If you’ve been here on a Good Friday, you may remember that it is my Lenten discipline every year to memorize the Passion narrative from John’s Gospel and recite it on Good Friday. I’ve done this for four years now, and every time it is this dialogue between Jesus and Pilate, and especially Pilate’s question of what is truth that catches my attention. I spend a lot of time each year mulling over that question and how to recite it. Is Pilate curious, “what is truth?” Is he incredulous, “what is truth?” Is he mocking, “what is truth?”
A bit of an aside, but it seems important to remind folk, how much interpretation goes into reading. We think we’re reading something objectively, but there is no tone in the written word, we are inserting the nuance ourselves. Beware, or at least be wary of people who tell you they read scripture objectively, because at best they are unaware of the blinders they are bringing to their understanding. Understanding the nuance of written language requires looking into the history of the person, trying to understand the context, and even then it is no more than an educated guess.
And as a good Millennial, this idea that our best interpretation and understanding is no more than an educated guess doesn’t bother me, it actually is what makes scripture, makes faith so fascinating, so rich and deep and powerful. Because Pilate wanted an answer and Jesus instead offered him a relationship, something which by its very nature is not fixed, but moving. It is always growing and changing, and forcing us to grow and change, and I loved that depth and complexity about Jesus. I loved the idea that Truth, the Truth with a Capital T that is Jesus, is bigger than something we can know, richer and even more flexible than facts. The world always felt, to my questioning millennial sensibilities, like it held so much curiosity and diversity, and I needed a God who could hold all my questions, my curiosities, my doubts, and my fears. That the Truth of Jesus was relationship was a Truth that felt big enough for that.
That was the sermon I would have preached on that text two years ago. And it probably would have been a decent sermon, though it also probably would have made a better systematic theology paper so you maybe should be glad that I don’t generally preach on Good Friday. But in the last two years, the phrase “alternative facts” has entered our national lexicon, and I’ve found myself having to reevaluate my relationship to the concept of truth. Because I love, and I really do love, if you’ve been to the bible chats on Wednesdays, you’ve experienced this, the idea that each of us bring both our own perspectives and our own limitations, and only by hearing the perspectives of many different people can we overcome our own limited worldview and come closer to full knowledge. But the side of me that values logic and reason bristles when that one friend on Facebook, and we all have that one friend, mine is a loose acquaintance from DC, posts that thing that is just objectively untrue, and I find myself shouting at the computer screen, “Have you never heard of Snopes?” Sometimes I feel like I can’t tell if the world’s gone crazy or if I have, so different are the realities that seem to exist between people.
People living next to each other and experiencing very different versions of reality is not new, a very similar thing was happening in Jesus’ time. Jesus lived during what was known as the Pax Romana, the Peace of Rome. Pax Romana was a two-hundred year period of relative peace and stability that started when Octavian, who would eventually become Caesar Augustus, defeated Mark Antony, ending the Final War of the Roman Republic and transforming Rome from a Republic to an Empire. If Caesar Augustus sounds familiar, we hear his name on Christmas Eve, “There came a degree from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered…”
I described the Pax Romana as a period of “relative peace,” because whether you experienced peace depended on how you sat in favor with the Emperor. We’ve talked before about the Siege of Jerusalem and the destruction of the Temple in 68 CE, a battle so violent that the historian Josephus described blood running ankle deep through the streets, that was during this so-called period of peace. A peace held through strength and through the brutal destruction of anyone who posed a threat to the power held by those who benefited from that peace.
Pilate was very much part of that kind of peace. The synoptic Gospels give Pilate a bit of a pass, but John’s description of Pilate is probably the most accurate. He was a ruthless leader, most historians of his time described him as vicious, brutal, and cruel. His participation in the trial of Jesus had little to do with concern for Jesus’ guilt or innocence, rather Pilate was interested in humiliating his adversaries, the religious leaders, and further cementing his own power.
The Peace of Rome was Pilate’s truth. For Pilate, it was true that he was living in a period of peace, that it was his role to maintain that peace, and that the best way to do that was to crush anyone who questioned that peace or threatened his power. What was true for Pilate was what worked best for him, what brought him power, and strength and control.
And then Jesus showed up in Pilate’s headquarters, early in the morning on the day before the Passover. Brought over at the behest of Caiaphas the High Priest by the contingent of police and soldiers who had arrested and bound him in the Garden of Gethsemane. Already betrayed by Judas, denied by Peter, abandoned by his followers, Jesus was alone, imprisoned, and constrained, the opposite of everything Pilate saw himself to be. But when Pilate started questioning Jesus, immediately everything shifted.
“Are you the King of the Jews?” he asked, a question I hear as thick with mockery. In Pilate’s truth, Jesus could not be a king, for kings were powerful, mighty and in control, not like this itinerate preacher in chains before him. “Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?” Jesus replied calmly, taking charge in that moment not just of the conversation, but of the entire scene. The question essentially, are you, Pilate, really in control, or are you no more than a puppet for others? Pilate, on his heels, answered back, “I am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and the chief priests handed you over to me. What have you done?” And Jesus, in that Jesus way, answered the question that Pilate was not asking, “My kingdom is not from this world.”
This Sunday we’re celebrating Christ the King Sunday. We tend to think of church festivals as being ancient, and most of them are. But Christ the King Sunday is actually a very recent addition to the liturgical calendar, less than one-hundred years old. Pope Pius the eleventh instituted Christ the King Sunday in 1925 as a response his concerns about growing nationalism. We just celebrated the 100th anniversary of the end of World War One on November 11th, 1918, by 1925 Hitler was gaining power in Germany and Benito Mussolini had given up all pretense of Italy being a democracy and firmly established a dictatorship. The purpose of the Feast of Christ the King was to remind believers that since Christ set us free from the bonds of sin, then our loyalties belong to Christ and him alone. There is also an end of days feel to this festival; reminding us that we live in the period between Christ has risen and Christ will come again. That even as things feel chaotic and out of control, and like we heard in last week’s reading, many competing voices are claiming they can save us, we have only one savior, in fact we have already been saved, and that savior will in time restore us and all of creation to fullness.
That Jesus is King is not just true, it is Truth. It is Truth because contrary to Pilate’s understanding, the Kingdom of God is not a geographical place, with borders that can be patrolled and controlled; the Kingdom of God is a relationship. And because the Kingdom of God isn’t a place but a relationship, it cannot be controlled through might and power because you cannot force someone to love you. You can force them to fear you, you can force them to honor you, you can force them to obey you, but you cannot force them to love you. And the Kingdom of God is a kingdom whose boundaries are defined by love, whose justice is legislated by love, whose power is expressed in love.
The Truth of Jesus is that love is the most powerful force of all because it presents not as force, but is power made perfect in weakness. In a few weeks we’ll celebrate that this King of the Universe came into the world in a way Pilate could never have imagined, as an infant born in a stable because Augustus forced his parents on the road, becoming a refugee because of the threats of an unstable tyrant, raised not in the center of power but in forgotten, rural Galilee, a man who passed by the powerful, to lift up the powerless, who ate with lepers and prostitutes, and who died to become food for the world. The Truth, is as simple as this, God loves you, and me, and every single other person in the world. Even, dare I say, Pilate. Because the Truth, dear people of God, is this, that God so loves the world. Amen.
The extraordinary can look so ordinary
Sunday, November 25, 2018
Sunday, November 18, 2018
Birth Pangs: A Sermon on Mark 13:1-8
“This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.” Now, let me preface this by reminding you all that I don’t have children. I have never experienced the “miracle of life.” But, I’ve had enough friends who have by this point to tell you; it doesn’t seem all that fun. It’s been described to me as starting with nausea, then your clothes don’t fit. Necessitating shopping, which hell for me might actually be having to spend eternity in clothing stores. Eventually you move on to being tired all the time, and this is all pre-delivery. Actually having to remove the alien that’s been growing in your body for nine months, yeah, I don’t really want to think about it. But then, it’s over, and you have a beautiful baby, whom you will love and worry about and take care of, for the rest of your life. My brother and I are thirty-two and thirty-five, and we still have stuff in my parents’ storage unit. All jokes aside, I’ve heard having children described as ripping your heart out of your body and letting it walk around free outside of you.
But, as hard as this whole labor and delivery thing is, and as scary as letting something you love, something that was once literally a part of you, walk around free, the fact of our continued existence as a species tells us that the joy outweighs the cost. What comes after the birth pangs, this tiny, perfect little person, who will keep you up at night and make a lot of noise, and eat all your food, and eventually grow up to be a fully-sized adult human being who will more than likely still keep you up and night, and come home and eat all your food, all that, I’m told, is worth it.
To understand our Gospel reading for today, and what Jesus was describing when he was talking about birth pangs, it’s helpful to look back a few verses and remember where we came from. Last Sunday, we heard how Jesus was teaching in the Temple. And as he taught, he said, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces… They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.” Then he went and sat by the treasury and watched people putting in their offering. A widow came and threw in two copper coins, worth a penny, and Jesus pointed her out, saying, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.” Then immediately after this, our reading this morning started, “As Jesus came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” Literally moments before, Jesus had told his disciples to beware those who take advantage of their role to puff up their own status, and now those same disciples are blown away by the opulence and grandeur of the Temple, built by the same gifts thrown into the treasury that Jesus had just spoken of. How quick we humans are to get caught up in appearances and lose sight of what really matters.
When Jesus heard his disciples marveling at the Temple, he immediately brought them back, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.” It’s hard to understand just how unthinkable Jesus’ words would have been to his disciples. The Temple was a massive structure, built into the side of a mountain out of immense stones. Those stones were marble outlaid with gold, so that the building was said to shine such that it was almost blinding in the sun. The effort, the violence and destruction it would have taken to dismantle such a structure, was beyond comprehension.
So later, sitting on the Mount of Olives, overlooking the Temple, the disciples asked Jesus, “Tell us, when will this be, and what will be the sign that all these things are about to be accomplished?” What should we look for, what are the warning signs? How should we prepare for this time of darkness? And Jesus, you’ll notice, in his Jesus way, didn’t answer their question. He didn’t tell them what to look for, instead, he told them what not to look for. ““Beware that no one leads you astray… When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed… For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.” What Jesus was telling his disciples here was that what looks like the end is not the end. What looks like the end is not the end. This was important for Jesus’ disciples because at chapter thirteen we are two short days from what by all accounts is the end from which there is no return, we are two short days from Jesus’ death on a cross. And yet, the promise of our faith is that what looks like the end is not the end. Because three days after that death, the stone was rolled away, the tomb was found empty, and Jesus Christ lived again. Resurrection means the end is not the end, the end is never the end, there is always life after death.
If we read on in chapter thirteen, Jesus spoke of dire things that would happen to the disciples, “they will hand you over to councils; and you will be beaten in synagogues; and you will stand before governors and kings because of me… when they bring you to trial and hand you over, do not worry beforehand about what you are to say; but say whatever is given you at that time, for it is not you who speak, but the Holy Spirit.” From the book of Acts, we know those things happened. Many of the disciples were handed over to councils, beaten, jailed, and handed over to stand trial. And yet, as promised, the end was not the end. The Holy Spirit did speak for them, they did find words, they did share the good news. And we gather here, two-thousand years later as proof of this central promise, that what looks like the end, dark and uncertain as it might seem, is not the end, it is only the beginning.
I started the sermon by talking about birth pangs. Giving birth is one of the most dangerous and fragile times in life for both the woman and the baby. It can also be the hardest time on a relationship, many marriages end within the first year after the first child is born, the strain on the relationship with all that transition is so great. Times of transition, times of upheaval, times when we do not know where we are going and how, or if, we will get there, those can be scary times. And in those times of uncertainty, we sometimes, like the disciples, find ourselves looking for the flashiest, biggest, strongest message, looking for someone who will promise to have the answers, to know the path, and to lead us through. What these words from Jesus reminded the disciples, and remind us, is that sometimes the road is just hard. Sometimes there is not short-cut, there is no clear path, and the only way though is through. Giving birth is hard work, it’s called labor for a reason. There’s no short-cut, no workaround. But you have to do the work, you have to push through, because if you don’t, both your life and the life of your baby will be in danger.
At Trinity, we’ve been in this redevelopment process, this process of reforming ourselves as a congregation, for a while now. And it’s hard work. We’re starting to see the fruits of it, there are a lot of new faces in the room today that weren’t here when I came four years ago, and that’s so powerful to see, I am so glad to see who we are as a community and who we are becoming. But there is still a lot of work to be done; we are still just in the beginning of the birth pangs. And maybe after this reading you’ll be comforted to know that I hold no delusions that “I am he,” for maybe obvious reasons. I, first off, don’t identify as “he.” But, more importantly, I don’t know either exactly where we’re going or quite how to get there. I may well be leading us astray, but only because, as Thomas Merton prayed, “My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going…” And, like the disciples, I confess I too sometimes get caught up in metrics and numbers and how well we match up. But whoever we are, and whoever we become, the promise in this passage, the great hope of our faith, is that no matter what trials we face, no matter how scary life may feel, how uncertain things may be, God is, always has been, and always will be, with us. Guiding us, leading us, supporting us, and caring for us. Eons ago, God took God’s own heart out of God’s chest when God created us, granted us freedom, and permitted us to walk around outside of God’s body. We are the children who make a lot of noise, and eat all God’s food, and keep God up at night, because God loves us, like a parent loves a child, with a love that never ends. Amen.
But, as hard as this whole labor and delivery thing is, and as scary as letting something you love, something that was once literally a part of you, walk around free, the fact of our continued existence as a species tells us that the joy outweighs the cost. What comes after the birth pangs, this tiny, perfect little person, who will keep you up at night and make a lot of noise, and eat all your food, and eventually grow up to be a fully-sized adult human being who will more than likely still keep you up and night, and come home and eat all your food, all that, I’m told, is worth it.
To understand our Gospel reading for today, and what Jesus was describing when he was talking about birth pangs, it’s helpful to look back a few verses and remember where we came from. Last Sunday, we heard how Jesus was teaching in the Temple. And as he taught, he said, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces… They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.” Then he went and sat by the treasury and watched people putting in their offering. A widow came and threw in two copper coins, worth a penny, and Jesus pointed her out, saying, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.” Then immediately after this, our reading this morning started, “As Jesus came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” Literally moments before, Jesus had told his disciples to beware those who take advantage of their role to puff up their own status, and now those same disciples are blown away by the opulence and grandeur of the Temple, built by the same gifts thrown into the treasury that Jesus had just spoken of. How quick we humans are to get caught up in appearances and lose sight of what really matters.
When Jesus heard his disciples marveling at the Temple, he immediately brought them back, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.” It’s hard to understand just how unthinkable Jesus’ words would have been to his disciples. The Temple was a massive structure, built into the side of a mountain out of immense stones. Those stones were marble outlaid with gold, so that the building was said to shine such that it was almost blinding in the sun. The effort, the violence and destruction it would have taken to dismantle such a structure, was beyond comprehension.
So later, sitting on the Mount of Olives, overlooking the Temple, the disciples asked Jesus, “Tell us, when will this be, and what will be the sign that all these things are about to be accomplished?” What should we look for, what are the warning signs? How should we prepare for this time of darkness? And Jesus, you’ll notice, in his Jesus way, didn’t answer their question. He didn’t tell them what to look for, instead, he told them what not to look for. ““Beware that no one leads you astray… When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed… For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.” What Jesus was telling his disciples here was that what looks like the end is not the end. What looks like the end is not the end. This was important for Jesus’ disciples because at chapter thirteen we are two short days from what by all accounts is the end from which there is no return, we are two short days from Jesus’ death on a cross. And yet, the promise of our faith is that what looks like the end is not the end. Because three days after that death, the stone was rolled away, the tomb was found empty, and Jesus Christ lived again. Resurrection means the end is not the end, the end is never the end, there is always life after death.
If we read on in chapter thirteen, Jesus spoke of dire things that would happen to the disciples, “they will hand you over to councils; and you will be beaten in synagogues; and you will stand before governors and kings because of me… when they bring you to trial and hand you over, do not worry beforehand about what you are to say; but say whatever is given you at that time, for it is not you who speak, but the Holy Spirit.” From the book of Acts, we know those things happened. Many of the disciples were handed over to councils, beaten, jailed, and handed over to stand trial. And yet, as promised, the end was not the end. The Holy Spirit did speak for them, they did find words, they did share the good news. And we gather here, two-thousand years later as proof of this central promise, that what looks like the end, dark and uncertain as it might seem, is not the end, it is only the beginning.
I started the sermon by talking about birth pangs. Giving birth is one of the most dangerous and fragile times in life for both the woman and the baby. It can also be the hardest time on a relationship, many marriages end within the first year after the first child is born, the strain on the relationship with all that transition is so great. Times of transition, times of upheaval, times when we do not know where we are going and how, or if, we will get there, those can be scary times. And in those times of uncertainty, we sometimes, like the disciples, find ourselves looking for the flashiest, biggest, strongest message, looking for someone who will promise to have the answers, to know the path, and to lead us through. What these words from Jesus reminded the disciples, and remind us, is that sometimes the road is just hard. Sometimes there is not short-cut, there is no clear path, and the only way though is through. Giving birth is hard work, it’s called labor for a reason. There’s no short-cut, no workaround. But you have to do the work, you have to push through, because if you don’t, both your life and the life of your baby will be in danger.
At Trinity, we’ve been in this redevelopment process, this process of reforming ourselves as a congregation, for a while now. And it’s hard work. We’re starting to see the fruits of it, there are a lot of new faces in the room today that weren’t here when I came four years ago, and that’s so powerful to see, I am so glad to see who we are as a community and who we are becoming. But there is still a lot of work to be done; we are still just in the beginning of the birth pangs. And maybe after this reading you’ll be comforted to know that I hold no delusions that “I am he,” for maybe obvious reasons. I, first off, don’t identify as “he.” But, more importantly, I don’t know either exactly where we’re going or quite how to get there. I may well be leading us astray, but only because, as Thomas Merton prayed, “My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going…” And, like the disciples, I confess I too sometimes get caught up in metrics and numbers and how well we match up. But whoever we are, and whoever we become, the promise in this passage, the great hope of our faith, is that no matter what trials we face, no matter how scary life may feel, how uncertain things may be, God is, always has been, and always will be, with us. Guiding us, leading us, supporting us, and caring for us. Eons ago, God took God’s own heart out of God’s chest when God created us, granted us freedom, and permitted us to walk around outside of God’s body. We are the children who make a lot of noise, and eat all God’s food, and keep God up at night, because God loves us, like a parent loves a child, with a love that never ends. Amen.
Monday, November 12, 2018
Some Stuff was Voted On: A Sermon on 1 Kings 17:8-16 and Mark 12:38-44
So, you may have heard we voted on some stuff this week, both as a congregation and as a nation. Last Sunday we voted to adopt a new vision statement and core values, and on submitting those core values to Reconciling Works to be listed as a congregation who is welcoming to LGBTQ folk. Both things passed, which was super exciting. You can read the new core values, and share them with your friends, on the website. And if you go to the Reconciling in Christ website, you can search for us! And then on Tuesday, we as a nation had an election, where we voted on a bunch of people and stuff. And some people won, and some didn’t. And some stuff passed, and some didn’t. Actually, in Michigan all the stuff passed, but in some other states some stuff didn’t.
And for the last month I’ve been saying, this is super important, make sure you get out and vote. And for the last, geez, at least a year, I’ve been badgering the council and the Redevelopment Team, come on, we’ve got to get this vision statement and these core values done, and we’ve got to get everyone’s input on it, and let everyone vote on it, it’s super important. And now we’ve done all that and, guess what, none of it really matters. Wittmer or Schuette, Bizon or Noble, Prop one, Prop two, whoever you voted for, whether you were for or against any of the propositions, whatever circle you personally filled in on Tuesday, I don’t care. Today is neither the day for dancing in the streets nor for casting your hands up in despair. A bunch of people were elected on Tuesday. People who will do some good things and some bad things. Who will make some decisions you’ll like, and some you’ll hate. Even a stopped clock is right twice, I can just about guarantee that no matter how elated you may be with a victor, they will not make every single decision you would want. And no matter how incredibly, horribly awful you think the new office holder is, they will do something that you will agree with. Neither Jesus nor Satan was elected on Tuesday, just a whole bunch of people. Some of whom we liked, some we didn’t, but that’s all they are. People, just like you and I.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I do think elections matter. But I push the point about elections being about people because I think we have a tendency to forget that these are people we elected, not saviors. It’s important to remember that because when we forget, when we raise them to the level of hero or villain, then we can blame them and distance ourselves, when things don’t go as we want.
What got me thinking about this was our Gospel reading for this morning, and specifically how many sermons I’ve heard and, I admit, preached, on the widow and her two copper coins. How selfless and generous she was, how strong her faith must have been, to give everything she had, the Greek literally translates “her whole life,” to God. She is so often raised up as a model of true generosity and faithfulness, oh that we could be more like the widow and give all that we have, everything that we are, to God.
But we won’t follow in the model of the widow and give everything we have. Or, at least, I won’t. I’ll give up a lot for God, and I try to be generous, but I also know the value of solid financial planning, and maybe it’s a sign of my lack of faith, but I know how compound interest works and it feels important to save for retirement. The bar the widow sets for us is so high as to be unrealistic. And since it’s impossible, rather than be a useful model, she becomes an excuse. Since I cannot give everything I have and trust completely in God like the widow, then why try. I’m going to fall short anyway, so does it really matter what I do with my money?
Not only is the widow’s example impractical, quite frankly it also feels unethical. As your pastor, let me be clear. I want you to give generously to the church and its mission. I want you to practice good stewardship of your resources. I want you to have faith, to take risks in your generosity, and to trust that God will provide. But I do not want you beggar yourself for the church. I won’t ask it of you. So what’s really going on here?
As popular and well known as the second half of this reading is, those wise souls who created the lectionary gave us the part before, the warning about the scribes. And while I joke about the lectionary and my disagreements with it a lot, I think they really nailed the division this week. Because I think we cannot understand Jesus’ words about the widow unless we understand what he first said about the scribes.
“As Jesus taught, he said, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets!” And here’s the important verse, the verse that links this section to the next, “They devour widows houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.” They devour widows houses. And then a story about a widow, house destroyed, giving her last two copper coins to the institution that pays the scribes. I got to thinking as I read this, what if rather than lifting up the widow as a model, Jesus pointed her out as a proof of his condemnation of scribes, and of the religious system that taught this woman that the way not just to her salvation, but to her very survival, was to give literally everything she had to an institution that had already failed in its responsibility to her so fully as to leave her with only two copper coins to begin with, and then to ask those coins of her. I wonder if rather than “be like the widow,” the real challenge Jesus presented to his followers was “don’t be like the scribes.” Don’t create a religious system where those who have little give everything, in the blind hope of having something; while those with a lot, like the rich man feel like they have too much to lose. I wonder if Jesus lifted up the widow not as a model of generosity, but as an example of how the people of God had failed to live up to the obligation given by Moses in Exodus, to “not abuse any widow or orphan… [for] when they cry out to me, I will surely heed their cry.”
And if the fate of this widow, giving her last two coins to an institution who did not care for her, shows us what it looks like when the church fails its people, the Old Testament reading about Elijah and the widow of Zarephath is the hope, is what it looks like when we are the people of God are at our best. Unlike the woman putting her two copper coins in the treasury, Elijah asked the woman to share what she had with him. He asked for a portion. And yes, a portion of her meager goods was a huge sacrifice, but it was still just a portion. And that portion, that sharing, sustained both of them until the drought was through. In the same vein as the miracle of the loaves and the fishes, God’s economy is a sharing economy, when each of us gives of what we have; trusting in another to do the same, there is enough to go around. Giving everything we have isn’t a relationship. It’s a one-time transaction, when it’s gone, it’s gone. But to share, I have to know you, I have to know what you need, how much, and when, and you have to know the same things about me.
So I started this sermon by talking about the election. And we’re going to get back to the there, but first let me tell you what got me thinking about this was part of the core values conversation at the October council meeting. So the council and the Redevelopment Team had been wordsmithing these things for months. And they were getting frustrated because we were talking about the same thing over and over again, and I was getting frustrated because I felt like I wasn’t getting the feedback I needed to feel like these were values we all held and not just values that I thought sounded nice. So we were going back and forth about it, at my request, again, at the October meeting. And it was getting late, and I was pushing the point, and Teresa finally piped up and was like, “what is the point of this? No one is going to come into our church and ask to read our core values before they decide to join. Either they’re going to like us, and like our mission, or they’re not. No amount of fancy words are going to change that.” And it was late, and I was tired, and I must confess I got a little annoyed at Teresa for saying that. After all, we’d been at this thing for months, and we were so close to the finish line, and couldn’t she just give her input for one last council meeting so we could get this to a vote so we could get it before the congregation and be done with it! But I went home that night and I thought about it, and she was right. I was also right, the activity of crafting our core values, setting them to paper, voting on them, all of the time and effort we’ve put into this project lets us know what our values are and gives us a guide for how we are to live out our calling as the people of God in this place. But Teresa was also right, because if all we do with these core values is vote on them, paste them on our website, and call it a day, they mean nothing. That we wrote them down doesn’t matter, what matters is what we do with them. What matters is how we live them out. How we give love, how we show grace, how we practice inclusion, work for social justice, and put all these things into action. How we live them is what makes our core values matter.
The same is true for the election on Tuesday. It does matter that you voted, that you took the time to research candidates, consider the proposals, and made a decision. But if that’s all you do. If now that you’ve filled in your row of circles, you call it a day and wash your hands of the whole thing until you’re called upon to fill in a bunch of circles next time, then it really doesn’t matter. What matters is what we do with the people who have now been elected, what matters is how we move forward. Because we elected a bunch of people who are neither Jesus nor Satan, and who will do some things we like, and some things we don’t. So whether your guy or gal won or lost, and whether your proposition passed or failed, none of it matters unless we keep bringing all that we have to work for the widows and orphans of our society, those in need of support and care. And the promise in the Old Testament reading is that when we do that. When we get skin in the game, when we share what we have, money yes, but also our voices, our time, and our ideas, rather than leave it up to figureheads to either praise or blame, then there is not just enough, but abundance, to go around. The jar will not be emptied friends, and the jug will not fail, that is what God promises, so we have plenty to share. Amen.
And for the last month I’ve been saying, this is super important, make sure you get out and vote. And for the last, geez, at least a year, I’ve been badgering the council and the Redevelopment Team, come on, we’ve got to get this vision statement and these core values done, and we’ve got to get everyone’s input on it, and let everyone vote on it, it’s super important. And now we’ve done all that and, guess what, none of it really matters. Wittmer or Schuette, Bizon or Noble, Prop one, Prop two, whoever you voted for, whether you were for or against any of the propositions, whatever circle you personally filled in on Tuesday, I don’t care. Today is neither the day for dancing in the streets nor for casting your hands up in despair. A bunch of people were elected on Tuesday. People who will do some good things and some bad things. Who will make some decisions you’ll like, and some you’ll hate. Even a stopped clock is right twice, I can just about guarantee that no matter how elated you may be with a victor, they will not make every single decision you would want. And no matter how incredibly, horribly awful you think the new office holder is, they will do something that you will agree with. Neither Jesus nor Satan was elected on Tuesday, just a whole bunch of people. Some of whom we liked, some we didn’t, but that’s all they are. People, just like you and I.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I do think elections matter. But I push the point about elections being about people because I think we have a tendency to forget that these are people we elected, not saviors. It’s important to remember that because when we forget, when we raise them to the level of hero or villain, then we can blame them and distance ourselves, when things don’t go as we want.
What got me thinking about this was our Gospel reading for this morning, and specifically how many sermons I’ve heard and, I admit, preached, on the widow and her two copper coins. How selfless and generous she was, how strong her faith must have been, to give everything she had, the Greek literally translates “her whole life,” to God. She is so often raised up as a model of true generosity and faithfulness, oh that we could be more like the widow and give all that we have, everything that we are, to God.
But we won’t follow in the model of the widow and give everything we have. Or, at least, I won’t. I’ll give up a lot for God, and I try to be generous, but I also know the value of solid financial planning, and maybe it’s a sign of my lack of faith, but I know how compound interest works and it feels important to save for retirement. The bar the widow sets for us is so high as to be unrealistic. And since it’s impossible, rather than be a useful model, she becomes an excuse. Since I cannot give everything I have and trust completely in God like the widow, then why try. I’m going to fall short anyway, so does it really matter what I do with my money?
Not only is the widow’s example impractical, quite frankly it also feels unethical. As your pastor, let me be clear. I want you to give generously to the church and its mission. I want you to practice good stewardship of your resources. I want you to have faith, to take risks in your generosity, and to trust that God will provide. But I do not want you beggar yourself for the church. I won’t ask it of you. So what’s really going on here?
As popular and well known as the second half of this reading is, those wise souls who created the lectionary gave us the part before, the warning about the scribes. And while I joke about the lectionary and my disagreements with it a lot, I think they really nailed the division this week. Because I think we cannot understand Jesus’ words about the widow unless we understand what he first said about the scribes.
“As Jesus taught, he said, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets!” And here’s the important verse, the verse that links this section to the next, “They devour widows houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.” They devour widows houses. And then a story about a widow, house destroyed, giving her last two copper coins to the institution that pays the scribes. I got to thinking as I read this, what if rather than lifting up the widow as a model, Jesus pointed her out as a proof of his condemnation of scribes, and of the religious system that taught this woman that the way not just to her salvation, but to her very survival, was to give literally everything she had to an institution that had already failed in its responsibility to her so fully as to leave her with only two copper coins to begin with, and then to ask those coins of her. I wonder if rather than “be like the widow,” the real challenge Jesus presented to his followers was “don’t be like the scribes.” Don’t create a religious system where those who have little give everything, in the blind hope of having something; while those with a lot, like the rich man feel like they have too much to lose. I wonder if Jesus lifted up the widow not as a model of generosity, but as an example of how the people of God had failed to live up to the obligation given by Moses in Exodus, to “not abuse any widow or orphan… [for] when they cry out to me, I will surely heed their cry.”
And if the fate of this widow, giving her last two coins to an institution who did not care for her, shows us what it looks like when the church fails its people, the Old Testament reading about Elijah and the widow of Zarephath is the hope, is what it looks like when we are the people of God are at our best. Unlike the woman putting her two copper coins in the treasury, Elijah asked the woman to share what she had with him. He asked for a portion. And yes, a portion of her meager goods was a huge sacrifice, but it was still just a portion. And that portion, that sharing, sustained both of them until the drought was through. In the same vein as the miracle of the loaves and the fishes, God’s economy is a sharing economy, when each of us gives of what we have; trusting in another to do the same, there is enough to go around. Giving everything we have isn’t a relationship. It’s a one-time transaction, when it’s gone, it’s gone. But to share, I have to know you, I have to know what you need, how much, and when, and you have to know the same things about me.
So I started this sermon by talking about the election. And we’re going to get back to the there, but first let me tell you what got me thinking about this was part of the core values conversation at the October council meeting. So the council and the Redevelopment Team had been wordsmithing these things for months. And they were getting frustrated because we were talking about the same thing over and over again, and I was getting frustrated because I felt like I wasn’t getting the feedback I needed to feel like these were values we all held and not just values that I thought sounded nice. So we were going back and forth about it, at my request, again, at the October meeting. And it was getting late, and I was pushing the point, and Teresa finally piped up and was like, “what is the point of this? No one is going to come into our church and ask to read our core values before they decide to join. Either they’re going to like us, and like our mission, or they’re not. No amount of fancy words are going to change that.” And it was late, and I was tired, and I must confess I got a little annoyed at Teresa for saying that. After all, we’d been at this thing for months, and we were so close to the finish line, and couldn’t she just give her input for one last council meeting so we could get this to a vote so we could get it before the congregation and be done with it! But I went home that night and I thought about it, and she was right. I was also right, the activity of crafting our core values, setting them to paper, voting on them, all of the time and effort we’ve put into this project lets us know what our values are and gives us a guide for how we are to live out our calling as the people of God in this place. But Teresa was also right, because if all we do with these core values is vote on them, paste them on our website, and call it a day, they mean nothing. That we wrote them down doesn’t matter, what matters is what we do with them. What matters is how we live them out. How we give love, how we show grace, how we practice inclusion, work for social justice, and put all these things into action. How we live them is what makes our core values matter.
The same is true for the election on Tuesday. It does matter that you voted, that you took the time to research candidates, consider the proposals, and made a decision. But if that’s all you do. If now that you’ve filled in your row of circles, you call it a day and wash your hands of the whole thing until you’re called upon to fill in a bunch of circles next time, then it really doesn’t matter. What matters is what we do with the people who have now been elected, what matters is how we move forward. Because we elected a bunch of people who are neither Jesus nor Satan, and who will do some things we like, and some things we don’t. So whether your guy or gal won or lost, and whether your proposition passed or failed, none of it matters unless we keep bringing all that we have to work for the widows and orphans of our society, those in need of support and care. And the promise in the Old Testament reading is that when we do that. When we get skin in the game, when we share what we have, money yes, but also our voices, our time, and our ideas, rather than leave it up to figureheads to either praise or blame, then there is not just enough, but abundance, to go around. The jar will not be emptied friends, and the jug will not fail, that is what God promises, so we have plenty to share. Amen.
Monday, November 5, 2018
Make Some Noise: An All Saints Day Sermon on Mark 12:28-34
We are celebrating All Saints Day today, because we always celebrate it on the first Sunday in November. But the somber beginning to the service, with the reading of names of our dearly departed, and carrying forward candles, seems even more appropriate this day, at the close of a week when our nation laid thirteen people to rest among the saints triumphant, eleven people shot in a synagogue in Pittsburgh, and two in a grocery store in Louisville. Thirteen people, victims of racism and anti-Semitism, and we’re lucky that number isn’t higher. The Louisville shooter first tried to enter an African American church where earlier that day seventy people had been at worship. And we’re just a week out from fourteen pipe bombs being sent through the mail to targets across the nation, pipe bombs that could have gone off at any number of crowded places killing any number of innocent people. Thirteen funerals this week, for thirteen people killed by blind hate. I didn’t know them, but the weight of their loss, the weight of our nation’s collective grief at hatred spun out of control, sits heavy on my heart. At an interfaith service last Sunday, the rabbi of Tree of Life Synagogue, Rabbi Jeffrey Myers, shared how as he lays awake at night, he reflects on Psalm twenty-three, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” “Well God, I want,” said Rabbi Myers, “What I want, you can’t give me. You can’t return these eleven beautiful souls.”
One thing I admire about our brothers and sisters of the Jewish faith, a thing I think we as Christians lost somewhere along the way and could learn from them, is the understanding that it’s ok to argue with God, it’s ok to be angry with God. God is big; God can take it. The psalms, our collective first prayer book, is rich with examples of such turmoil. Rabbi Myers described wrestling with Psalm twenty-three. The Psalm immediately preceding it, Psalm twenty-two, is the Psalmist wrestling with God. It begins, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me,” and then dances back and forth between praise and anguish, between hope and despair. The psalms teach us that faith and anger are not contradictory feelings, but in fact it takes deep faith to hold righteous anger, to understand the truth in it. If God is a capricious God, uncaring or unattached, then there would be no point to anger. It is precisely because we know Go to be “a merciful God, slow anger and abounding in steadfast love,” that fuels the psalmist’s anger and demand for God to show up and be God, to show up and do what a righteous God should do. Even when, as Rabbi Myers remarked, that thing we want is a thing we cannot have.
And if faith and anger are not contradictory feelings, neither are anger and love. Hate and love are contradictory, as are hate and faith, but anger and love are not. Like faith, love can be what fuels anger, and love is also what tempers it, what keeps it in tension and moving in ways that are helpful and healing. Friends, I think God is angry at the state of our world right now, at the violence, the division, the degradation of our planet and of each other, God’s good creation. God’s anger is fueled not be vengeance, but by God’s own deep love for us and for this world which God called good. At least, I hope God is angry, because if God is not, I don’t know where to stand.
And in the same way I take comfort in the back and forth of the psalms, and the example in them of the back and forth of faith and anger, of anger and love, I take comfort in the example Jesus set in our Gospel reading for this morning. Because as tumultuous, violent, and uncertain as the world feels today, it has nothing on the uncertainty and instability of Jesus’ time. Our Gospel for this morning was from Mark chapter twelve, which is right in the middle of Holy Week. Fun fact for you, Mark is a Gospel known for its urgency and the use of the word “immediately.” But after the triumphant entry into Jerusalem in Mark chapter eleven, the pace of the narrative slows way down, and the last days of Jesus’ life take up as much as the entire Galilean ministry. Everything from here until his death in chapter fifteen is Jesus ratcheting up the tension until it finally breaks open on the cross, death no longer able to hold back the promise Christ contained.
As part of that ratcheting up of tension, since the coming into Jerusalem Jesus had been engaged in arguments, with the chief priests, the elders, the Pharisees and the Sadducees, about anything and everything, as they tried to trap him. But the scribe who approached him in this morning’s reading was different. “Seeing that [Jesus] answered them well, he asked him, ‘Which commandment is the first of all?’” This question, unlike all the others lobbied at Jesus before, was an honest one. This was the sort of question which two religious scholars would debate back and forth between each other, not to change the other’s mind but to learn from each other, to have their own minds challenged and grown. Another gift we need to relearn from our Jewish sisters and brothers is the tradition of religious debate not to change the other’s mind, but to challenge our own. Entering into the sort of honest conversation that the scribe engaged Jesus is risky, because it involves true openness. So often we engage those with whom we disagree, if we engage them at all, in the same way the other religious leaders engaged Jesus, with the “correct” answer already firmly in our minds, confident that we know the one right answer, and that nothing the other person says could do anything to change what we know to be true.
The answer Jesus gave was both disarmingly simply and endlessly complex. “The first is, ‘Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one.’” This is what is known in Judaism as the Shema, from the Hebrew word for “hear,” and as we heard in our first reading from Deuteronomy, this is a verse that the scribe would have known well, one which he would have had mounted on the lintels of his door, which is still hung on the doors of Jewish homes today. The shooter in Pittsburgh inevitably walked under it to enter the sanctuary, this bold proclamation held by Jews and Christians alike, “Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one.” And Jesus went on, “The second is this, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.”
Love God; love your neighbor. Such seemingly simple commandments, yet if you’ve ever watched some you love hurt themselves or others and not known how to respond, you know how complicated these are, how nuanced and situational and ripe for mistake and misinterpretation they can be. An act done in love can feel like hate, or what we think we do in love can come instead from our own self-interest. These commands to love are both too simple and too vast to be understood on our own. We can only see the world through our own limited experience, to love our neighbor we have to know their own experience. And to love God requires knowledge beyond knowing.
I grieve the way this morning’s Gospel reading ended, “after that no one dared ask Jesus any questions.” I wish the questions had continued. Not in the way of the earlier questions, those asked to trick and to trap and to prove, but in the way of the scribe’s question, to learn, to teach, to challenge and to engage. To hear another’s perspective in the world and to wonder about how it differs from one’s own, and how their perspectives may have been formed from their experience, how love and faith can look different to each person, and how our love of God and neighbor can grow from knowing another’s perspective.
So the challenge I hear for myself in this Gospel reading, and the challenge I give to all of you, in this time and season of conflict and division, is to not be afraid to ask questions. Yes, there are extremes, there are falsehoods that cannot and should not be reasoned with, the hatred-fueled violence of racism and anti-Semitism that we saw played out this week are examples of that. But the silence of fear gives space for those fringes to thrive, rather than being pushed to the edges where hatred belongs. I invite you this week to find someone you disagree with and have a conversation with them. Not to change their mind, and not to change your mind, but simply to learn more about what they think and what caused them to come to that conclusion. I will share with you that I had such a conversation last week, about one of the ballot propositions, and while my views were not changed by the dialogue, I found myself more deeply engaged by their questions then I had been before, and more committed to being engaged in the process, so that the result that I hope will come out of the vote is what actually emerges, a result that is freeing and life-giving and good for the largest amount of people. The conversation was frustrating, it made me angry, but it forced me out of my silo to see the sides of the argument I had been missing, the gaps in my framework, and the real problems that still persisted. I came out of the conversation both clearer about my own opinion and with more respect for those whose vote will be different than mine, for from the conversation I know that while we want the same goal, our varying perspectives see different pathways forward. So we can disagree on how best to solve this, and yet still work together regardless of the result of the ballot proposal, because in the end the hope is the same. And our differing experiences bring up gaps in the other’s argument, leading to more growth overall.
Death dwells in the silence, and as Jesus told the questioning Pharisees in the verse immediately before our reading this morning, “God is not the God of the dead, but of the living.” So let’s go make some noise. Amen.
One thing I admire about our brothers and sisters of the Jewish faith, a thing I think we as Christians lost somewhere along the way and could learn from them, is the understanding that it’s ok to argue with God, it’s ok to be angry with God. God is big; God can take it. The psalms, our collective first prayer book, is rich with examples of such turmoil. Rabbi Myers described wrestling with Psalm twenty-three. The Psalm immediately preceding it, Psalm twenty-two, is the Psalmist wrestling with God. It begins, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me,” and then dances back and forth between praise and anguish, between hope and despair. The psalms teach us that faith and anger are not contradictory feelings, but in fact it takes deep faith to hold righteous anger, to understand the truth in it. If God is a capricious God, uncaring or unattached, then there would be no point to anger. It is precisely because we know Go to be “a merciful God, slow anger and abounding in steadfast love,” that fuels the psalmist’s anger and demand for God to show up and be God, to show up and do what a righteous God should do. Even when, as Rabbi Myers remarked, that thing we want is a thing we cannot have.
And if faith and anger are not contradictory feelings, neither are anger and love. Hate and love are contradictory, as are hate and faith, but anger and love are not. Like faith, love can be what fuels anger, and love is also what tempers it, what keeps it in tension and moving in ways that are helpful and healing. Friends, I think God is angry at the state of our world right now, at the violence, the division, the degradation of our planet and of each other, God’s good creation. God’s anger is fueled not be vengeance, but by God’s own deep love for us and for this world which God called good. At least, I hope God is angry, because if God is not, I don’t know where to stand.
And in the same way I take comfort in the back and forth of the psalms, and the example in them of the back and forth of faith and anger, of anger and love, I take comfort in the example Jesus set in our Gospel reading for this morning. Because as tumultuous, violent, and uncertain as the world feels today, it has nothing on the uncertainty and instability of Jesus’ time. Our Gospel for this morning was from Mark chapter twelve, which is right in the middle of Holy Week. Fun fact for you, Mark is a Gospel known for its urgency and the use of the word “immediately.” But after the triumphant entry into Jerusalem in Mark chapter eleven, the pace of the narrative slows way down, and the last days of Jesus’ life take up as much as the entire Galilean ministry. Everything from here until his death in chapter fifteen is Jesus ratcheting up the tension until it finally breaks open on the cross, death no longer able to hold back the promise Christ contained.
As part of that ratcheting up of tension, since the coming into Jerusalem Jesus had been engaged in arguments, with the chief priests, the elders, the Pharisees and the Sadducees, about anything and everything, as they tried to trap him. But the scribe who approached him in this morning’s reading was different. “Seeing that [Jesus] answered them well, he asked him, ‘Which commandment is the first of all?’” This question, unlike all the others lobbied at Jesus before, was an honest one. This was the sort of question which two religious scholars would debate back and forth between each other, not to change the other’s mind but to learn from each other, to have their own minds challenged and grown. Another gift we need to relearn from our Jewish sisters and brothers is the tradition of religious debate not to change the other’s mind, but to challenge our own. Entering into the sort of honest conversation that the scribe engaged Jesus is risky, because it involves true openness. So often we engage those with whom we disagree, if we engage them at all, in the same way the other religious leaders engaged Jesus, with the “correct” answer already firmly in our minds, confident that we know the one right answer, and that nothing the other person says could do anything to change what we know to be true.
The answer Jesus gave was both disarmingly simply and endlessly complex. “The first is, ‘Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one.’” This is what is known in Judaism as the Shema, from the Hebrew word for “hear,” and as we heard in our first reading from Deuteronomy, this is a verse that the scribe would have known well, one which he would have had mounted on the lintels of his door, which is still hung on the doors of Jewish homes today. The shooter in Pittsburgh inevitably walked under it to enter the sanctuary, this bold proclamation held by Jews and Christians alike, “Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one.” And Jesus went on, “The second is this, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.”
Love God; love your neighbor. Such seemingly simple commandments, yet if you’ve ever watched some you love hurt themselves or others and not known how to respond, you know how complicated these are, how nuanced and situational and ripe for mistake and misinterpretation they can be. An act done in love can feel like hate, or what we think we do in love can come instead from our own self-interest. These commands to love are both too simple and too vast to be understood on our own. We can only see the world through our own limited experience, to love our neighbor we have to know their own experience. And to love God requires knowledge beyond knowing.
I grieve the way this morning’s Gospel reading ended, “after that no one dared ask Jesus any questions.” I wish the questions had continued. Not in the way of the earlier questions, those asked to trick and to trap and to prove, but in the way of the scribe’s question, to learn, to teach, to challenge and to engage. To hear another’s perspective in the world and to wonder about how it differs from one’s own, and how their perspectives may have been formed from their experience, how love and faith can look different to each person, and how our love of God and neighbor can grow from knowing another’s perspective.
So the challenge I hear for myself in this Gospel reading, and the challenge I give to all of you, in this time and season of conflict and division, is to not be afraid to ask questions. Yes, there are extremes, there are falsehoods that cannot and should not be reasoned with, the hatred-fueled violence of racism and anti-Semitism that we saw played out this week are examples of that. But the silence of fear gives space for those fringes to thrive, rather than being pushed to the edges where hatred belongs. I invite you this week to find someone you disagree with and have a conversation with them. Not to change their mind, and not to change your mind, but simply to learn more about what they think and what caused them to come to that conclusion. I will share with you that I had such a conversation last week, about one of the ballot propositions, and while my views were not changed by the dialogue, I found myself more deeply engaged by their questions then I had been before, and more committed to being engaged in the process, so that the result that I hope will come out of the vote is what actually emerges, a result that is freeing and life-giving and good for the largest amount of people. The conversation was frustrating, it made me angry, but it forced me out of my silo to see the sides of the argument I had been missing, the gaps in my framework, and the real problems that still persisted. I came out of the conversation both clearer about my own opinion and with more respect for those whose vote will be different than mine, for from the conversation I know that while we want the same goal, our varying perspectives see different pathways forward. So we can disagree on how best to solve this, and yet still work together regardless of the result of the ballot proposal, because in the end the hope is the same. And our differing experiences bring up gaps in the other’s argument, leading to more growth overall.
Death dwells in the silence, and as Jesus told the questioning Pharisees in the verse immediately before our reading this morning, “God is not the God of the dead, but of the living.” So let’s go make some noise. Amen.
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