In our Gospel reading for this morning Jesus poses two questions to his disciples. “Who do people say that I am?” and “Who do you say that I am?” [pause] “Who do people say that I am?” and “Who do you say that I am?” As I sat with this text this week, those two questions kept rolling around in my mind.
I recently read an article with the shock-worthy title: “More Teens Becoming ‘Fake’ Christians.” The article was based on a book by Kenda Dean, a professor at Princeton Theological Seminary. Dean argued that kids are walking away from the church because they are being taught a “mutant” form of Christianity which Dean called “moralistic therapeutic deism,” which is fancy theologian talk essentially meaning this view of God as some kind of a “divine therapist” whose chief goal is to boost people’s self-esteem. Dean drew these conclusions from a study where she interviewed 33 hundred Christian teens. From these interviews she found that though three out of four teens claim to be Christian, only half practice their faith, less than half think it’s important, and most could not articulate what they believed. Most teens surveyed felt God simply wanted them to feel good and be good.
Dean called the research, “the most depressing summer of her life,” remarking, “If this is the God they're seeing in church, they are right to leave us in the dust. Churches don't give them enough to be passionate about.” Elizabeth Corrie, a professor at Emory Theological Seminary, agrees with Dean, saying that “teens want to be challenged; they want their tough questions taken on.” Corrie remarked in the article, “We think that they want cake, but they actually want steak and potatoes, and we keep giving them cake.”
Dean did interview some teens who were passionate about their faith. Among those youth Dean noticed four distinct characteristics. First, they had a passionate story about God they could share. Second, they had a deep connection to a faith community. Third, they felt a sense of purpose in their lives. And fourth, they felt a sense of hope.
Dean’s study focused specifically on American teenagers, but her findings kept coming back to me as I wrestled with the texts for this morning where Jesus essentially asked his disciples, “What do you believe about me?” Could I do any better than the kids Dean interviewed in articulating my own faith? Did the disciples? Did Peter? What would I answer, what would you answer, if Jesus posed the question to you, “Who do you say that I am?”
What Jesus is asking the disciples about this morning is about confession. Now, because the English language is not at all confusing (sarcasm), we use the word confession twice in worship and mean two completely different things. We used it in the confession and forgiveness at the beginning of the service, where we confess, we admit, our sins, and hear God’s forgiveness. And then after the sermon, when it is time for the Apostles’ Creed, I will invite you to “Join with the whole church in confessing our faith.” Confession there means to make a statement of belief. It is this second kind of confession Jesus is talking about in the reading, he’s asking the disciples what professions people are making about Jesus, and what the disciples themselves believe to be true about Jesus.
Peter answered Jesus, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God.” And Jesus called Peter a rock, the rock on whom Jesus would build the church. A foundation so strong that even the gates of hell itself would not prevail against it. So clearly Peter got the answer right. He passed the “recognizing Jesus as God” litmus test and got all the powers and the glory that come with it.
Except, here’s the thing about Peter and this pronouncement by Jesus that Peter is the rock of the church, Peter is like the wishy-washiest rock you ever saw. He’s like that one stone in a creek that looks all stable until you reach it, and then as soon as you step on it, it shifts to the side and dumps you on your knees in the water. Spoiler alert: next week we will read the very next scene in the Gospel where Jesus is foretelling the crucifixion, and Peter totally gets it wrong, to the point where Jesus has to finally turn around and essentially tell Peter off. So make sure to tune in next week for another exciting installment of Peter: Not the Stablest Rock.
But this week Peter made a confession of faith, and Jesus praised him for that. And even with Peter’s constant failings and misunderstandings, he got to keep the nickname. I’ve been calling him Peter throughout the sermon for the sake of clarity, and the Gospel calls him Peter for the same reason, but if we flip back to Matthew 4, when Jesus called the disciples, we see that his name is really Simon. But no one really called him Simon after this moment in Matthew 16. Instead he was Peter, petros in the Greek, which literally means Rock.
So if Peter didn’t really get what he was saying, and Jesus had to know he didn’t, why did Jesus ask in the first place and why did Jesus praise Peter’s answer? I think it’s because we make confessions of faith not for Jesus, but for us. When Jesus asked the disciples who he was it wasn’t because Jesus needed the answer. Jesus knew who he was. He didn’t need his stumbly, wishy-washy disciples to tell him. But the disciples need to know who Jesus was. They had to believe, not just some sort of vague fuzzy notion, but in real, clear, concrete language that they could wrap their mouths around, even if their hearts and minds couldn’t always follow. Pastor David Lose says that “the confessions we offer aren’t words of praise to God but words of power that help root us in the love and possibility that Jesus offers.” Putting it in the framework of the article I was talking about earlier, the confession Peter offered was the story of faith that helped ground in him the sense of purpose in his life and the sense of hope that would keep him going through the pitfalls ahead. It didn’t mean he was going to get it right all the time, and it didn’t mean that bad things weren’t going to happen, but what it did mean was that when he faced challenges, the rock he could go back to was not his own foundation, but the foundation of Christ. He had language he could hold on to and a community to speak it with him when his heart and mind were weak.
So I want to leave you this morning with a challenge. To think about how you would answer the question Jesus posed, “Who do you say that I am?” Sit with it, wrestle with it, and then write down, in just a couple sentences, what you believe to be true about Jesus. This isn’t a test, I’m not asking to see your answers, I won’t collect anything next week. But my hope is that this could be something you can go back to when the world feels out of kilter. Something to help you find grounding again in the love and the grace of God.
Because it’s a hard question, I’ll go first. Bear in mind I’ve had too much school, so I apologize in advance that mine probably has too many big words in it. It would be a better confession if it was simpler, but as it feels pretty vulnerable to throw all this out to you, I hope you will be graceful about my pretentious language. So here’s what I believe:
• I believe that the incarnation-the Word made Flesh-means that God has experienced, and thus understands, everything about what it means to be human, joy yes, but also pain, fear, even doubt and loss.
• I believe that grace and niceness are not the same, that sometimes grace hurts but it is always life-giving.
• Along the same lines, I believe that carrying a cross and bearing a burden are two completely different things. Burdens are put upon us, and we are meant to bear them together. But crosses we choose. I believe that the only person besides you who can tell you what your cross is, is God, and God has given us the free will to choose our own cross. And if God isn’t going to tell us, no human gets to.
• I believe that Paul had it right in Romans, that nothing, not death or life, angels or demons, things present or things to come, not power, not height, not depth, or any other created thing, nothing can separate us from the love of God.
• I believe that in the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus, God promised that the worst thing that can happen is never the last thing that will happen. That there is always, always, life after death.
• And finally, I believe in the power of divine mystery. I believe that doubt is a part of faith. I believe I don’t have to “get it” all the time in order for my faith to be real.
There you go. It’s way too long and the language is more obscure than I’d like, but like I said, I’ve had too much school, please forgive me. Now I’ve told you what I believe, how about you? Who do you say that Christ is? Amen.
Sources:
John Blake, "Author: More Teens Becoming 'Fake' Christians," CNN.com (August 27, 2010), http://www.cnn.com/2010/LIVING/08/27/almost.christian/index.html (accessed August 20, 2014).
David Lose, "Pentecost 11A: Who Do You Say I Am?," ...in the Meantime, entry posted August 18, 2014, http://www.davidlose.net/2014/08/pentecost-11-a-who-do-you-say-i-am/ (accessed August 20, 2014).
The extraordinary can look so ordinary
Monday, August 25, 2014
Monday, August 18, 2014
Demon Cats, Baptism, and the Tenacious Love of God: A Sermon on Matthew 15:21-28
I know Louie was hoping for a squirt gun this morning, and I’m afraid I don’t have one. But what I do have is this spray bottle, which actually played a really important role in my life for a summer, when it was, quite literally, my salvation. A spray bottle just like this one kept me safe from this little monster right here. Now, don’t let his small size and general cuteness fool you, this fellow packed a punch.
I lived with this little monster the summer between my first and second years of seminary. His name was Worf and I am pretty sure he was a demon. There is really no other explanation for his crazy, maniacal behavior. Notice his flattened face, tattered ear, and lazy, goopy eye, this fellow had a violent past. The rest of the roommates he would ignore but if I entered a room he would turn his head, fixing that goopy eye on me for just a moment, before he would lurch with almost supernatural speed to attach his entire body around my leg, biting and clawing ferociously. I wore long pants through the whole, hot, muggy, DC summer, but to no avail. That cat could draw blood through jeans.
Eventually, I hit on a solution, this spray bottle. I carried it tucked in my pocket like a character from an old western. When I left the house, I placed it just inside the front door so I could reach in and grab it before opening the door all the way. Then I would preemptively squirt a stream of water at Worf, who was hissing at me from the top of the stairs, driving off his attack until I could make my way safely to my room.
By the end of the summer, Worf became at least used to me. I still carried the spray bottle but at night he began to sleep with me, stretching out his body to touch as much of me as possible, goopy eye pressed against my leg. I did not like this, but as we seemed to be getting along I certainly wasn’t going to dissuade him. Even with this uneasy truce more than once I awoke to my roommate standing over me, whispering “don’t move” as she pointed the spray bottle, which I kept on the bedside table, at the small figure crouching on the floor beside my bed ready to pounce. I was never sure what prompted these late-night attacks or his determined animosity to me in the first place, but like I said at the beginning, I’m pretty sure Worf was a demon, and demons simply don’t make sense. [pause]
OK, so I don’t really think the cat was a demon. But in our Gospel reading this morning the Canaanite woman approached Jesus because her daughter was tormented by a demon, and Worf was the best example I could come up with. I’m never really sure what to do with demons in Scripture. It’s not something we’re really comfortable talking about in modern society. But here’s what I wonder about demons, maybe we give too little credit for them if we think about them only as supernatural beings. If we’re broader in our definition, if a demon is something that holds us captive, couldn’t a lot of things be demons. Couldn’t poverty then be a demon, or violence, or our relenting need for control? Could depression be a demon, or alcoholism, or fear? Not in the sense that these things are some otherworldly beings, but in the sense that these things keep us from living up to our best potential, keep us from having the kind of fulfillment that God wants for us. And like Worf’s continual assault on me, these patterns of control are manipulative and tenacious and they do not go away. Even when we think we have them beat; they have this way of sneaking back into our lives, of wresting control again, of telling us lies like we are worthless, unloved, powerless.
And the Canaanite woman just wasn’t going to stand for anyone calling her daughter unworthy. So even though she was a woman and a Canaanite and had no business addressing a Jewish leader and teacher such as Jesus, she marched right up to him and demanded that he heal her daughter. The disciples weren’t really sure what to do with this angry, shouting woman. Even Jesus seemed unwilling to engage in her struggle. But here’s the thing, even when Jesus turned her down, she would not let go. She knew that there was enough for her daughter, that Jesus had enough grace, enough power, enough healing for her daughter. Despite the controls that society had placed around her which said that she didn’t matter, she knew the inherent value of her own soul, and she would not let Jesus walk away from his obligation to see her as truly human. So determinedly persistent was this woman that she stood toe to toe with the divine until he gave her what she wanted, freedom and healing for her daughter.
I don’t understand Jesus’ initial reluctance to help the woman, but quite frankly I don’t think it really matters to the story. After all, it isn’t like the forces that our lives always have some sort of logical cause and effect. Depression isn’t concerned with your abilities; poverty is not a measure of work ethic. Sometimes stuff happens, and it’s bad, and there just isn’t a reason for it. But here’s what I think does matter to the story, that the mother is tenacious, even more tenacious than the demons that control her daughter, even more tenacious than the disciples, or even than Jesus, and that tenacity gives her the strength to demand that her daughter too is worthy of healing. And that tenacity reminds me of God.
This morning we celebrate Lou’s baptism in Christ and we remember our own. When we celebrate this sacrament we make the radical claim that God meets us here. That we are joined to God as sons and daughters, heirs to the promise of life. You know what that means? That means that the ferocity with which the Canaanite woman sought healing for her daughter is the same ferocity with which the creator of the universe clings to us. That means that in baptism, in these waters, God says to us you are inherently of value, you are of ultimate worth, and I am willing to fight for you. God promises in these waters that the tenacity of the things that plague us, call them demons, call them addiction, call them depression, call them the economy, call them whatever you want, they have nothing on the love and the power and the strength of God. In baptism, God says to us, you are my child, you are of insurmountable worth, and there is nothing in heaven or on earth that you can do or that can be done to you that will separate you from God.
Baptism is not a magic potion. It does not mean that adversity will never strike, that we will never have to face any challenges. But what it does mean is that when we feel like we are held captive, when we feel out of control, we can cling to the promises made here. That we matter to God, that we are bound to God, and that no matter what we face, there is enough power, enough grace, enough healing for us. We can approach the creator of the universe with the same confidence as the Canaanite woman, because it is the ferocity with which the creator of the universe clings to us. When the forces of the world seek to call us less than we are. When the powers tell us that we do not matter, that our voices do not count, that we are small and insignificant, we can come back to the font, we can dip our hands into this water and know that we are children of the most high God, sons and daughters of the promise.
So remember that. Next time you reach for a water bottle to squirt the cat, when you’re washing your face in the morning, when you’re standing on the shores of Gougac Lake. Remember as you pour water from a Britta and when you walk by this font. Remember that you are loved. Remember that the God of the universe has named you God’s child. Remember that nothing can ever take that name from you. Pause, make the sign of the cross on your forehead, and remember that you are loved. Amen.
I lived with this little monster the summer between my first and second years of seminary. His name was Worf and I am pretty sure he was a demon. There is really no other explanation for his crazy, maniacal behavior. Notice his flattened face, tattered ear, and lazy, goopy eye, this fellow had a violent past. The rest of the roommates he would ignore but if I entered a room he would turn his head, fixing that goopy eye on me for just a moment, before he would lurch with almost supernatural speed to attach his entire body around my leg, biting and clawing ferociously. I wore long pants through the whole, hot, muggy, DC summer, but to no avail. That cat could draw blood through jeans.
Eventually, I hit on a solution, this spray bottle. I carried it tucked in my pocket like a character from an old western. When I left the house, I placed it just inside the front door so I could reach in and grab it before opening the door all the way. Then I would preemptively squirt a stream of water at Worf, who was hissing at me from the top of the stairs, driving off his attack until I could make my way safely to my room.
By the end of the summer, Worf became at least used to me. I still carried the spray bottle but at night he began to sleep with me, stretching out his body to touch as much of me as possible, goopy eye pressed against my leg. I did not like this, but as we seemed to be getting along I certainly wasn’t going to dissuade him. Even with this uneasy truce more than once I awoke to my roommate standing over me, whispering “don’t move” as she pointed the spray bottle, which I kept on the bedside table, at the small figure crouching on the floor beside my bed ready to pounce. I was never sure what prompted these late-night attacks or his determined animosity to me in the first place, but like I said at the beginning, I’m pretty sure Worf was a demon, and demons simply don’t make sense. [pause]
OK, so I don’t really think the cat was a demon. But in our Gospel reading this morning the Canaanite woman approached Jesus because her daughter was tormented by a demon, and Worf was the best example I could come up with. I’m never really sure what to do with demons in Scripture. It’s not something we’re really comfortable talking about in modern society. But here’s what I wonder about demons, maybe we give too little credit for them if we think about them only as supernatural beings. If we’re broader in our definition, if a demon is something that holds us captive, couldn’t a lot of things be demons. Couldn’t poverty then be a demon, or violence, or our relenting need for control? Could depression be a demon, or alcoholism, or fear? Not in the sense that these things are some otherworldly beings, but in the sense that these things keep us from living up to our best potential, keep us from having the kind of fulfillment that God wants for us. And like Worf’s continual assault on me, these patterns of control are manipulative and tenacious and they do not go away. Even when we think we have them beat; they have this way of sneaking back into our lives, of wresting control again, of telling us lies like we are worthless, unloved, powerless.
And the Canaanite woman just wasn’t going to stand for anyone calling her daughter unworthy. So even though she was a woman and a Canaanite and had no business addressing a Jewish leader and teacher such as Jesus, she marched right up to him and demanded that he heal her daughter. The disciples weren’t really sure what to do with this angry, shouting woman. Even Jesus seemed unwilling to engage in her struggle. But here’s the thing, even when Jesus turned her down, she would not let go. She knew that there was enough for her daughter, that Jesus had enough grace, enough power, enough healing for her daughter. Despite the controls that society had placed around her which said that she didn’t matter, she knew the inherent value of her own soul, and she would not let Jesus walk away from his obligation to see her as truly human. So determinedly persistent was this woman that she stood toe to toe with the divine until he gave her what she wanted, freedom and healing for her daughter.
I don’t understand Jesus’ initial reluctance to help the woman, but quite frankly I don’t think it really matters to the story. After all, it isn’t like the forces that our lives always have some sort of logical cause and effect. Depression isn’t concerned with your abilities; poverty is not a measure of work ethic. Sometimes stuff happens, and it’s bad, and there just isn’t a reason for it. But here’s what I think does matter to the story, that the mother is tenacious, even more tenacious than the demons that control her daughter, even more tenacious than the disciples, or even than Jesus, and that tenacity gives her the strength to demand that her daughter too is worthy of healing. And that tenacity reminds me of God.
This morning we celebrate Lou’s baptism in Christ and we remember our own. When we celebrate this sacrament we make the radical claim that God meets us here. That we are joined to God as sons and daughters, heirs to the promise of life. You know what that means? That means that the ferocity with which the Canaanite woman sought healing for her daughter is the same ferocity with which the creator of the universe clings to us. That means that in baptism, in these waters, God says to us you are inherently of value, you are of ultimate worth, and I am willing to fight for you. God promises in these waters that the tenacity of the things that plague us, call them demons, call them addiction, call them depression, call them the economy, call them whatever you want, they have nothing on the love and the power and the strength of God. In baptism, God says to us, you are my child, you are of insurmountable worth, and there is nothing in heaven or on earth that you can do or that can be done to you that will separate you from God.
Baptism is not a magic potion. It does not mean that adversity will never strike, that we will never have to face any challenges. But what it does mean is that when we feel like we are held captive, when we feel out of control, we can cling to the promises made here. That we matter to God, that we are bound to God, and that no matter what we face, there is enough power, enough grace, enough healing for us. We can approach the creator of the universe with the same confidence as the Canaanite woman, because it is the ferocity with which the creator of the universe clings to us. When the forces of the world seek to call us less than we are. When the powers tell us that we do not matter, that our voices do not count, that we are small and insignificant, we can come back to the font, we can dip our hands into this water and know that we are children of the most high God, sons and daughters of the promise.
So remember that. Next time you reach for a water bottle to squirt the cat, when you’re washing your face in the morning, when you’re standing on the shores of Gougac Lake. Remember as you pour water from a Britta and when you walk by this font. Remember that you are loved. Remember that the God of the universe has named you God’s child. Remember that nothing can ever take that name from you. Pause, make the sign of the cross on your forehead, and remember that you are loved. Amen.
Monday, August 11, 2014
Get Out of the Boat or God Doesn't Hate Whales: A Sermon on Matthew 14:22-33
When we last saw the disciples, they were stretched out along the Galilean hillside, tired and amazed from having just fed thousands of people with nothing but the few bread and fish that Jesus had blessed. This morning we see that Jesus did not leave them in their wondering for too long. Because immediately, the text tells us, immediately Jesus told them to get up, get in the boat, and head out for the other side, so Jesus could finally have the alone time that it seemed he’d been hoping for since he first came to the wilderness.
So the disciples headed out, the crowds disbursed, and Jesus went off by himself to pray. For how long, we don’t know, but what we do know is when evening came, Jesus was still in prayer and the disciples were caught in the middle of the water, nowhere near the other shore. Now as we look at this story, here are some things that are helpful to know. First, the word “sea” notwithstanding, the Sea of Galilee is not a particularly big lake. We’re not talking Lake Michigan here; you can certainly stand on one shore and see the other side. But it is a uniquely ferocious body of water. Because Galilee is located right on the edge of the Judean desert, it is prone to tremendous windstorms that can swoop out of nowhere and in an instant turn the calm lake to roil.
The other thing to know about this story is that throughout scripture the sea is frequently used as a metaphor for a place of chaos and fear. Monsters like the Leviathan were believed to live in the sea; the Psalmist often talks about the raging sea. When the book of Revelation says that in the New Jerusalem the sea will be no more, it’s not because God has a thing against whales. It’s because the sea stood for chaos, for terror, for that destructive force which could not be controlled, and God promises that the New Jerusalem will be free from all such power and fear.
So even though the disciples were fishermen, and they spent their lives on the water, they did so with a healthy respect for the power they were dealing with. This was before the days of OCEA requirements and GPS navigation and weather maps. The disciples knew every time they got into their boat that they were just a few men in a dingy against the wrath of creation.
When they left Jesus it had been a clear day, but while Jesus was praying a storm had blown in and the disciples were struggling against the wind, their tiny boat battered by the waves. And then in our story the next sentence is morning but think about the time that passed for the disciples. All through the long night, they struggled against the wind and the waves, trying to reach the far shore. And remember, this is the first century and they’re in a boat. So there are no navigation systems to tell them which way to go, no electricity to illuminate their directions, no sonar to guide them in, no reflected glare from cities on the shoreline, not even so much as a candle to let them see the riggings. They are in the dark, alone, struggling against the thing which the scriptures describe as chaos itself.
And then, early in the morning, out in the distance, the disciples see a figure walking toward them on the sea. The Greek here is “fourth watch” so somewhere between three and six am. Depending on where in the time it fell, it is either completely dark and the figure is highlighted just by moonlight, or by the cloudy grayness of the false dawn. Either way, it is hard to make out details of this strange form approaching them on the waves. The disciples, rightly so, are terrified. They’ve been up all night fighting for their lives, and now a ghostly apparition is walking toward them across the water. Fear is, I think, the logical response in such a situation.
And then Jesus speaks to them from across the water, saying “Take heart, it is I, do not be afraid.” What our English translated to “it is I,” is better heard as “I am.” “Take heart, I am, do not be afraid.” The sentence doesn’t make much sense grammatically, but it rings with power biblically. I Am is the divine name of God, I Am echoes across space and time, I Am came to Moses in a burning bush, I Am led the exiles back from Babylon, I Am spoke over the waters at creation. When Jesus tells the disciples “Take heart, I Am,” this is not an identifier; this is a pronouncement that the very power of God, the one who formed the sea itself, is with them.
Peter answered back, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” Now Peter has taken a lot of flak from theologians over the years, wondering why Peter questioned Jesus, why Peter needed proof. But the more I read and wrestled with this story this week, the more I wondered if that wasn’t really what was going on here. Remember, the sea is terrifying; it is the embodiment of chaos itself. And the storm is still raging at this point, the sea still roiling. And Peter asks to leave the boat, the only safety that he’s ever known, to walk out on the sea. What Peter is asking for here is the opportunity to take a risk in his faith in order to be more like Jesus. Discipleship is about following the teacher so closely that your actions mimic theirs. It is a style of learning that involves trying to mold your own life after the life of the one who is leading you. And that’s really what Peter is doing here, he’s saying, Lord, let me walk so closely in your footsteps that I can do this impossible thing. And so I wonder if Jesus’ response to Peter here is not the exasperation the theologians tend to read into it, but instead a delighted “yes.” Yes, Peter, I thought you’d never ask, yes, step out of that boat and into the fear, yes, take a risk in your faith and do the thing you thought was impossible in your attempts to be more like me.
So Peter stepped out of the boat and into the raging storm and began to walk toward Jesus. But as he walked, the reality of what was doing overcame him, and he began to sink. And he cried out, “Lord, save me!” And what does Jesus do then? Well, I’ll tell you what Jesus did not do. He did not cross his arms and say, “Peter, you got yourself into this mess, now get yourself out. You’re the one who wanted to walk on water, after all.” No, right. That’s not what happened. What happened was Jesus immediately, immediately, the text said, reached out his hand and caught Peter. And then Jesus said to Peter, “you of little faith, why did you doubt?” Like the doubt was caused by Peter’s little faith, and if he’d only had more faith, he could have stayed on the water. And we tend to hear this as a criticism of Peter, right, that he didn’t have enough faith. But remember, Jesus said that if you have just a little faith, just a mustard seed of faith, you could move mountains. So what if Jesus is saying to Peter, you have a little faith. You have a little faith, and it is enough to get you through, so you don’t need to doubt, because what you have, who you are, is enough. And then they got back in the boat, and it was then, and only then, that the wind ceased. “And those in the boat worshiped him, saying, ‘Truly you are the Son of God.’”
Like Peter, there are times in our lives when we find ourselves faced with opportunities to step out of our comfort zones and into the raging sea. To get involved in that project, or try that new form of prayer, or question that belief we’d always held, or talk to our friend, our neighbor, our colleague, about our faith, or so many other things. And it’s scary. It’s scary to take that risk, to make that step, to open ourselves up to failure. Easier, right, safer, to leave the questioning, the challenging, to Jesus and to stay with what we know. But what this text promises us is that when we step out of our boats, Jesus is there beside us, encouraging us on. And we won’t always succeed. Taking risks in faith don’t always play out right. We’ll fail at times, we’ll get scared, we’ll start to sink. But in our failures, Jesus is there to catch us and help us back into the boat. Because discipleship is not about our success, it is about trying, about taking the next step, following the footsteps of the master into the impossible. And most of all, discipleship is about Jesus, the great teacher who though we may sink, promises never to let us drown. And so whether we succeed or fail, Jesus is there to catch us. Amen.
So the disciples headed out, the crowds disbursed, and Jesus went off by himself to pray. For how long, we don’t know, but what we do know is when evening came, Jesus was still in prayer and the disciples were caught in the middle of the water, nowhere near the other shore. Now as we look at this story, here are some things that are helpful to know. First, the word “sea” notwithstanding, the Sea of Galilee is not a particularly big lake. We’re not talking Lake Michigan here; you can certainly stand on one shore and see the other side. But it is a uniquely ferocious body of water. Because Galilee is located right on the edge of the Judean desert, it is prone to tremendous windstorms that can swoop out of nowhere and in an instant turn the calm lake to roil.
The other thing to know about this story is that throughout scripture the sea is frequently used as a metaphor for a place of chaos and fear. Monsters like the Leviathan were believed to live in the sea; the Psalmist often talks about the raging sea. When the book of Revelation says that in the New Jerusalem the sea will be no more, it’s not because God has a thing against whales. It’s because the sea stood for chaos, for terror, for that destructive force which could not be controlled, and God promises that the New Jerusalem will be free from all such power and fear.
So even though the disciples were fishermen, and they spent their lives on the water, they did so with a healthy respect for the power they were dealing with. This was before the days of OCEA requirements and GPS navigation and weather maps. The disciples knew every time they got into their boat that they were just a few men in a dingy against the wrath of creation.
When they left Jesus it had been a clear day, but while Jesus was praying a storm had blown in and the disciples were struggling against the wind, their tiny boat battered by the waves. And then in our story the next sentence is morning but think about the time that passed for the disciples. All through the long night, they struggled against the wind and the waves, trying to reach the far shore. And remember, this is the first century and they’re in a boat. So there are no navigation systems to tell them which way to go, no electricity to illuminate their directions, no sonar to guide them in, no reflected glare from cities on the shoreline, not even so much as a candle to let them see the riggings. They are in the dark, alone, struggling against the thing which the scriptures describe as chaos itself.
And then, early in the morning, out in the distance, the disciples see a figure walking toward them on the sea. The Greek here is “fourth watch” so somewhere between three and six am. Depending on where in the time it fell, it is either completely dark and the figure is highlighted just by moonlight, or by the cloudy grayness of the false dawn. Either way, it is hard to make out details of this strange form approaching them on the waves. The disciples, rightly so, are terrified. They’ve been up all night fighting for their lives, and now a ghostly apparition is walking toward them across the water. Fear is, I think, the logical response in such a situation.
And then Jesus speaks to them from across the water, saying “Take heart, it is I, do not be afraid.” What our English translated to “it is I,” is better heard as “I am.” “Take heart, I am, do not be afraid.” The sentence doesn’t make much sense grammatically, but it rings with power biblically. I Am is the divine name of God, I Am echoes across space and time, I Am came to Moses in a burning bush, I Am led the exiles back from Babylon, I Am spoke over the waters at creation. When Jesus tells the disciples “Take heart, I Am,” this is not an identifier; this is a pronouncement that the very power of God, the one who formed the sea itself, is with them.
Peter answered back, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” Now Peter has taken a lot of flak from theologians over the years, wondering why Peter questioned Jesus, why Peter needed proof. But the more I read and wrestled with this story this week, the more I wondered if that wasn’t really what was going on here. Remember, the sea is terrifying; it is the embodiment of chaos itself. And the storm is still raging at this point, the sea still roiling. And Peter asks to leave the boat, the only safety that he’s ever known, to walk out on the sea. What Peter is asking for here is the opportunity to take a risk in his faith in order to be more like Jesus. Discipleship is about following the teacher so closely that your actions mimic theirs. It is a style of learning that involves trying to mold your own life after the life of the one who is leading you. And that’s really what Peter is doing here, he’s saying, Lord, let me walk so closely in your footsteps that I can do this impossible thing. And so I wonder if Jesus’ response to Peter here is not the exasperation the theologians tend to read into it, but instead a delighted “yes.” Yes, Peter, I thought you’d never ask, yes, step out of that boat and into the fear, yes, take a risk in your faith and do the thing you thought was impossible in your attempts to be more like me.
So Peter stepped out of the boat and into the raging storm and began to walk toward Jesus. But as he walked, the reality of what was doing overcame him, and he began to sink. And he cried out, “Lord, save me!” And what does Jesus do then? Well, I’ll tell you what Jesus did not do. He did not cross his arms and say, “Peter, you got yourself into this mess, now get yourself out. You’re the one who wanted to walk on water, after all.” No, right. That’s not what happened. What happened was Jesus immediately, immediately, the text said, reached out his hand and caught Peter. And then Jesus said to Peter, “you of little faith, why did you doubt?” Like the doubt was caused by Peter’s little faith, and if he’d only had more faith, he could have stayed on the water. And we tend to hear this as a criticism of Peter, right, that he didn’t have enough faith. But remember, Jesus said that if you have just a little faith, just a mustard seed of faith, you could move mountains. So what if Jesus is saying to Peter, you have a little faith. You have a little faith, and it is enough to get you through, so you don’t need to doubt, because what you have, who you are, is enough. And then they got back in the boat, and it was then, and only then, that the wind ceased. “And those in the boat worshiped him, saying, ‘Truly you are the Son of God.’”
Like Peter, there are times in our lives when we find ourselves faced with opportunities to step out of our comfort zones and into the raging sea. To get involved in that project, or try that new form of prayer, or question that belief we’d always held, or talk to our friend, our neighbor, our colleague, about our faith, or so many other things. And it’s scary. It’s scary to take that risk, to make that step, to open ourselves up to failure. Easier, right, safer, to leave the questioning, the challenging, to Jesus and to stay with what we know. But what this text promises us is that when we step out of our boats, Jesus is there beside us, encouraging us on. And we won’t always succeed. Taking risks in faith don’t always play out right. We’ll fail at times, we’ll get scared, we’ll start to sink. But in our failures, Jesus is there to catch us and help us back into the boat. Because discipleship is not about our success, it is about trying, about taking the next step, following the footsteps of the master into the impossible. And most of all, discipleship is about Jesus, the great teacher who though we may sink, promises never to let us drown. And so whether we succeed or fail, Jesus is there to catch us. Amen.
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
Hungry Time: A Sermon Matthew 14:13-21
It is a hungry time. That’s what I was thinking last week at worship during the prayer time, as the needs and hurts were bouncing around the room. It is a hungry time. It’s what I think every morning, as I sit with the paper and the news from Gaza, from the Ukraine, from Nigeria, from Central America, from our own border states, it is a hungry time. The breakfast program at St. Thomas is busy every morning, a hungry time. The women from the co-op fill our church throughout the week, a hungry time. Churches, not just Trinity but churches everywhere, struggle with decreased participation, decreased money, and increased need; it is a hungry time.
So there is tension in these miracle stories sometimes for me. Tension because I’m not sure how to reconcile a hungry world with a story that seems so distant, so detached from the reality that I know, that I experience. Yes, Jesus fed the five thousand with bread and fish, but that was a long time ago and it seems like Jesus doesn’t work that way anymore. Then Jesus was present physically. Now he is present, yes, but in a different way, a more ethereal way. And ethereality is nice, but it doesn’t pay the rent. So how do we make sense of these miracle stories in a concrete world?
It was a hungry time for the disciples that day too. Our Gospel reading opened: “Now when Jesus heard this…” And the “this” that Jesus heard was the news of the death of John the Baptist. John the Baptist was killed for speaking out against the immorality of Herod the Great. Speaking out against the abuses that Herod was inflicting on the people around him, the violence that Herod was causing. John the Baptist was killed because he was holding Herod accountable for the hunger he was causing, and Herod wasn’t having any of it. John was a friend of the Jesus movement, a prophet, a leader, even Jesus’ cousin or teacher, depending on the Gospel you’re reading, the disciples knew his message well. So they mourned their friend and colleague and they feared for their own lives. It was a hungry time.
That is where we enter this morning’s Gospel reading, with Jesus and his disciples withdrawing to a deserted place. To mourn, I thought at first. But then I looked further into this word “deserted.” It shows up a couple other times in Matthew’s Gospel, most commonly as a location for John the Baptist’s ministry. So, when Jesus heard that John the Baptist had been killed he went to the heart of John’s mission. He went to the place where the people who followed John had always gathered, in the wilderness.
And in the wilderness, in this desolate place, a crowd gathered. And Jesus “had compassion for them and cured their sick.” And then evening came, and it was a tired, beaten down, group of disciples who approached Jesus and implored him to send the crowds away “so that they may go into the villages and buy food.” You can’t blame the disciples for wanting to send the crowds away. They’re exhausted; they’ve been ministering all day to this group of needy people. And they’re afraid. John the Baptist, someone who had been associated very closely with the Jesus movement, has been killed by Roman authorities. The disciples don’t know who might be Herod’s next target. They’re afraid for Jesus, in this large group of needy people, afraid for themselves. If they could just get away from this crowd, just draw a little less attention to themselves, then maybe everything would be ok. And anyway, this is a large group in the middle of nowhere. It is in the people’s best interest for them to go away. They need things, food, for example, that the disciples cannot provide. Better for all involved if they just go away. Then the people can eat and Jesus can not be a threat to Herod, and everything can be good. Or as good as it can be in this new world the disciples find themselves in where everything is wrong.
But Jesus said something funny to the disciples here. He told them, “they don’t need to go away; you give them something to eat.”
“Well that’s cute,” I imagine the disciples thinking, “great idea Jesus, we’ll just give them something to eat. Yes, us and this abundance of food.” Even assuming they had the money to feed that many people, which they did not, it’s not like the disciples could run to the first century Meijer. They’re in the middle of nowhere, remember. So they quipped back, “We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.” We can pass this around and everyone can lick either the fish or the bread, because that’s about how far this much food will spread around all these people. But Jesus said, “bring them here to me.” Then Jesus ordered the crowd to sit, and he blessed the food, and broke it, and gave it to the disciples to distribute, and you know what happened then. The reading tells us: “all ate and were filled; and they took what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full. And those who ate were about five thousand men, besides women and children.”
We call this story “the feeding of the five-thousand,” but I wonder if it would be better named “the comforting of the disciples.” Because the more I wrestled with this story this week, the more I realized that the gift the crowd got was transitory, but the gift the disciples got was life-changing. The crowd got fed, no small gift in a subsistence culture, but still, it was just one meal. The crowd will wake up in the morning and they will be hungry again, and they will go back to their normal lives, find food, and move on. Feeding the crowd didn’t solve anything lasting.
But what this meal gave to the disciples was something so much more powerful. What this meal said to the disciples is the worst thing that can happen is never the last thing will happen, because I am with you. It’s a couple weeks before we here the famous line from Matthew, “wherever two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them,” but we see it lived out in this miracle feeding story. The disciples were at their lowest up to this point in the story. John was dead, the mission was at risk, they were tired, they were sad, they were afraid. The need was overwhelming, the resources tapped, they had nothing left to give. And Jesus showed them, in a real, tangible way, that there was always life after death, even in the midst of death, when they gathered together, because when they gathered together they experienced the risen Christ.
What Jesus gave the disciples was hope. It seems like a small gift when laid against a world of need, but for times when we are in the dark and cannot see the way through, it is the most powerful gif there is. And Jesus knew hope was the gift the disciples needed more than anything. Because the death of John the Baptist was not the worst death the disciples would experience. Jesus knew that his days were limited, that there would come a time when the disciples would have to muddle on without him. And by placing the distribution of this feast of the multitudes in their hands, Jesus is showing the disciples, look, you have among you everything you need to walk forward. Because when you gather together, there, in your hands, am I. And when you are together, you are never alone, you are never without me, and there will always be enough.
Like the disciples, we live in a hungry time. This is the tension of living in the time between death and life, between Christ is risen and Christ will come again. The need is great, the gifts are few, and what we have feels like not enough. But this morning, and every Sunday morning, we gather around this table for a feast that does not seem like enough. Just a crumb of bread and a sip of wine. It is a hungry feast for a hungry time. And what we find in this hungry feast is the food that satisfies. Because what we find in this feast is hope. And what we find in this feast is each other. At this table there is always bread to go around and wine to share. There is always some left over. And everyone gets what they need. This feast fills not our bellies but our souls. It promises that the worst thing that can happen is never the last thing that will happen, that we will never be alone, and that Christ meets us here, arms outstretched, heart open. What we find in this feast is a taste of the day when all the world will be full. So come to this hungry feast. Bring your empty hands, bring your broken hearts. Come and taste the promise of life. Amen.
So there is tension in these miracle stories sometimes for me. Tension because I’m not sure how to reconcile a hungry world with a story that seems so distant, so detached from the reality that I know, that I experience. Yes, Jesus fed the five thousand with bread and fish, but that was a long time ago and it seems like Jesus doesn’t work that way anymore. Then Jesus was present physically. Now he is present, yes, but in a different way, a more ethereal way. And ethereality is nice, but it doesn’t pay the rent. So how do we make sense of these miracle stories in a concrete world?
It was a hungry time for the disciples that day too. Our Gospel reading opened: “Now when Jesus heard this…” And the “this” that Jesus heard was the news of the death of John the Baptist. John the Baptist was killed for speaking out against the immorality of Herod the Great. Speaking out against the abuses that Herod was inflicting on the people around him, the violence that Herod was causing. John the Baptist was killed because he was holding Herod accountable for the hunger he was causing, and Herod wasn’t having any of it. John was a friend of the Jesus movement, a prophet, a leader, even Jesus’ cousin or teacher, depending on the Gospel you’re reading, the disciples knew his message well. So they mourned their friend and colleague and they feared for their own lives. It was a hungry time.
That is where we enter this morning’s Gospel reading, with Jesus and his disciples withdrawing to a deserted place. To mourn, I thought at first. But then I looked further into this word “deserted.” It shows up a couple other times in Matthew’s Gospel, most commonly as a location for John the Baptist’s ministry. So, when Jesus heard that John the Baptist had been killed he went to the heart of John’s mission. He went to the place where the people who followed John had always gathered, in the wilderness.
And in the wilderness, in this desolate place, a crowd gathered. And Jesus “had compassion for them and cured their sick.” And then evening came, and it was a tired, beaten down, group of disciples who approached Jesus and implored him to send the crowds away “so that they may go into the villages and buy food.” You can’t blame the disciples for wanting to send the crowds away. They’re exhausted; they’ve been ministering all day to this group of needy people. And they’re afraid. John the Baptist, someone who had been associated very closely with the Jesus movement, has been killed by Roman authorities. The disciples don’t know who might be Herod’s next target. They’re afraid for Jesus, in this large group of needy people, afraid for themselves. If they could just get away from this crowd, just draw a little less attention to themselves, then maybe everything would be ok. And anyway, this is a large group in the middle of nowhere. It is in the people’s best interest for them to go away. They need things, food, for example, that the disciples cannot provide. Better for all involved if they just go away. Then the people can eat and Jesus can not be a threat to Herod, and everything can be good. Or as good as it can be in this new world the disciples find themselves in where everything is wrong.
But Jesus said something funny to the disciples here. He told them, “they don’t need to go away; you give them something to eat.”
“Well that’s cute,” I imagine the disciples thinking, “great idea Jesus, we’ll just give them something to eat. Yes, us and this abundance of food.” Even assuming they had the money to feed that many people, which they did not, it’s not like the disciples could run to the first century Meijer. They’re in the middle of nowhere, remember. So they quipped back, “We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.” We can pass this around and everyone can lick either the fish or the bread, because that’s about how far this much food will spread around all these people. But Jesus said, “bring them here to me.” Then Jesus ordered the crowd to sit, and he blessed the food, and broke it, and gave it to the disciples to distribute, and you know what happened then. The reading tells us: “all ate and were filled; and they took what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full. And those who ate were about five thousand men, besides women and children.”
We call this story “the feeding of the five-thousand,” but I wonder if it would be better named “the comforting of the disciples.” Because the more I wrestled with this story this week, the more I realized that the gift the crowd got was transitory, but the gift the disciples got was life-changing. The crowd got fed, no small gift in a subsistence culture, but still, it was just one meal. The crowd will wake up in the morning and they will be hungry again, and they will go back to their normal lives, find food, and move on. Feeding the crowd didn’t solve anything lasting.
But what this meal gave to the disciples was something so much more powerful. What this meal said to the disciples is the worst thing that can happen is never the last thing will happen, because I am with you. It’s a couple weeks before we here the famous line from Matthew, “wherever two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them,” but we see it lived out in this miracle feeding story. The disciples were at their lowest up to this point in the story. John was dead, the mission was at risk, they were tired, they were sad, they were afraid. The need was overwhelming, the resources tapped, they had nothing left to give. And Jesus showed them, in a real, tangible way, that there was always life after death, even in the midst of death, when they gathered together, because when they gathered together they experienced the risen Christ.
What Jesus gave the disciples was hope. It seems like a small gift when laid against a world of need, but for times when we are in the dark and cannot see the way through, it is the most powerful gif there is. And Jesus knew hope was the gift the disciples needed more than anything. Because the death of John the Baptist was not the worst death the disciples would experience. Jesus knew that his days were limited, that there would come a time when the disciples would have to muddle on without him. And by placing the distribution of this feast of the multitudes in their hands, Jesus is showing the disciples, look, you have among you everything you need to walk forward. Because when you gather together, there, in your hands, am I. And when you are together, you are never alone, you are never without me, and there will always be enough.
Like the disciples, we live in a hungry time. This is the tension of living in the time between death and life, between Christ is risen and Christ will come again. The need is great, the gifts are few, and what we have feels like not enough. But this morning, and every Sunday morning, we gather around this table for a feast that does not seem like enough. Just a crumb of bread and a sip of wine. It is a hungry feast for a hungry time. And what we find in this hungry feast is the food that satisfies. Because what we find in this feast is hope. And what we find in this feast is each other. At this table there is always bread to go around and wine to share. There is always some left over. And everyone gets what they need. This feast fills not our bellies but our souls. It promises that the worst thing that can happen is never the last thing that will happen, that we will never be alone, and that Christ meets us here, arms outstretched, heart open. What we find in this feast is a taste of the day when all the world will be full. So come to this hungry feast. Bring your empty hands, bring your broken hearts. Come and taste the promise of life. Amen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)