy Spirit must have inspired this answer in Peter. Indeed, when Jesus is transfigured on the mountain, it proves that Peter was exactly right. Jesus is revealed to be something extraordinary. Jesus is revealed to Peter, James, and John, glowing with glory. Jesus is revealed beside Moses and Elijah – these two giants of the faith who possess messianic connections. It was said that another prophet like Moses would come; it was said that Elijah would return. In Jesus, at the transfiguration, these prophecies are linked and fulfilled. If you need character witnesses to prove your messianic status, you can't do better than Moses and Elijah.
And as if that weren't enough, there is also a cloud that appears and a voice that speaks out of it. It is impossible not to draw the connection between this revelation and Jesus' baptism, where a voice proclaimed, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” Here the voice adds a commandment: “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” The addition seems directed at Peter, who is apparently overcome by this transfiguration and is trying to figure out what to do in response.
This Transfiguration text can also speak to our own faith lives. Many of us have had “mountaintop experiences,” those moments when we feel profoundly close to God. We feel a certain kinship with the disciples here – after all, Peter, James, and John had the mountaintop experience par excellence. Yet like the disciples, we sometimes don't know what to do when we encounter the divine.
When we experience the presence of God, sometimes we react like Peter, babbling, “Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” Peter's nervousness, or eagerness, seems so very human, doesn't it? His intentions are clearly good, but he comes across as a bit of a fool. And the voice from the cloud cuts him off with the curt command: “Listen to him!” I heard one reinterpretation of the voice, that its message is, “Don't just do something – stand there!” Sometimes our busyness gets in the way of the message God wants us to receive. Sometimes we are too eager to do something, too eager to say something, that we forget to stop and listen. Sometimes we need to be quiet and let God speak.
So it is for Peter at the Transfiguration. Peter is so overwhelmed by this revelation of the divine, of Jesus' messianic status, that he can't stop talking. He feels this desperate need to do something. But the divine voice silences him. No Peter, this voice says, you need to listen to him. Be quiet. Listen.
Are your ears straining like Peter's to hear what Jesus will say? Indeed, Jesus does have something to say to his disciples. And it is these words that we should listen to today. Jesus says, “Get up and do not be afraid.” Get up. Do not be afraid. And as he speaks, he reaches out to touch the disciples – a touch that in Matthew is always associated with healing.
The divine voice says: Listen to him! And Jesus says, Do not be afraid. This is another revelation. The Transfiguration reveals Jesus as the Messiah, the fulfillment of prophecies, the Son of God. And these words reveal the depth of Jesus' love and healing care. The Jesus who heals and cares for others is not replaced by this shining, transfigured Messiah. Rather, we find that Jesus remains steadfast in his compassion for others, starting with his terrified disciples.
We often need to hear this reassurance. When we have experiences that seem overwhelming, then we need to be reminded of the abiding love of Jesus. When we are terrified, we need to feel that healing touch. Like the disciples, we need to know that the God who is transcendent, greater than everything, is also immanent, profoundly close to us. Jesus cares for us as deeply as he cared for his disciples. Amen.
(The text was Matthew 17:1-9.)
In our gospel reading for today, Jesus takes three of his disciples, Peter, James, and John, and climbs a high mountain. [Jesus walks up to the altar steps.] In this high and holy place, Jesus is transfigured; his face shines and his clothes dazzle. Suddenly, there appears to them Moses and Elijah...
[Moses and Elijah appear from the sacristy. Jesus stands between them. Peter, James, and John kneel in awe.]
Moses: I am Moses, the great leader of the people of Israel. I was called by God to lead the people out of their slavery in Egypt. I spoke to God face-to-face on a mountain, Mount Sinai. There God gave me the law to give to the people. Though I died before we entered the promised land, it is said that another prophet like me will arise. For it is written in the Torah, the law, “The LORD your God will raise up for you a prophet like me from among your own people; you shall heed such a prophet.”
Elijah: I am Elijah, a man of God and a prophet of the Lord. I was faithful to God even when my life was in danger. God met me on a mountain and spoke to me, instructing me to anoint kings and promising to preserve those who remained faithful. I was lifted up to heaven by a chariot of fire in a whirlwind, and it is said that I will return. For it is written in the prophets, “I will send you the prophet Elijah before the great and terrible day of the Lord comes.”
Moses: Jesus is the prophet like me!
Elijah: Elijah has returned!
Peter: [stands] What is this we are seeing? Six days ago, I called Jesus the Messiah and the Son of God. Then Jesus told us he would suffer and die in Jerusalem and be raised on the third day. Now, Jesus is shining white, standing with Moses and Elijah – how can this be? Surely the presence of God is in this place! We are trespassing on holy ground!
[to Jesus, nervously] … Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah –
[Interrupting] And a voice from the cloud said, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; stop what you are doing, stop talking, and listen to him!”
And Jesus came and laid his healing hands on the disciples and said, “Get up and do not be afraid.”
[All characters return to seats.]
This is Transfiguration Sunday. This festival marks the last Sunday of the season of Epiphany, and it leans forward into the season of Lent and, eventually, Holy Week and Easter. Transfiguration Sunday commemorates the events we have just seen reenacted here: Jesus ascends a mountain with three of his disciples, where he is transfigured – not a term we use every day. With him appear Moses and Elijah, and the disciples are awed. A voice speaks from heaven, apparently interrupting Peter. Moses and Elijah vanish, and Jesus comforts the terrified disciples. As they return from the mountain, Jesus instructs them to keep this secret until the right time: when the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.
Transfiguration Sunday is a multi-faceted festival, full of different ideas and implications. We are reminded of Jesus' baptism by the voice from the clouds. We cannot help but think of Jesus' resurrection when we are given this mighty, glowing image of Jesus. And there are dark undertones in this text, as well: The “six days” at the beginning of the text are marked from Jesus' first prediction of his death. As Jesus descends from the mountain, he begins an inevitable march to Jerusalem, where he will be killed.
In this text, we also are confronted with strange images and references that may be hard to understand. Why is the mountain so significant? Why do Moses and Elijah appear? What is Peter trying to accomplish? Fundamentally, I think this text presses on us again the question: “Who is Jesus?” According to Matthew, just six days before, Jesus asked his disciples, “Who do you say that I am?” Today, we must also try to find an answer: “Who do you say that I am?”
When Jesus asked his disciples, “Who do you say that I am,” Peter proclaimed, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God.” It seems to me that the Holy Spirit must have inspired this answer in Peter. Indeed, when Jesus is transfigured on the mountain, it proves that Peter was exactly right. Jesus is revealed to be something extraordinary. Jesus is revealed to Peter, James, and John, glowing with glory. Jesus is revealed beside Moses and Elijah – these two giants of the faith who possess messianic connections. It was said that another prophet like Moses would come; it was said that Elijah would return. In Jesus, at the transfiguration, these prophecies are linked and fulfilled. If you need character witnesses to prove your messianic status, you can't do better than Moses and Elijah.
And as if that weren't enough, there is also a cloud that appears and a voice that speaks out of it. It is impossible not to draw the connection between this revelation and Jesus' baptism, where a voice proclaimed, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” Here the voice adds a commandment: “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” The addition seems directed at Peter, who is apparently overcome by this transfiguration and is trying to figure out what to do in response.
This Transfiguration text can also speak to our own faith lives. Many of us have had “mountaintop experiences,” those moments when we feel profoundly close to God. We feel a certain kinship with the disciples here – after all, Peter, James, and John had the mountaintop experience par excellence. Yet like the disciples, we sometimes don't know what to do when we encounter the divine.
When we experience the presence of God, sometimes we react like Peter, babbling, “Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” Peter's nervousness, or eagerness, seems so very human, doesn't it? His intentions are clearly good, but he comes across as a bit of a fool. And the voice from the cloud cuts him off with the curt command: “Listen to him!” I heard one reinterpretation of the voice, that its message is, “Don't just do something – stand there!” Sometimes our busyness gets in the way of the message God wants us to receive. Sometimes we are too eager to do something, too eager to say something, that we forget to stop and listen. Sometimes we need to be quiet and let God speak.
So it is for Peter at the Transfiguration. Peter is so overwhelmed by this revelation of the divine, of Jesus' messianic status, that he can't stop talking. He feels this desperate need to do something. But the divine voice silences him. No Peter, this voice says, you need to listen to him. Be quiet. Listen.
Are your ears straining like Peter's to hear what Jesus will say? Indeed, Jesus does have something to say to his disciples. And it is these words that we should listen to today. Jesus says, “Get up and do not be afraid.” Get up. Do not be afraid. And as he speaks, he reaches out to touch the disciples – a touch that in Matthew is always associated with healing.
The divine voice says: Listen to him! And Jesus says, Do not be afraid. This is another revelation. The Transfiguration reveals Jesus as the Messiah, the fulfillment of prophecies, the Son of God. And these words reveal the depth of Jesus' love and healing care. The Jesus who heals and cares for others is not replaced by this shining, transfigured Messiah. Rather, we find that Jesus remains steadfast in his compassion for others, starting with his terrified disciples.
We often need to hear this reassurance. When we have experiences that seem overwhelming, then we need to be reminded of the abiding love of Jesus. When we are terrified, we need to feel that healing touch. Like the disciples, we need to know that the God who is transcendent, greater than everything, is also immanent, profoundly close to us. Jesus cares for us as deeply as he cared for his disciples. Amen.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
January 30 Sermon
Here's my sermon for tomorrow, on the Old Testament lesson (Micah 6:1-8). Sorry I haven't posted in over a month, Christmas was a busy time!
Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
Micah 6:8 is one of the more famous verses in the Old Testament. You may have heard it before, or seen it decorating someone’s home. It is printed on t-shirts and coasters. And with good reason — these words are both beautiful and powerful. “He has told you, O mortal, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?”
Micah 6:8 is probably much more familiar to us than the rest of the book of Micah. We so often hear this verse by itself, removed from its context. The context of Micah 6:8 is important, however, and worthwhile to a deeper understanding of this famous verse.
Like many of the Old Testament prophets, Micah brings a word of warning and condemnation to God’s people. Through Micah, God enumerates the injustice and faithlessness of the people of Judah. The language is of a court case – God is bringing a complaint against the people. Earlier chapters in Micah describe God's charges: prophets leading the people astray, the ruling class perverting justice and even taking bribes for their judgments. The powerful, both in civil and religious life, are abandoning their duty to the poor and powerless. Priests, prophets, and judges are self-serving and determined to maintain the status quo. They preach a message of God's favor to themselves. They do not wish to hear a word of judgment from God; but Micah brings precisely this word.
In the context of this injustice and self-serving religiosity, Micah brings God's complaint. In God's court, the created world is the jury: the mountains and hills themselves stand up to bear witness. “Hear, you mountains, the controversy of the Lord, and you enduring foundations of the earth; for the Lord has a controversy with his people, and he will contend with Israel.” In contrast to the faithlessness of humanity, God enumerates the many acts of salvation and loyalty God has performed for the people: bringing them out of slavery in Egypt, providing them leaders, providing them blessings, and leading them into the promised land. God asks if the people have gotten tired of this saving grace!
The response that comes from the people might sound plaintive: “With what shall I come before the Lord, and bow myself before God on high? Shall I come before him with burnt offerings, with calves a year old? Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams, with ten thousands of rivers of oil? Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?” The people are saying: if God has declared us guilty, what can we do to make it right? They offer up sacrifices, even human sacrifices, to appease God.
Once again, the people display their obstinate ignorance of God's will. They propose sacrificing children in order to buy off God's wrath. But Micah sharply reminds them of the proper response: “God has told you, O mortal, what is good!” God has made it clear what God desires – and it's not human sacrifice. God can't be bought off. This famous verse, Micah 6:8, sums up God's expectation: “Do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God.”
Allow me to take a step back from our Micah text for a moment to tell you a story. A member of this congregation has very kindly taken up the habit of bringing me my beverage of choice from Starbucks every Sunday (chai latte with 2% milk, in case you were wondering). A few weeks ago, as I was enjoying my Starbucks during the Sunday school hour, I looked down and read the back of the cup. “Everything we do, you do,” it said, and proceeded to explain how I had bought some two hundred thousand pounds of fairly-obtained coffee with my one little cup. It's a brilliant marketing ploy on Starbucks' part – not only do I get a drink, I get to feel good about myself, too! My consumerism gets to go hand-in-hand with my philanthropy!
Let me give you another example. The Dove corporation, which makes soaps and lotions, has a campaign targeted to women – you may have seen it. The “Dove Campaign for True Beauty.” This campaign lifts up the unreasonable images presented in advertising – female models who have been made up and photoshopped beyond any semblance of reality. Dove wants us to know that they're in favor of true beauty, authentic beauty. So by buying their products, I'm supporting women and girls!
Yet the company that owns Dove, Unilever, also owns Axe—which presents some of the most offensive images of women in advertising. You ought to smell a stink of hypocrisy on Dove's “True Beauty” campaign. I am quite confident that Dove is more interested in making a profit by whatever means than in promoting healthy images of women in advertising.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying it's wrong to buy Dove soap or to drink Starbucks coffee. After all, I don't want to start a riot here, and I plan to keep enjoying my chai lattes. There's nothing wrong with drinking Starbucks. But there is something wrong with drinking Starbucks and convincing ourselves that it's the same thing as “doing justice, loving kindness, and walking humbly with our God.” Starbucks and other corporations want us to believe that consumerism is identical to justice – but it's not. We can't let ourselves be deceived by marketing campaigns.
The people of Micah's time thought they could buy off God. They thought that making some sacrifices of animals – or even children – would deter God's righteous anger. We may often think, in our modern world, that buying fair trade coffee is enough to stop injustice. We may think we can buy off God as well, fulfill God's demands for righteousness, through our consumption.
Micah then speaks a word of judgment to us just as much as he did to the people of Judah. In the face of our consumerism and self-satisfaction, Micah reminds us, “God has told you what is good!” God has told us what we ought to do. God has told us what God expects. Micah sums it all up in three brief instructions: do justice. Love kindness. Walk humbly with God.
The instructions of Micah 6:8 are not easy. We should not pretend that they are easy—that we can do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God just by spending more money or supporting the right organizations. As one commentator put it, “To enact justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with God, are not single acts that can be checked off the list and left behind. On an individual and social scale, in ways large and small, this is a way of life.” Yes, this is a way of life. The expectation of God spoken by Micah is that we devote our whole lives to doing justice, loving kindness, and walking humbly with God.
If we take seriously the commandment of Micah 6:8—and I certainly think we should—it’s necessary for us not only to examine the injustices of the world around us, but to examine ourselves as well. We need to consider how our actions affect the planet and our fellow creatures. We can’t be lazy, buying into the messages of advertising, because those messages are fundamentally intended to make money. We should consider how the systems of consumerism which make our lives so comfortable may cause misery for our brothers and sisters around the world.
The prophetic words of Micah were no doubt harsh and troubling to the people of Judah. So too for us today: we may be troubled, even shocked, when we consider our own injustices. The weight of the world’s needs may feel overwhelming or exhausting.
Yet this word is good news, as well. It is good news for the suffering, the powerless and hopeless, that they might see the justice they so deeply desire. A world where people direct their lives to doing justice, loving kindness, and walking humbly with God is a better world for those who are suffering.
And what about the unjust, self-serving priests and judges? What about the rich and powerful of today? What about our comfortable consumerism? Yes, there is good news for us, too. There is good news that we can be included in Jesus’ blessings: “Blessed are the meek... Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness... Blessed are the pure in heart.... Blessed are the peacemakers.” Blessed are those who do justice. Blessed are those who love kindness. Blessed are those who walk humbly with their God. Amen.
Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
Micah 6:8 is one of the more famous verses in the Old Testament. You may have heard it before, or seen it decorating someone’s home. It is printed on t-shirts and coasters. And with good reason — these words are both beautiful and powerful. “He has told you, O mortal, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?”
Micah 6:8 is probably much more familiar to us than the rest of the book of Micah. We so often hear this verse by itself, removed from its context. The context of Micah 6:8 is important, however, and worthwhile to a deeper understanding of this famous verse.
Like many of the Old Testament prophets, Micah brings a word of warning and condemnation to God’s people. Through Micah, God enumerates the injustice and faithlessness of the people of Judah. The language is of a court case – God is bringing a complaint against the people. Earlier chapters in Micah describe God's charges: prophets leading the people astray, the ruling class perverting justice and even taking bribes for their judgments. The powerful, both in civil and religious life, are abandoning their duty to the poor and powerless. Priests, prophets, and judges are self-serving and determined to maintain the status quo. They preach a message of God's favor to themselves. They do not wish to hear a word of judgment from God; but Micah brings precisely this word.
In the context of this injustice and self-serving religiosity, Micah brings God's complaint. In God's court, the created world is the jury: the mountains and hills themselves stand up to bear witness. “Hear, you mountains, the controversy of the Lord, and you enduring foundations of the earth; for the Lord has a controversy with his people, and he will contend with Israel.” In contrast to the faithlessness of humanity, God enumerates the many acts of salvation and loyalty God has performed for the people: bringing them out of slavery in Egypt, providing them leaders, providing them blessings, and leading them into the promised land. God asks if the people have gotten tired of this saving grace!
The response that comes from the people might sound plaintive: “With what shall I come before the Lord, and bow myself before God on high? Shall I come before him with burnt offerings, with calves a year old? Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams, with ten thousands of rivers of oil? Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?” The people are saying: if God has declared us guilty, what can we do to make it right? They offer up sacrifices, even human sacrifices, to appease God.
Once again, the people display their obstinate ignorance of God's will. They propose sacrificing children in order to buy off God's wrath. But Micah sharply reminds them of the proper response: “God has told you, O mortal, what is good!” God has made it clear what God desires – and it's not human sacrifice. God can't be bought off. This famous verse, Micah 6:8, sums up God's expectation: “Do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God.”
Allow me to take a step back from our Micah text for a moment to tell you a story. A member of this congregation has very kindly taken up the habit of bringing me my beverage of choice from Starbucks every Sunday (chai latte with 2% milk, in case you were wondering). A few weeks ago, as I was enjoying my Starbucks during the Sunday school hour, I looked down and read the back of the cup. “Everything we do, you do,” it said, and proceeded to explain how I had bought some two hundred thousand pounds of fairly-obtained coffee with my one little cup. It's a brilliant marketing ploy on Starbucks' part – not only do I get a drink, I get to feel good about myself, too! My consumerism gets to go hand-in-hand with my philanthropy!
Let me give you another example. The Dove corporation, which makes soaps and lotions, has a campaign targeted to women – you may have seen it. The “Dove Campaign for True Beauty.” This campaign lifts up the unreasonable images presented in advertising – female models who have been made up and photoshopped beyond any semblance of reality. Dove wants us to know that they're in favor of true beauty, authentic beauty. So by buying their products, I'm supporting women and girls!
Yet the company that owns Dove, Unilever, also owns Axe—which presents some of the most offensive images of women in advertising. You ought to smell a stink of hypocrisy on Dove's “True Beauty” campaign. I am quite confident that Dove is more interested in making a profit by whatever means than in promoting healthy images of women in advertising.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying it's wrong to buy Dove soap or to drink Starbucks coffee. After all, I don't want to start a riot here, and I plan to keep enjoying my chai lattes. There's nothing wrong with drinking Starbucks. But there is something wrong with drinking Starbucks and convincing ourselves that it's the same thing as “doing justice, loving kindness, and walking humbly with our God.” Starbucks and other corporations want us to believe that consumerism is identical to justice – but it's not. We can't let ourselves be deceived by marketing campaigns.
The people of Micah's time thought they could buy off God. They thought that making some sacrifices of animals – or even children – would deter God's righteous anger. We may often think, in our modern world, that buying fair trade coffee is enough to stop injustice. We may think we can buy off God as well, fulfill God's demands for righteousness, through our consumption.
Micah then speaks a word of judgment to us just as much as he did to the people of Judah. In the face of our consumerism and self-satisfaction, Micah reminds us, “God has told you what is good!” God has told us what we ought to do. God has told us what God expects. Micah sums it all up in three brief instructions: do justice. Love kindness. Walk humbly with God.
The instructions of Micah 6:8 are not easy. We should not pretend that they are easy—that we can do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God just by spending more money or supporting the right organizations. As one commentator put it, “To enact justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with God, are not single acts that can be checked off the list and left behind. On an individual and social scale, in ways large and small, this is a way of life.” Yes, this is a way of life. The expectation of God spoken by Micah is that we devote our whole lives to doing justice, loving kindness, and walking humbly with God.
If we take seriously the commandment of Micah 6:8—and I certainly think we should—it’s necessary for us not only to examine the injustices of the world around us, but to examine ourselves as well. We need to consider how our actions affect the planet and our fellow creatures. We can’t be lazy, buying into the messages of advertising, because those messages are fundamentally intended to make money. We should consider how the systems of consumerism which make our lives so comfortable may cause misery for our brothers and sisters around the world.
The prophetic words of Micah were no doubt harsh and troubling to the people of Judah. So too for us today: we may be troubled, even shocked, when we consider our own injustices. The weight of the world’s needs may feel overwhelming or exhausting.
Yet this word is good news, as well. It is good news for the suffering, the powerless and hopeless, that they might see the justice they so deeply desire. A world where people direct their lives to doing justice, loving kindness, and walking humbly with God is a better world for those who are suffering.
And what about the unjust, self-serving priests and judges? What about the rich and powerful of today? What about our comfortable consumerism? Yes, there is good news for us, too. There is good news that we can be included in Jesus’ blessings: “Blessed are the meek... Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness... Blessed are the pure in heart.... Blessed are the peacemakers.” Blessed are those who do justice. Blessed are those who love kindness. Blessed are those who walk humbly with their God. Amen.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
December 12 Sermon
Here's my sermon from this morning. I wasn't totally happy with it, but... oh well.
Good morning. God's grace and peace be with all of you.
Our gospel text this morning begins with a question: “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” John the Baptist, who is in prison, sends this question through his followers to Jesus. “Are you the one who is to come?” The question might seem to be a strange one, coming from John the Baptist. After all, it was John who baptized Jesus, John who would have seen the heavens opened up and God's Spirit descending in the form of a dove and heard a voice from heaven saying, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” Wouldn't John, of all people, know that Jesus is “the one who is to come?”
Yet John doubts. John questions Jesus' identity, even when it would seem that he had more than enough evidence to prove who Jesus is. John is so concerned, he must send messengers from prison to ask, “Are you the one who is to come?” John is overwhelmed by a pressing question about Jesus; he simply must know: “Who are you?”
Jesus' answer may seem as unusual as John's question. Despite John's experiences with Jesus, he feels compelled to ask about Jesus' identity. And Jesus does not seem to answer the question he is asked. Jesus does not say, “I am the one who is to come,” or “I am the Messiah,” or even give a simple yes or no. Instead, Jesus says, “Go and tell John what you hear and see.” Jesus doesn't say who he is, instead he says what he does: “The blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.”
In response to a question about his identity, Jesus answers with his actions. In other words, Jesus is telling John, “If you want to know who I am, look at what I'm doing.” Jesus' identity is found in his actions. John is supposed to find the answer to his question in what Jesus is doing. And the same is true for us. If we want to know if Jesus is really “the one,” Jesus is telling us to look at how he lived in the world.
The answer is not what John was expecting or wanted to hear. If you remember the Gospel reading from last week, we got to hear about John’s expectations for the “coming one.” In Matthew 3, we read John’s words: “Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. I baptize you with water for repentance, but one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to carry his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor and will gather his wheat into the granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” John is anticipating divine judgment. He vividly describes how the “one who is to come” will act: he will cut down every tree that does not bear good fruit; he will separate the wheat from the chaff. The righteous will be rewarded and the wicked will be punished.
This was the hope of many in Jesus’ time, who had suffered terrible oppression at the hands of the powerful. The judgment of God was their only hope for justice in an unjust world. Even today, we may hope for the same: that God will finally come and give everyone what he or she deserves. Like John the Baptist, we may look forward to a divine judgment.
Again, however, Jesus’ answer goes against expectations. Jesus tells John’s followers, “The blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.” These are not actions of judgment! There is no ax at the foot of the tree here, no unquenchable fire. No, instead Jesus is describing acts of mercy and compassion. Jesus does not bring judgment; he brings good news to those who need to hear it most.
Are these the actions of a Messiah? John certainly didn’t think so — after all, “Messiah” is a political term. “Messiah” means “anointed one,” and the ones who were anointed were kings, going all the way back to King Saul. A king ought to be ruling, not performing acts of mercy and preaching to the poor! Jesus is neither the divine judge nor the chosen king that John and the people of his time were expecting. And so John asks, “Are you the one? Can you possibly be the one?”
Jesus has one other word for the followers of John. After he tells them all he has done, all the acts of mercy and grace, he says, “Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.” “Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me” — anyone who takes no offense at a wandering preacher instead of a king, anyone who takes no offense at a merciful savior instead of a divine judge. John is facing the real possibility that he will take offense — that he will reject Jesus because Jesus does not meet John’s expectations. That possibility of offense is real for all potential followers of Jesus. The disciples, the crowds — all of them are confronted by a Messiah who goes against their expectations and hopes. They may take offense at who Jesus is, what Jesus does. But Jesus tells them, “Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.”
We, too, must face the possibility of offense. When God does not act in the way we want or expect, we may become offended. When Jesus reveals mercy when we expect judgment, we may become offended. When Jesus sides with the poor and weak instead of the rich and powerful, we may become offended. We may turn away, refusing to accept this Jesus.
In the season of Advent, we are waiting for the coming of God into the world in Jesus. As we wait, it’s worthwhile to ask ourselves, “Who are we waiting for?” Are we waiting for a divine judge, like John? Are we waiting for a powerful ruler? And if we are waiting for God to come into the world, how will we respond to Jesus as a helpless baby in a filthy stable?
I’m not asking these questions just to make a point. I think they are questions we should seriously consider in our own faith lives. Because there is the possibility of offense for all of us. After all, if the reality of Jesus — the Son of God, come to earth — were immediately obvious to everyone, then faith would not matter. If Jesus’ identity were clear to everyone, then everyone would follow him. But that’s not the case. The truth is, many people have been offended by who Jesus is. That’s not an occasion for us to be self-congratulatory, as if we “get it” when others do not. We face the possibility of offense as well: at times, even we turn away and refuse to follow. So we have to ask ourselves, “Who are we waiting for, this Advent?” We have to ask, “What will our response be? Are we going to be offended by Jesus?”
Jesus says, “Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.” How will we respond to Jesus, to God in human form? If, by the grace of God, we are among those “blessed,” then our response should be to follow Jesus. In a few short weeks, we will remember a baby born in a stable to a teenaged and unmarried mother. From those humble beginnings, Jesus did not rise to a life of power and privilege. Instead, he lived constantly among the sick, the poor, the outcasts of society, and he died shamefully on a cross. “Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.” This is the Lord we follow.
Jesus lived out God’s love, mercy, and care for the world. Jesus gave people what they most desperately needed — physical care, to be sure, but above all, compassion and hope. Jesus brought good news to the poor. So too, as followers of Jesus, should we. Christ calls us to be companions to those who are suffering, those we might find distasteful or frightening. Christ calls us not only to write a check, though that is certainly important, but to see them face-to-face. Christ, who was born in a dirty stable and lived among the poor, is calling us when he says, “Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.” Amen.
Good morning. God's grace and peace be with all of you.
Our gospel text this morning begins with a question: “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” John the Baptist, who is in prison, sends this question through his followers to Jesus. “Are you the one who is to come?” The question might seem to be a strange one, coming from John the Baptist. After all, it was John who baptized Jesus, John who would have seen the heavens opened up and God's Spirit descending in the form of a dove and heard a voice from heaven saying, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” Wouldn't John, of all people, know that Jesus is “the one who is to come?”
Yet John doubts. John questions Jesus' identity, even when it would seem that he had more than enough evidence to prove who Jesus is. John is so concerned, he must send messengers from prison to ask, “Are you the one who is to come?” John is overwhelmed by a pressing question about Jesus; he simply must know: “Who are you?”
Jesus' answer may seem as unusual as John's question. Despite John's experiences with Jesus, he feels compelled to ask about Jesus' identity. And Jesus does not seem to answer the question he is asked. Jesus does not say, “I am the one who is to come,” or “I am the Messiah,” or even give a simple yes or no. Instead, Jesus says, “Go and tell John what you hear and see.” Jesus doesn't say who he is, instead he says what he does: “The blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.”
In response to a question about his identity, Jesus answers with his actions. In other words, Jesus is telling John, “If you want to know who I am, look at what I'm doing.” Jesus' identity is found in his actions. John is supposed to find the answer to his question in what Jesus is doing. And the same is true for us. If we want to know if Jesus is really “the one,” Jesus is telling us to look at how he lived in the world.
The answer is not what John was expecting or wanted to hear. If you remember the Gospel reading from last week, we got to hear about John’s expectations for the “coming one.” In Matthew 3, we read John’s words: “Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. I baptize you with water for repentance, but one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to carry his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor and will gather his wheat into the granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” John is anticipating divine judgment. He vividly describes how the “one who is to come” will act: he will cut down every tree that does not bear good fruit; he will separate the wheat from the chaff. The righteous will be rewarded and the wicked will be punished.
This was the hope of many in Jesus’ time, who had suffered terrible oppression at the hands of the powerful. The judgment of God was their only hope for justice in an unjust world. Even today, we may hope for the same: that God will finally come and give everyone what he or she deserves. Like John the Baptist, we may look forward to a divine judgment.
Again, however, Jesus’ answer goes against expectations. Jesus tells John’s followers, “The blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.” These are not actions of judgment! There is no ax at the foot of the tree here, no unquenchable fire. No, instead Jesus is describing acts of mercy and compassion. Jesus does not bring judgment; he brings good news to those who need to hear it most.
Are these the actions of a Messiah? John certainly didn’t think so — after all, “Messiah” is a political term. “Messiah” means “anointed one,” and the ones who were anointed were kings, going all the way back to King Saul. A king ought to be ruling, not performing acts of mercy and preaching to the poor! Jesus is neither the divine judge nor the chosen king that John and the people of his time were expecting. And so John asks, “Are you the one? Can you possibly be the one?”
Jesus has one other word for the followers of John. After he tells them all he has done, all the acts of mercy and grace, he says, “Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.” “Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me” — anyone who takes no offense at a wandering preacher instead of a king, anyone who takes no offense at a merciful savior instead of a divine judge. John is facing the real possibility that he will take offense — that he will reject Jesus because Jesus does not meet John’s expectations. That possibility of offense is real for all potential followers of Jesus. The disciples, the crowds — all of them are confronted by a Messiah who goes against their expectations and hopes. They may take offense at who Jesus is, what Jesus does. But Jesus tells them, “Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.”
We, too, must face the possibility of offense. When God does not act in the way we want or expect, we may become offended. When Jesus reveals mercy when we expect judgment, we may become offended. When Jesus sides with the poor and weak instead of the rich and powerful, we may become offended. We may turn away, refusing to accept this Jesus.
In the season of Advent, we are waiting for the coming of God into the world in Jesus. As we wait, it’s worthwhile to ask ourselves, “Who are we waiting for?” Are we waiting for a divine judge, like John? Are we waiting for a powerful ruler? And if we are waiting for God to come into the world, how will we respond to Jesus as a helpless baby in a filthy stable?
I’m not asking these questions just to make a point. I think they are questions we should seriously consider in our own faith lives. Because there is the possibility of offense for all of us. After all, if the reality of Jesus — the Son of God, come to earth — were immediately obvious to everyone, then faith would not matter. If Jesus’ identity were clear to everyone, then everyone would follow him. But that’s not the case. The truth is, many people have been offended by who Jesus is. That’s not an occasion for us to be self-congratulatory, as if we “get it” when others do not. We face the possibility of offense as well: at times, even we turn away and refuse to follow. So we have to ask ourselves, “Who are we waiting for, this Advent?” We have to ask, “What will our response be? Are we going to be offended by Jesus?”
Jesus says, “Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.” How will we respond to Jesus, to God in human form? If, by the grace of God, we are among those “blessed,” then our response should be to follow Jesus. In a few short weeks, we will remember a baby born in a stable to a teenaged and unmarried mother. From those humble beginnings, Jesus did not rise to a life of power and privilege. Instead, he lived constantly among the sick, the poor, the outcasts of society, and he died shamefully on a cross. “Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.” This is the Lord we follow.
Jesus lived out God’s love, mercy, and care for the world. Jesus gave people what they most desperately needed — physical care, to be sure, but above all, compassion and hope. Jesus brought good news to the poor. So too, as followers of Jesus, should we. Christ calls us to be companions to those who are suffering, those we might find distasteful or frightening. Christ calls us not only to write a check, though that is certainly important, but to see them face-to-face. Christ, who was born in a dirty stable and lived among the poor, is calling us when he says, “Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.” Amen.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
December 12 Sermon - Part Two
So I'm looking at Matthew 11:2-11. John the Baptist is in prison and sends some of his disciples to Jesus, wondering if Jesus really is the Messiah. At first, it seems like a silly question to come from John - after all, John is the one who baptized Jesus and heard a voice saying "This is my son." Shouldn't John, of all people, believe? But as David Garland pointed out in his commentary Reading Matthew, John had expected something different. In the Gospel text for December 5, we hear about John's expectations:
John was anticipating a radical, apocalyptic judgment. Instead, he hears reports that Jesus is healing the sick, raising the dead, and proclaiming good news to the poor - signs of power and significance, certainly. But are they signs of the Messiah?
It seems that this is the fundamental issue in this text. What is the Messiah supposed to look like? Does Jesus fit the bill? And Jesus himself highlights the importance of this question: "Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me." Even John, who was "more than a prophet," had to face the possibility that Jesus was not the Messiah he wanted. Even John could take offense at Jesus. How much more so for all the crowds - and how much more so for us today?
Since we are in the season of Advent, perhaps we can frame the question this way: For whom are we waiting, after all? What are we expecting of this baby we call "Emmanuel" and "King of Kings" and "Wonderful Counselor" and all the rest? Are we expecting judgment, to find mercy? Are we expecting political power, to find none of it? Are we expecting moral righteousness, to find someone who eats with riffraff (v. 19)? Can we face the real tension between offense and faith?
(I think there is also an interesting nuance here if we take the theological position that faith is not up to us. In other words, rather than reading this as a choice between offense and faith, what happens if we accept the faith itself as a gift from God?)
Kierkegaard, in his fashion, wrote an entire book on the phrase "Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me." I'm going to go home and look at his account as well.
"The ax is already at the root of the trees, and every tree that does not produce good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire. I baptize you with water for repentance. But after me comes one who is more powerful than I, whose sandals I am not worthy to carry. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor, gathering his wheat into the barn and burning up the chaff with unquenchable fire."
John was anticipating a radical, apocalyptic judgment. Instead, he hears reports that Jesus is healing the sick, raising the dead, and proclaiming good news to the poor - signs of power and significance, certainly. But are they signs of the Messiah?
It seems that this is the fundamental issue in this text. What is the Messiah supposed to look like? Does Jesus fit the bill? And Jesus himself highlights the importance of this question: "Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me." Even John, who was "more than a prophet," had to face the possibility that Jesus was not the Messiah he wanted. Even John could take offense at Jesus. How much more so for all the crowds - and how much more so for us today?
Since we are in the season of Advent, perhaps we can frame the question this way: For whom are we waiting, after all? What are we expecting of this baby we call "Emmanuel" and "King of Kings" and "Wonderful Counselor" and all the rest? Are we expecting judgment, to find mercy? Are we expecting political power, to find none of it? Are we expecting moral righteousness, to find someone who eats with riffraff (v. 19)? Can we face the real tension between offense and faith?
(I think there is also an interesting nuance here if we take the theological position that faith is not up to us. In other words, rather than reading this as a choice between offense and faith, what happens if we accept the faith itself as a gift from God?)
Kierkegaard, in his fashion, wrote an entire book on the phrase "Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me." I'm going to go home and look at his account as well.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Christ the King Sermon
Here's my sermon from this morning!
“This is the King of the Jews.” “This is the King of the Jews,” says our Gospel reading today. “This is the King of the Jews” - those are the words written above Jesus' head as he died on the cross. This is the King of the Jews.
For us, living in 21st century America, we take some pride, I think, in not having a king, not being ruled by a monarch. After all, we fought for our independence from the British crown some 200 years ago. So we don't have a king, or a queen, and we like it that way. At the same time, perhaps our political system distances us somewhat from the meaning of our festival today: Christ the King Sunday. We know, of course, what a king is, but we don't have to think about kings very often in our daily lives. We may not always have a good sense of what a king looks like.
If you've been following the news, you have probably heard that Prince William of England has announced his engagement to his girlfriend Kate Middleton. You've probably seen all the pictures of them together, and all the members of the royal family who are weighing in on the match. So we've had a reminder, we king-less Americans, of what monarchy means. We've had a chance to look at the probable future King of England, to be reminded of what a king is like: the power, the wealth, the life in the public eye.
And then we have our Gospel reading this morning. On the festival celebrating Christ as King, we read about Jesus being crucified, brutally tortured and mocked. “This is the King of the Jews!” the Romans sarcastically declare. To call this convicted and dying man a king is the greatest possible contradiction. The Roman soldiers are not making a statement of faith – they are making a cruel joke. Likewise with the religious leaders who call Jesus “Messiah,” meaning the chosen one of God. They have condemned this man, convicted him, and executed him. Now they mock him with titles of power, reveling in the obvious contradiction between the crucified Jesus and the meaning of “Messiah” and “King.”
I hope you are shocked by the starkness of the contradiction here, between “Christ the King” and Jesus dying on the cross. It is shocking. It is a misuse of the title “King,” someone who rules and has power over others, to apply it to a convicted and dying criminal. Yet we celebrate this festival of Christ the King. We lift up the cross as the central image of our faith. Perhaps we forget sometimes that the cross was an instrument of torture and death, the means by which the Romans kept their many territories in line. We worship here in the shadow of this cross. Imagine if Jesus had been born in a different time – we could be looking at an artist's representation of a guillotine, or an electric chair. How dare we celebrate and glorify death and violence in this way? How can we possibly call Jesus “King”?
Certainly, you will remind me that this is not the end of the story. After all, we know what happens next: Jesus is taken down from the cross, his body is laid in the tomb, and within three days he has risen again. But we do not get to hear the Easter story on this festival. You will not come back a week from now to celebrate the empty tomb. No, Christ the King Sunday leaves us here, at the cross. It is the end of our church year and the end of the story – next week, we start the story over again with Advent, waiting for Christ to be born. So we end with the cross, with the mocking and the cruelty, with death.
It is not enough to skip to Easter, to the resurrection. We cannot look to the risen and glorified Christ to find justification for calling him “King.” You see, if we focus only on Easter, the cross becomes meaningless. If we focus on Easter, then we cannot answer the question, “Why did Jesus have to die, and why die in this way?” We cannot explain the cross by glossing over it, by gilding it with the glory of the resurrection.
No, you see, we have to wrestle with the cross, we have to let the cross reveal its own meaning. We can't skip over this just to get to the “happy ending.” If we want to understand Christ, and if we want to know what it means for this man to be our King, then we have to let the cross speak.
So what does the cross mean? What is the significance of hanging this image in our worship spaces and wearing it around our necks? There are three important pieces of this death of Jesus, three rejections: a rejection by religious authority, a condemnation by civil authority, and an abandonment by God. Bear with me for a moment as I say a few words about each of these three.
First, Jesus was rejected by the religious authority: as we know, it is the religious leaders, the Pharisees and the Priests, who want to have Jesus killed. They are threatened by his popularity and by his message. As far as they are concerned, he is a heretic — after all, he claims to be the Son of God! And remember, before we pass judgment on these religious leaders, that we are like them. If you meet a man on the street who tells you he’s the Son of God and that God is coming, do you immediately drop everything and follow him? No. You probably assume he is mentally ill and you cross to the other side of the street. For these religious leaders, Jesus was not just a madman, he was a blasphemer. For this reason, they sought Jesus’ death.
Second, Jesus was condemned by the civil authority — the Roman Empire, specifically through the authority of Pontius Pilate. That is why Jesus was killed on the cross at all: for the Jewish community, the usual sentence of death was carried out by stoning. However, the Jewish leaders and the crowds demand crucifixion, a death that the Romans handed down on political rebels. And Jesus’ claims about the coming reign of God certainly were threatening to the Roman Empire. There were others who claimed to be the Messiah and who led violent rebellions against Rome — Jesus might have been seen as one of these. So he had to die.
Lastly, and this is the most difficult to understand, Jesus was abandoned by God. When we read in some of the Gospels that Jesus cries out, “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?” we should take these words seriously. Even though Jesus was the Son of God, in the moment of his death, he felt abandoned even by God. When we talk about the birth of Jesus, we often say that Jesus gave up the power and mightiness of God to be born as a helpless child. How much more so is Jesus removed from God in this moment of his death? After all, as ridiculous as it is for a king to die this way, it is far more ridiculous — even impossible — for a god to die. It is one of the great paradoxes of our faith: Christ is fully human and fully divine, yet Christ dies abandoned by God.
So in the cross, we see that Jesus dies rejected by religion, by the state, and even by God. You may be wondering why this matters. Yes, it’s an interesting fact of Scriptural analysis; yes, it reminds us of how horrible Jesus’ death was; but what does it have to do with us? What does it have to do with our faith in Jesus or with our lives today?
Those questions are absolutely vital. We Christians, who follow Jesus, who wear the cross as jewelry and use it to decorate our homes — we must ask what the cross has to do with us. As I said before, we can’t just skip to the happy ending of Easter, as important as the resurrection is for our faith. We have to understand the cross, the significance of the cross in our lives.
We are followers of Jesus, and Jesus told his followers again and again to “take up your cross and follow me.” The cross is not only the means of Jesus’ death, it’s also the model of discipleship for those who follow him. So for us today, also, we have to look to the cross to understand how to be disciples of Jesus. What does it mean to take up our own cross?
Certainly, it does not mean that all followers of Jesus will die by crucifixion like he did. “Taking up our cross” is not a literal instruction — and crucifixion has fallen out of style in the last two millennia. But how does the cross have meaning for us, even today?
We must look back at that triple rejection I mentioned earlier. Jesus died rejected by religion, the state, and God. His rejection was not accidental; he was not a victim of circumstance. Rather, Jesus chose to go to Jerusalem, chose to anger the authorities, chose to die on the cross. And he chose this death to be united with all those who are rejected by religion, the state, and God. Jesus took on those rejections to stand in solidarity with the rejected. Jesus died abandoned, so that the abandoned might feel hope.
So it is for those who follow Jesus. We are called to “take up our cross,” to accept rejection because it puts us in solidarity with those who are already rejected by the “authorities” of the world. That is not an easy prospect; discipleship should make us pause. Don’t let anyone tell you that following Jesus will make you rich, powerful, and successful. To follow Jesus means accepting the harsh reality of the cross. To declare Jesus our King means giving up the ideals of earthly kings — the power, the money, the glory. To celebrate “Christ the King” this morning means we have to turn all our expectations on their heads, because this King is a King on the cross. This is the King of the Jews. This is our King.
Reflecting on the cross of Christ is difficult. Not only does it require some sophisticated theological thinking, but it is a painful subject to contemplate. It’s more pleasant to remember the resurrection, the joy and glory that come with Easter. Yet it is the cross — not the empty tomb — that is the center of our faith. On Christ the King Sunday, we remember the death of Jesus. On this day, we reflect on what it means for Christ to die on the cross, rejected by the powers of his world and by God. As we make our faith claim — saying, “This is our King!” — we must acknowledge the implications it has for our own lives. To name Christ our King, to live in the Kingdom of God, means that we will take up our own crosses. To follow Jesus means following him into rejection and lowliness. But it also means that we follow a king who knows what it means to be rejected and abandoned. It means we are part of a kingdom which cares for the lowly. And so, when we name Christ our King, we proclaim good news for the world. Amen.
“This is the King of the Jews.” “This is the King of the Jews,” says our Gospel reading today. “This is the King of the Jews” - those are the words written above Jesus' head as he died on the cross. This is the King of the Jews.
For us, living in 21st century America, we take some pride, I think, in not having a king, not being ruled by a monarch. After all, we fought for our independence from the British crown some 200 years ago. So we don't have a king, or a queen, and we like it that way. At the same time, perhaps our political system distances us somewhat from the meaning of our festival today: Christ the King Sunday. We know, of course, what a king is, but we don't have to think about kings very often in our daily lives. We may not always have a good sense of what a king looks like.
If you've been following the news, you have probably heard that Prince William of England has announced his engagement to his girlfriend Kate Middleton. You've probably seen all the pictures of them together, and all the members of the royal family who are weighing in on the match. So we've had a reminder, we king-less Americans, of what monarchy means. We've had a chance to look at the probable future King of England, to be reminded of what a king is like: the power, the wealth, the life in the public eye.
And then we have our Gospel reading this morning. On the festival celebrating Christ as King, we read about Jesus being crucified, brutally tortured and mocked. “This is the King of the Jews!” the Romans sarcastically declare. To call this convicted and dying man a king is the greatest possible contradiction. The Roman soldiers are not making a statement of faith – they are making a cruel joke. Likewise with the religious leaders who call Jesus “Messiah,” meaning the chosen one of God. They have condemned this man, convicted him, and executed him. Now they mock him with titles of power, reveling in the obvious contradiction between the crucified Jesus and the meaning of “Messiah” and “King.”
I hope you are shocked by the starkness of the contradiction here, between “Christ the King” and Jesus dying on the cross. It is shocking. It is a misuse of the title “King,” someone who rules and has power over others, to apply it to a convicted and dying criminal. Yet we celebrate this festival of Christ the King. We lift up the cross as the central image of our faith. Perhaps we forget sometimes that the cross was an instrument of torture and death, the means by which the Romans kept their many territories in line. We worship here in the shadow of this cross. Imagine if Jesus had been born in a different time – we could be looking at an artist's representation of a guillotine, or an electric chair. How dare we celebrate and glorify death and violence in this way? How can we possibly call Jesus “King”?
Certainly, you will remind me that this is not the end of the story. After all, we know what happens next: Jesus is taken down from the cross, his body is laid in the tomb, and within three days he has risen again. But we do not get to hear the Easter story on this festival. You will not come back a week from now to celebrate the empty tomb. No, Christ the King Sunday leaves us here, at the cross. It is the end of our church year and the end of the story – next week, we start the story over again with Advent, waiting for Christ to be born. So we end with the cross, with the mocking and the cruelty, with death.
It is not enough to skip to Easter, to the resurrection. We cannot look to the risen and glorified Christ to find justification for calling him “King.” You see, if we focus only on Easter, the cross becomes meaningless. If we focus on Easter, then we cannot answer the question, “Why did Jesus have to die, and why die in this way?” We cannot explain the cross by glossing over it, by gilding it with the glory of the resurrection.
No, you see, we have to wrestle with the cross, we have to let the cross reveal its own meaning. We can't skip over this just to get to the “happy ending.” If we want to understand Christ, and if we want to know what it means for this man to be our King, then we have to let the cross speak.
So what does the cross mean? What is the significance of hanging this image in our worship spaces and wearing it around our necks? There are three important pieces of this death of Jesus, three rejections: a rejection by religious authority, a condemnation by civil authority, and an abandonment by God. Bear with me for a moment as I say a few words about each of these three.
First, Jesus was rejected by the religious authority: as we know, it is the religious leaders, the Pharisees and the Priests, who want to have Jesus killed. They are threatened by his popularity and by his message. As far as they are concerned, he is a heretic — after all, he claims to be the Son of God! And remember, before we pass judgment on these religious leaders, that we are like them. If you meet a man on the street who tells you he’s the Son of God and that God is coming, do you immediately drop everything and follow him? No. You probably assume he is mentally ill and you cross to the other side of the street. For these religious leaders, Jesus was not just a madman, he was a blasphemer. For this reason, they sought Jesus’ death.
Second, Jesus was condemned by the civil authority — the Roman Empire, specifically through the authority of Pontius Pilate. That is why Jesus was killed on the cross at all: for the Jewish community, the usual sentence of death was carried out by stoning. However, the Jewish leaders and the crowds demand crucifixion, a death that the Romans handed down on political rebels. And Jesus’ claims about the coming reign of God certainly were threatening to the Roman Empire. There were others who claimed to be the Messiah and who led violent rebellions against Rome — Jesus might have been seen as one of these. So he had to die.
Lastly, and this is the most difficult to understand, Jesus was abandoned by God. When we read in some of the Gospels that Jesus cries out, “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?” we should take these words seriously. Even though Jesus was the Son of God, in the moment of his death, he felt abandoned even by God. When we talk about the birth of Jesus, we often say that Jesus gave up the power and mightiness of God to be born as a helpless child. How much more so is Jesus removed from God in this moment of his death? After all, as ridiculous as it is for a king to die this way, it is far more ridiculous — even impossible — for a god to die. It is one of the great paradoxes of our faith: Christ is fully human and fully divine, yet Christ dies abandoned by God.
So in the cross, we see that Jesus dies rejected by religion, by the state, and even by God. You may be wondering why this matters. Yes, it’s an interesting fact of Scriptural analysis; yes, it reminds us of how horrible Jesus’ death was; but what does it have to do with us? What does it have to do with our faith in Jesus or with our lives today?
Those questions are absolutely vital. We Christians, who follow Jesus, who wear the cross as jewelry and use it to decorate our homes — we must ask what the cross has to do with us. As I said before, we can’t just skip to the happy ending of Easter, as important as the resurrection is for our faith. We have to understand the cross, the significance of the cross in our lives.
We are followers of Jesus, and Jesus told his followers again and again to “take up your cross and follow me.” The cross is not only the means of Jesus’ death, it’s also the model of discipleship for those who follow him. So for us today, also, we have to look to the cross to understand how to be disciples of Jesus. What does it mean to take up our own cross?
Certainly, it does not mean that all followers of Jesus will die by crucifixion like he did. “Taking up our cross” is not a literal instruction — and crucifixion has fallen out of style in the last two millennia. But how does the cross have meaning for us, even today?
We must look back at that triple rejection I mentioned earlier. Jesus died rejected by religion, the state, and God. His rejection was not accidental; he was not a victim of circumstance. Rather, Jesus chose to go to Jerusalem, chose to anger the authorities, chose to die on the cross. And he chose this death to be united with all those who are rejected by religion, the state, and God. Jesus took on those rejections to stand in solidarity with the rejected. Jesus died abandoned, so that the abandoned might feel hope.
So it is for those who follow Jesus. We are called to “take up our cross,” to accept rejection because it puts us in solidarity with those who are already rejected by the “authorities” of the world. That is not an easy prospect; discipleship should make us pause. Don’t let anyone tell you that following Jesus will make you rich, powerful, and successful. To follow Jesus means accepting the harsh reality of the cross. To declare Jesus our King means giving up the ideals of earthly kings — the power, the money, the glory. To celebrate “Christ the King” this morning means we have to turn all our expectations on their heads, because this King is a King on the cross. This is the King of the Jews. This is our King.
Reflecting on the cross of Christ is difficult. Not only does it require some sophisticated theological thinking, but it is a painful subject to contemplate. It’s more pleasant to remember the resurrection, the joy and glory that come with Easter. Yet it is the cross — not the empty tomb — that is the center of our faith. On Christ the King Sunday, we remember the death of Jesus. On this day, we reflect on what it means for Christ to die on the cross, rejected by the powers of his world and by God. As we make our faith claim — saying, “This is our King!” — we must acknowledge the implications it has for our own lives. To name Christ our King, to live in the Kingdom of God, means that we will take up our own crosses. To follow Jesus means following him into rejection and lowliness. But it also means that we follow a king who knows what it means to be rejected and abandoned. It means we are part of a kingdom which cares for the lowly. And so, when we name Christ our King, we proclaim good news for the world. Amen.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
October 24 Sermon
Good morning. God's grace and peace be with you all.
Our gospel text this morning is deceptively simple. On the one hand, we have a self-righteous Pharisee and on the other, a humble tax collector. The Pharisee's pride is almost a caricature, as he says, “God, I thank you that I am not like other people.” Meanwhile, the tax collector cannot even look up to heaven, but beats his chest and cries out for mercy, knowing his own sinfulness.
Our gospel text this morning is deceptively simple. We may look at these two characters and think we know exactly what message the text is trying to communicate. Be like the tax collector, not like the Pharisee! Be humble, not proud! We may think that we get it. We may even say to ourselves, “God, I thank you that I am not like that awful Pharisee...”
Do you see the problem? In our eagerness not to be like the Pharisee, we become exactly like the Pharisee. The Pharisee's prayer is addressed to God, but it is all about himself: his behavior, his righteousness, his worth. The Pharisee's attitude is entirely self-centered and self-righteous – and there are tragic consequences of this way of thinking. The Pharisee is so eager to puff himself up, he has to put others down. “God, I thank you that I am not like other people,” he says, “Thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector.” The Pharisee is putting up barriers, walls that separate him from others. The Pharisee is making himself an “insider,” a righteous person, and the tax collector an “outsider” and unrighteous. The Pharisee assumes he knows that God favors him and that God rejects the tax collector. The Pharisee is building barriers that shut the tax collector out.
The Pharisee is making divisions between those he sees as righteous (including himself, of course) and those he sees as unrighteous, like the tax collector. Yet if we read this text in terms of “proud people” and “humble people,” we are doing exactly the same thing. We are building barriers, defining insiders and outsiders – and most of the time, we draw the lines so that we can be the insiders. We pride ourselves on not being like the prideful Pharisee – blissfully unaware of our hypocrisy and misinterpretation of this text.
So let's reexamine this deceptively simple parable and see if we can get out of our hypocritical mess. We have, as we already know, two characters, a Pharisee and a tax collector. Although the Pharisee is cast as the villain of this story – as the Pharisees often are in the gospel of Luke – we should give him credit where credit is due. The Pharisee is righteous, according to all the requirements of his faith. He fasts, not one day a week but two; he tithes, not only part of his possessions but gives a tenth of everything. We have no reason to doubt the truth of his words. And we would be wrong to dismiss these righteous activities. Especially a week before our Pledge Sunday here at King of Kings, I think the stewardship team would be very disappointed if I ignored the stewardship, the tithing, of the Pharisee. The Pharisee is doing everything right, and he would not be a bad model for us in our faith lives. We too should exercise spiritual practices such as prayer and fasting; we too should give back a portion of what we possess, knowing these things are gifts from God.
Yet as we have already noted, the problem with the Pharisee seems to be in his attitude. It's all about him. His prayer is not about God, not to mention the poor tax collector. The Pharisee can't seem to think of anyone or anything but himself. And in this attitude, the Pharisee is creating divisions, building barriers, making “insiders” and “outsiders.” He considers himself righteous – an insider – not like the tax collector and other sinners – the outsiders.
The setting of the parable is also significant. This parable takes place at the Temple, the center of Jewish religious life. The Temple was in many ways a palpable symbol of barriers, distinctions. The Temple complex itself was divided into different areas, and only certain people were allowed to enter. In the very center was the Holy of Holies, where only the high priests could go. In the outer parts of the Temple, only those who were ritually clean could enter. And there were some “outsiders” who were not allowed into the Temple at all. There were good theological reasons for these divisions. The Temple was a holy place, where God's presence was found; it would be wrong to infect a holy place with uncleanliness. So there were distinctions made, there were barriers put up against the wrong kind of people. The “insiders” were literally the ones allowed inside the Temple complex, while “outsiders” had to remain outside. Our tax collector identifies himself as an outsider because he stands far off – he won't even get too close to the Temple, just in case.
But careful readers of the gospel of Luke will notice another significance of the Temple and its distinctions. For it is in the gospel of Luke that we hear this account of Jesus' crucifixion: “It was now about noon, and darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon, while the sun's light failed; and the curtain of the temple was torn in two. Then Jesus, crying with a loud voice, said, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.” Having said this, he breathed his last.”
In the gospel of Luke, at the moment of Jesus' death the Temple curtain is torn in two. This curtain was a barrier in the literal sense; it protected the holy interior of the Temple from outsiders. Just as clearly as the Temple was a physical symbol of distinctions and barriers, the tearing of the Temple curtain is a physical symbol of those barriers being broken down. What is revealed at this moment in the gospel of Luke is that God in Jesus Christ breaks down every barrier that we try to build up.
When we try to make distinctions between “righteous” and “unrighteous,” like the Pharisee in today's parable, God breaks down those barriers. When we try to make distinctions between the “humble” and the “proud,” God breaks down those barriers, too. Whenever we try to label “insiders” and “outsiders” on any principle – be it behavior, or race, or wealth, or belief – we find God not on our side, but on the other side, breaking down the barriers. Though the Pharisee looked down on the tax collector, it was with tax collectors and sinners that Jesus spent his time.
In our parable today, the Pharisee was confident of his own righteousness, and the tax collector was certain of his unrighteousness. The parable is even addressed to an audience “who trusted in themselves that they were righteous.” So righteousness – being right in the eyes of God – is clearly important to this text. Some of us may feel like the Pharisee, confident that we are righteous. Others may feel like the tax collector, desperately begging God for mercy. Whether we feel like the Pharisee or like the tax collector, we would do well to be reminded of the source of our righteousness. To be counted righteous in God's eyes is not something anyone can earn. Righteousness can only come as a gift from God. Perhaps the tax collector knew that better than the Pharisee. Yet we can know something that was unknown even to the tax collector – not only that righteousness comes from God, but that it has come from God. We don't have to beg God for mercy like the tax collector does, because God has already counted us righteous. God has already justified us through the free gift of God's grace.
Because God has justified us as a gift of grace, we are freed from being either the tax collector or the Pharisee. While the tax collector desperately begs for God's mercy, we have the assurance of God's love. While the Pharisee is obsessed with his own righteous behavior, we are free to think of others. The Pharisee is so eager to promote himself that he builds barriers against the other, saying, “God, I thank you that I am not like other people.” We do not have to become trapped in the Pharisee's “insider” and “outsider” mentality. Instead, we realize that we have been justified by a God who tears the Temple curtain, a God who breaks down barriers. Because we are justified by God through God's grace, not through our goodness, we don't have to compare ourselves to others; we don't have to build barriers that make us “insiders” and protect us from “outsiders.”
In one of my seminary classes, I had the opportunity to watch a documentary titled “A Time for Burning.” It was a factual account of a Lutheran congregation in Omaha, Nebraska in 1966, when their pastor tried to reach out to their African American neighbors. In a congregation and a community that were still segregated, Reverend L. William Youngdahl tried to convince his white parishioners to share conversation and community with those they considered “outsiders.” The response from the congregation is mixed, with some supportive and others opposed; but in the end, the pastor is forced to resign.
What struck me most in the documentary was the pastor’s conviction that this conversation, this sharing of community, was not only worthwhile but vital. Today, we would be shocked by what some of the people in the documentary say — yet, for all the progress that has been made in the last 45 years, how often do we still hold outsiders at a distance and build barriers against them? Whether on the basis of race, or religion, or personal behavior, we all like to consider ourselves “insiders” and others “outsiders.” Yet we should strive to be more like this Pastor Youngdahl, whose belief in the all-encompassing love of God led him to seek community and fellowship with the “outsiders” in his world.
We have been justified by God, whose love and grace are freely given. Now we are free to follow in Jesus’ footsteps, breaking down barriers and identifying with outsiders. Now, we can reach out to both Pharisees and tax collectors. Now, we can share the love that we have first received. Amen.
Our gospel text this morning is deceptively simple. On the one hand, we have a self-righteous Pharisee and on the other, a humble tax collector. The Pharisee's pride is almost a caricature, as he says, “God, I thank you that I am not like other people.” Meanwhile, the tax collector cannot even look up to heaven, but beats his chest and cries out for mercy, knowing his own sinfulness.
Our gospel text this morning is deceptively simple. We may look at these two characters and think we know exactly what message the text is trying to communicate. Be like the tax collector, not like the Pharisee! Be humble, not proud! We may think that we get it. We may even say to ourselves, “God, I thank you that I am not like that awful Pharisee...”
Do you see the problem? In our eagerness not to be like the Pharisee, we become exactly like the Pharisee. The Pharisee's prayer is addressed to God, but it is all about himself: his behavior, his righteousness, his worth. The Pharisee's attitude is entirely self-centered and self-righteous – and there are tragic consequences of this way of thinking. The Pharisee is so eager to puff himself up, he has to put others down. “God, I thank you that I am not like other people,” he says, “Thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector.” The Pharisee is putting up barriers, walls that separate him from others. The Pharisee is making himself an “insider,” a righteous person, and the tax collector an “outsider” and unrighteous. The Pharisee assumes he knows that God favors him and that God rejects the tax collector. The Pharisee is building barriers that shut the tax collector out.
The Pharisee is making divisions between those he sees as righteous (including himself, of course) and those he sees as unrighteous, like the tax collector. Yet if we read this text in terms of “proud people” and “humble people,” we are doing exactly the same thing. We are building barriers, defining insiders and outsiders – and most of the time, we draw the lines so that we can be the insiders. We pride ourselves on not being like the prideful Pharisee – blissfully unaware of our hypocrisy and misinterpretation of this text.
So let's reexamine this deceptively simple parable and see if we can get out of our hypocritical mess. We have, as we already know, two characters, a Pharisee and a tax collector. Although the Pharisee is cast as the villain of this story – as the Pharisees often are in the gospel of Luke – we should give him credit where credit is due. The Pharisee is righteous, according to all the requirements of his faith. He fasts, not one day a week but two; he tithes, not only part of his possessions but gives a tenth of everything. We have no reason to doubt the truth of his words. And we would be wrong to dismiss these righteous activities. Especially a week before our Pledge Sunday here at King of Kings, I think the stewardship team would be very disappointed if I ignored the stewardship, the tithing, of the Pharisee. The Pharisee is doing everything right, and he would not be a bad model for us in our faith lives. We too should exercise spiritual practices such as prayer and fasting; we too should give back a portion of what we possess, knowing these things are gifts from God.
Yet as we have already noted, the problem with the Pharisee seems to be in his attitude. It's all about him. His prayer is not about God, not to mention the poor tax collector. The Pharisee can't seem to think of anyone or anything but himself. And in this attitude, the Pharisee is creating divisions, building barriers, making “insiders” and “outsiders.” He considers himself righteous – an insider – not like the tax collector and other sinners – the outsiders.
The setting of the parable is also significant. This parable takes place at the Temple, the center of Jewish religious life. The Temple was in many ways a palpable symbol of barriers, distinctions. The Temple complex itself was divided into different areas, and only certain people were allowed to enter. In the very center was the Holy of Holies, where only the high priests could go. In the outer parts of the Temple, only those who were ritually clean could enter. And there were some “outsiders” who were not allowed into the Temple at all. There were good theological reasons for these divisions. The Temple was a holy place, where God's presence was found; it would be wrong to infect a holy place with uncleanliness. So there were distinctions made, there were barriers put up against the wrong kind of people. The “insiders” were literally the ones allowed inside the Temple complex, while “outsiders” had to remain outside. Our tax collector identifies himself as an outsider because he stands far off – he won't even get too close to the Temple, just in case.
But careful readers of the gospel of Luke will notice another significance of the Temple and its distinctions. For it is in the gospel of Luke that we hear this account of Jesus' crucifixion: “It was now about noon, and darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon, while the sun's light failed; and the curtain of the temple was torn in two. Then Jesus, crying with a loud voice, said, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.” Having said this, he breathed his last.”
In the gospel of Luke, at the moment of Jesus' death the Temple curtain is torn in two. This curtain was a barrier in the literal sense; it protected the holy interior of the Temple from outsiders. Just as clearly as the Temple was a physical symbol of distinctions and barriers, the tearing of the Temple curtain is a physical symbol of those barriers being broken down. What is revealed at this moment in the gospel of Luke is that God in Jesus Christ breaks down every barrier that we try to build up.
When we try to make distinctions between “righteous” and “unrighteous,” like the Pharisee in today's parable, God breaks down those barriers. When we try to make distinctions between the “humble” and the “proud,” God breaks down those barriers, too. Whenever we try to label “insiders” and “outsiders” on any principle – be it behavior, or race, or wealth, or belief – we find God not on our side, but on the other side, breaking down the barriers. Though the Pharisee looked down on the tax collector, it was with tax collectors and sinners that Jesus spent his time.
In our parable today, the Pharisee was confident of his own righteousness, and the tax collector was certain of his unrighteousness. The parable is even addressed to an audience “who trusted in themselves that they were righteous.” So righteousness – being right in the eyes of God – is clearly important to this text. Some of us may feel like the Pharisee, confident that we are righteous. Others may feel like the tax collector, desperately begging God for mercy. Whether we feel like the Pharisee or like the tax collector, we would do well to be reminded of the source of our righteousness. To be counted righteous in God's eyes is not something anyone can earn. Righteousness can only come as a gift from God. Perhaps the tax collector knew that better than the Pharisee. Yet we can know something that was unknown even to the tax collector – not only that righteousness comes from God, but that it has come from God. We don't have to beg God for mercy like the tax collector does, because God has already counted us righteous. God has already justified us through the free gift of God's grace.
Because God has justified us as a gift of grace, we are freed from being either the tax collector or the Pharisee. While the tax collector desperately begs for God's mercy, we have the assurance of God's love. While the Pharisee is obsessed with his own righteous behavior, we are free to think of others. The Pharisee is so eager to promote himself that he builds barriers against the other, saying, “God, I thank you that I am not like other people.” We do not have to become trapped in the Pharisee's “insider” and “outsider” mentality. Instead, we realize that we have been justified by a God who tears the Temple curtain, a God who breaks down barriers. Because we are justified by God through God's grace, not through our goodness, we don't have to compare ourselves to others; we don't have to build barriers that make us “insiders” and protect us from “outsiders.”
In one of my seminary classes, I had the opportunity to watch a documentary titled “A Time for Burning.” It was a factual account of a Lutheran congregation in Omaha, Nebraska in 1966, when their pastor tried to reach out to their African American neighbors. In a congregation and a community that were still segregated, Reverend L. William Youngdahl tried to convince his white parishioners to share conversation and community with those they considered “outsiders.” The response from the congregation is mixed, with some supportive and others opposed; but in the end, the pastor is forced to resign.
What struck me most in the documentary was the pastor’s conviction that this conversation, this sharing of community, was not only worthwhile but vital. Today, we would be shocked by what some of the people in the documentary say — yet, for all the progress that has been made in the last 45 years, how often do we still hold outsiders at a distance and build barriers against them? Whether on the basis of race, or religion, or personal behavior, we all like to consider ourselves “insiders” and others “outsiders.” Yet we should strive to be more like this Pastor Youngdahl, whose belief in the all-encompassing love of God led him to seek community and fellowship with the “outsiders” in his world.
We have been justified by God, whose love and grace are freely given. Now we are free to follow in Jesus’ footsteps, breaking down barriers and identifying with outsiders. Now, we can reach out to both Pharisees and tax collectors. Now, we can share the love that we have first received. Amen.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
October 3 Sermon
In advance of my preaching tomorrow, here's the sermon I've written. I didn't get a chance to do much sermon prep here on the blog because, well, it's been a busy couple of weeks. (It's telling that I haven't posted since early September... where did that month GO?)
Anyway, I did decide to preach on Habakkuk, which revealed to me my ignorance about the book of Habakkuk. After some catching up in terms of my own knowledge, I feel like the sermon came together pretty well. It's nice to preach on something that's not quite as miserably difficult as the last two sermons I've preached.
Grace and peace be with all of you, in the name of our God. Amen.
For my sermon this week, I've chosen to focus not on our Gospel text, but on the First Lesson, the Old Testament text – the reading from the book of Habakkuk. I encourage you to look at the text again in your pew Bibles if you want to refresh your memory. As I was preparing this sermon, one of the resources I consulted had this word of advice: “When have the sainted people to whom you preach ever heard a sermon based on God's timeless word to Habakkuk? This week is their chance. Do not let them down.”
Well, I will do my best. I expect many of you sainted people have not heard a sermon on God's timeless word to Habakkuk. You may be unfamiliar with this book and its themes. Even I had to do some serious reading to figure out what this book, included among the prophets, is about.
The theme in this reading that jumped out at me is justice. Habakkuk writes, “So the law becomes slack and justice never prevails. The wicked surround the righteous — therefore judgment comes forth perverted.” Habakkuk is lamenting a situation filled with injustice.
And this lament of Habakkuk's seems timeless, doesn't it? There are so many times when we are struck by the injustice of a situation. I want us to reflect for a minute on those injustices we encounter; I'll give you an example of my own.
Last Christmas, my husband and I were traveling home from the seminary up in Gettysburg. We were flying out of the Dulles Airport, so we left our car in the long-term parking there. When we returned to our car eight days later, our front bumper was absolutely mangled. Someone had hit us in the parking lot while we were gone. There was no note, no sign at all that the person who had hit our car had wanted to make the situation right. Probably, the person who hit us figured he or she would be long gone before we got back to find our ruined bumper – and that person was right. We couldn’t know who hit our car and then drove off. So we went to a car shop and paid for a new bumper, and my husband muttered something about karma... hoping that the person who did us an injustice would get some kind of cosmic comeuppance.
What about all of you? I want you to take a moment to reflect on an injustice you have experienced, a time when maybe you wished for cosmic justice. [pause]
Some of you may have experienced injustice far worse than my husband's and my ruined bumper. I am well aware that my example is very minor compared to the injustice that some individuals and groups have to face. My little “injustice” is also very minor compared to the experience of Habakkuk. You see, Habakkuk lived in a time when the people of Israel were being deeply shaken. World powers – the Assyrians and the Babylonians – were conquering the people of Israel, sending some of them into exile and destroying their homes. Even the Temple of Jerusalem was eventually destroyed – a catastrophic event for God's people. Amidst all of this, the prophets cried out over the injustice they saw within the people of Israel – ignoring the poor, the widows and orphans; perverting the system of justice for personal gain..
That is the world in which Habakkuk speaks. Habakkuk cries out to God, “Destruction and violence are before me; strife and contention arise.” Habakkuk and the people of Israel are threatened by foreign powers and by internal injustice. The world around Habakkuk is all wrong, far from God's intentions and promises.
And Habakkuk cries out not only in lament to God, but in accusation. Habakkuk writes, “O LORD, how long shall I cry for help, and you will not listen? Or cry to you 'Violence!' and you will not save? Why do you make me see wrong-doing and look at trouble?” As Habakkuk knows, the God of Israel is supposed to be a just God, a God who protects the righteous and punishes the wicked. Habakkuk sees justice perverted and the wicked prospering; and he is forced to wonder what God is doing. If the world is unjust, does that mean God is unjust? Or has God forgotten the people of Israel and God's promises to them?
Habakkuk is not the only voice that cries out in this way when faced with injustice. There are others in the Bible who question the justice of God: the book of Job is perhaps the most famous. And at times we may find ourselves asking the same questions. In the midst of violence around the world; poverty, disease, and hunger; the personal losses and hardships we experience; stories in the news about cyber-bullying driving teenagers to suicide – we may wonder if God is unjust or simply absent from our world. We may find ourselves wandering in a dark place, feeling far from God, full of pain and doubt.
It is comforting for me to know that Habakkuk is in that dark place with us. We are not alone when we ask these hard questions. Habakkuk and other faithful people throughout history have asked the same questions. And Habakkuk can provide us with a model and perhaps some hope in that dark place – for Habakkuk does not only lament, does not only ask questions. Habakkuk waits, however impatiently, for a response from God. I love Habakkuk's words: “I will stand at my watchpost, and station myself on the rampart; I will keep watch to see what God will say to me, and what God will answer concerning my complaint.” I imagine Habakkuk putting his foot down, saying to God, “I am not going to move until you answer me!” How many of us have felt that same impatience and insistence? Even when we are doubting God, we still wait for an answer from God, hoping and trusting that it will come.
For Habakkuk, the answer comes in two parts. God does respond to the voice of the prophet, but warns that the answer Habakkuk seeks requires more patience. God says, “There is still a vision for the appointed time; it speaks of the end, and does not lie. If it seems to tarry, wait for it; it will surely come, it will not delay.” Habakkuk does not get the vision immediately. But God comes to remind Habakkuk of God's presence and faithfulness. Though it may seem that the answer to Habakkuk's questions is slow to come, God promises that it will come at just the right time.
God can speak to us through this word to Habakkuk, as well. When we find ourselves overwhelmed by the injustice all around us, or doubting the presence of God in the midst of injustice, we can read this word to Habakkuk. We can trust that God is still among us. Sometimes, we feel that presence of God in one another, in community. Sometimes, we can only hope that God's presence is there, unfelt. We trust in the word God gave to Habakkuk — that God does have a vision, a plan, and it will come at the appointed time.
When we gather here for worship, we often gather with joy. We celebrate weddings and baptisms; we celebrate God’s love and grace. Yet at other times, we gather here with different emotions. We gather to mourn at funerals, filled with sadness and overwhelmed by questions. Even for a regular Sunday service, some of you undoubtedly come weighed down by your doubts, fears, and pains. Some of you may come here overwhelmed by the injustice you see around you. Some of you may come, doubting whether God can be found here.
In many Christian churches, including this one, there is a special candle — the eternal candle. It’s right over there, on the wall. It remains lit, even when the service ends and all the other candles are extinguished. This eternal candle is meant to signify God’s ongoing, constant presence among us. Whether we gather in joy or in sadness, God remains faithfully present. Although we may not find the answers we are seeking — although we must wait for the vision to arrive — we trust that God’s spirit is here, as God has promised. Amen.
Anyway, I did decide to preach on Habakkuk, which revealed to me my ignorance about the book of Habakkuk. After some catching up in terms of my own knowledge, I feel like the sermon came together pretty well. It's nice to preach on something that's not quite as miserably difficult as the last two sermons I've preached.
Grace and peace be with all of you, in the name of our God. Amen.
For my sermon this week, I've chosen to focus not on our Gospel text, but on the First Lesson, the Old Testament text – the reading from the book of Habakkuk. I encourage you to look at the text again in your pew Bibles if you want to refresh your memory. As I was preparing this sermon, one of the resources I consulted had this word of advice: “When have the sainted people to whom you preach ever heard a sermon based on God's timeless word to Habakkuk? This week is their chance. Do not let them down.”
Well, I will do my best. I expect many of you sainted people have not heard a sermon on God's timeless word to Habakkuk. You may be unfamiliar with this book and its themes. Even I had to do some serious reading to figure out what this book, included among the prophets, is about.
The theme in this reading that jumped out at me is justice. Habakkuk writes, “So the law becomes slack and justice never prevails. The wicked surround the righteous — therefore judgment comes forth perverted.” Habakkuk is lamenting a situation filled with injustice.
And this lament of Habakkuk's seems timeless, doesn't it? There are so many times when we are struck by the injustice of a situation. I want us to reflect for a minute on those injustices we encounter; I'll give you an example of my own.
Last Christmas, my husband and I were traveling home from the seminary up in Gettysburg. We were flying out of the Dulles Airport, so we left our car in the long-term parking there. When we returned to our car eight days later, our front bumper was absolutely mangled. Someone had hit us in the parking lot while we were gone. There was no note, no sign at all that the person who had hit our car had wanted to make the situation right. Probably, the person who hit us figured he or she would be long gone before we got back to find our ruined bumper – and that person was right. We couldn’t know who hit our car and then drove off. So we went to a car shop and paid for a new bumper, and my husband muttered something about karma... hoping that the person who did us an injustice would get some kind of cosmic comeuppance.
What about all of you? I want you to take a moment to reflect on an injustice you have experienced, a time when maybe you wished for cosmic justice. [pause]
Some of you may have experienced injustice far worse than my husband's and my ruined bumper. I am well aware that my example is very minor compared to the injustice that some individuals and groups have to face. My little “injustice” is also very minor compared to the experience of Habakkuk. You see, Habakkuk lived in a time when the people of Israel were being deeply shaken. World powers – the Assyrians and the Babylonians – were conquering the people of Israel, sending some of them into exile and destroying their homes. Even the Temple of Jerusalem was eventually destroyed – a catastrophic event for God's people. Amidst all of this, the prophets cried out over the injustice they saw within the people of Israel – ignoring the poor, the widows and orphans; perverting the system of justice for personal gain..
That is the world in which Habakkuk speaks. Habakkuk cries out to God, “Destruction and violence are before me; strife and contention arise.” Habakkuk and the people of Israel are threatened by foreign powers and by internal injustice. The world around Habakkuk is all wrong, far from God's intentions and promises.
And Habakkuk cries out not only in lament to God, but in accusation. Habakkuk writes, “O LORD, how long shall I cry for help, and you will not listen? Or cry to you 'Violence!' and you will not save? Why do you make me see wrong-doing and look at trouble?” As Habakkuk knows, the God of Israel is supposed to be a just God, a God who protects the righteous and punishes the wicked. Habakkuk sees justice perverted and the wicked prospering; and he is forced to wonder what God is doing. If the world is unjust, does that mean God is unjust? Or has God forgotten the people of Israel and God's promises to them?
Habakkuk is not the only voice that cries out in this way when faced with injustice. There are others in the Bible who question the justice of God: the book of Job is perhaps the most famous. And at times we may find ourselves asking the same questions. In the midst of violence around the world; poverty, disease, and hunger; the personal losses and hardships we experience; stories in the news about cyber-bullying driving teenagers to suicide – we may wonder if God is unjust or simply absent from our world. We may find ourselves wandering in a dark place, feeling far from God, full of pain and doubt.
It is comforting for me to know that Habakkuk is in that dark place with us. We are not alone when we ask these hard questions. Habakkuk and other faithful people throughout history have asked the same questions. And Habakkuk can provide us with a model and perhaps some hope in that dark place – for Habakkuk does not only lament, does not only ask questions. Habakkuk waits, however impatiently, for a response from God. I love Habakkuk's words: “I will stand at my watchpost, and station myself on the rampart; I will keep watch to see what God will say to me, and what God will answer concerning my complaint.” I imagine Habakkuk putting his foot down, saying to God, “I am not going to move until you answer me!” How many of us have felt that same impatience and insistence? Even when we are doubting God, we still wait for an answer from God, hoping and trusting that it will come.
For Habakkuk, the answer comes in two parts. God does respond to the voice of the prophet, but warns that the answer Habakkuk seeks requires more patience. God says, “There is still a vision for the appointed time; it speaks of the end, and does not lie. If it seems to tarry, wait for it; it will surely come, it will not delay.” Habakkuk does not get the vision immediately. But God comes to remind Habakkuk of God's presence and faithfulness. Though it may seem that the answer to Habakkuk's questions is slow to come, God promises that it will come at just the right time.
God can speak to us through this word to Habakkuk, as well. When we find ourselves overwhelmed by the injustice all around us, or doubting the presence of God in the midst of injustice, we can read this word to Habakkuk. We can trust that God is still among us. Sometimes, we feel that presence of God in one another, in community. Sometimes, we can only hope that God's presence is there, unfelt. We trust in the word God gave to Habakkuk — that God does have a vision, a plan, and it will come at the appointed time.
When we gather here for worship, we often gather with joy. We celebrate weddings and baptisms; we celebrate God’s love and grace. Yet at other times, we gather here with different emotions. We gather to mourn at funerals, filled with sadness and overwhelmed by questions. Even for a regular Sunday service, some of you undoubtedly come weighed down by your doubts, fears, and pains. Some of you may come here overwhelmed by the injustice you see around you. Some of you may come, doubting whether God can be found here.
In many Christian churches, including this one, there is a special candle — the eternal candle. It’s right over there, on the wall. It remains lit, even when the service ends and all the other candles are extinguished. This eternal candle is meant to signify God’s ongoing, constant presence among us. Whether we gather in joy or in sadness, God remains faithfully present. Although we may not find the answers we are seeking — although we must wait for the vision to arrive — we trust that God’s spirit is here, as God has promised. Amen.
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