Birth Stories

a Sermon for Christmas Eve

Text: Luke 2:1-20

One of the interesting things about childbirth is the talking afterward—being able to share in your birth story. I could have told you that a year ago as Rose and I were preparing to have our beautiful daughter, Sophia. Everyone seemed eager to share their birth stories—many of which involved children that are fully-grown. As new parents, we enjoy sharing in our birth story.

Jesus’s birth story doesn’t really get the full treatment, does it? It says simply:

“While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.”

We don’t get to hear about Mary’s labor or the circumstances of the delivery. We don’t get to hear who cut the umbilical cord or how they stopped the bleeding. I’ve read that if you give birth at department store or in a cave, you should use shoelaces to tie off the cord. I don’t think that’s what they used. For a birth story, that’s pretty uninspiring—probably wouldn’t make A Baby Story. I’m sure there are ways that Luke could have given us a little more pizzazz. What did the inn keeper look like and how was his “sorry, guys” delivered? Did he say it with irritation? “If I made an exception for you, I’d have to make it for everybody!” Did he say it with condescension? “You know, there’s a pretty nice barn around the corner—you might be a little more…comfortable there.” I’m just curious. In any event, Mary and Joseph’s birth story seems to be a bit short.

What we get instead is a thorough conversation between an angel and shepherds. In this part, we actually get some dialogue! Some action! We get the angel appearing out of nowhere and he gives them their instructions and then suddenly there’s a whole posse of angels singing. And then it says something funny: it says “When the angels had left them”…as if they wanted to make a grand entrance and then wander home. Maybe they had to hoof it. Anyway, all of this action and all of this dialogue gives us the fireworks of the story.

But before we go any further, I have to tell you something. The angel didn’t appear to random people. He didn’t stop some yahoos on the street. He picked out shepherds in the field. You probably have the wrong impression of shepherds. Growing up on Christmas pageants where little 7 year-old boys get to play shepherds gives each of us a certain mental image. And our image of Jesus as shepherd gives a certain regal flair to the job. But shepherds aren’t the cool kids in school. They’re lower class workers who sleep in the fields with their sheep. They’re people that wouldn’t be allowed in most places because they smell funny. To take this impression even further, over the course of the first two chapters of Luke, angels appear to Mary and Elizabeth and to shepherds. We’re not talking about powerful movers and shakers—the corporate CEOs and Wall Street bankers here, but a girl, an old woman, and day laborers.

And it’s hard with our pastoral picture of the manger scene, with our adoration of this brand new baby born to the world, to think about what it means. To think about the innocence of birth and of childhood in the context of the whole gospel.

My favorite scene in Talladega Nights has Will Ferrill’s character, Ricky Bobby praying for that sweet baby Jesus—the Jesus of birth and of Christmas—the Jesus that is innocent and can’t be held accountable for what the adult Jesus says and does. The baby Jesus isn’t confrontational or difficult or rebellious or argumentative. He is purely sweet and innocent and not the Jesus we know.

Except that he is. He is the adult Jesus. We don’t celebrate tonight only the birth of Jesus as if He were reborn again in a couple of hours, just as he was born again this time last year. We celebrate Jesus’s birth. We celebrate this moment in time where God said something to the effect of: “These people need a pick-me-up”. And God, the Great Mystery, joined us on earth in a new way—a way that is different even than God’s presence at creation. Remember in Genesis 3:8 it says “They heard the sound of the LORD God walking in the garden at the time of the evening breeze” as God is walking around the Garden looking for Adam and Eve. This is completely different. This birth, growth, living, death. This the whole kittencaboodle of the life package.

But remember, the text doesn’t dwell on Jesus’s birth, right? It doesn’t say “Jesus was born,” but that “[Mary] gave birth to her firstborn son.” Jesus is referenced only as Mary’s firstborn son. Even Jesus’s birth, God’s birth in a human person, isn’t the centerpiece, is it? And really, poor Mary, the mother doesn’t get the literary backpatting for her part either. It’s the shepherds—those day laborers that propel this story. It’s the shepherds who not only believe the angel and follow the angel’s instructions, but race to see this miracle baby. They race to see who is going to lead them. Think about that for a second. In Roman occupied territory, in a land in which the emperor calls himself King and “Son of God”, these shepherds are running to the mangerside of this little baby boy. I could imagine if these guys were royalty and the baby born was a legitimate heir to Henry VIII or something, right? But this is the Messiah, in Greek, literally anointed by God. This is the big one.

The way this story is told, the way it is set up, isn’t supposed to be simple and easy. It is to showcase the choice—the biggest choice in their (and our) lives—which god are we to follow: the one we call simply, God or the Roman Emperor. The shepherds lead us to the right choice, don’t they? Isn’t that what they’re there for?

The Christmas story is scandalous and troubling. It overturns the order of things and suggests opposites—a leader born among animals, the marginalized are given awesome responsibilities, and the upper crust and the in-the-know are left ignorant of what’s going on. That shepherds are given the authority of attending to Mary and Joseph shortly after the birth of the Messiah is unbelievable. This is what choosing God is like. It is trusting, following, and running to find the anointed one with such exuberance that it can’t be contained. It is telling, professing, and proclaiming the good news of what has happened. It is finding, rejoicing, and worshipping God for all that has occurred.

This scandalous Christmas story is about Jesus without talking about Jesus. It is about how we relate to Him, and therefore God. It’s about us and our choice to follow the unconventional God, revealed through unconventional messengers. It’s about how we relate to a world that makes so much sense to us and seduces us with the promise of wealth, power, and prestige. It’s about simultaneously resisting temptation and giving up control. The Jesus revealed to us on Christmas is an innocent and beautiful baby; it is also the Jesus of life and death—the Jesus of growth and suppression—the Jesus of happiness and sorrow. The Jesus revealed tonight is the Christ born and crucified. The Jesus revealed tonight is the Jesus we meet in our neighbors, our loved ones, and our guests and in strangers and enemies.

May we behold Jesus, the source of good news and great joy, revealed to us in the miracle of birth. Amen.

Storytelling

a Homily for Thanksgiving

Texts: Deuteronomy 8:7-18 & 2 Corinthians 9:6-15

Imagine what it must have been like for the Israelite people to be on the precipice of entering their home: the land for which they have longed. The land that they never knew except through stories and tales of their ancestors. A land that they are only now getting to glimpse after a long, arduous, and dangerous journey from relative comfort in Egypt. Imagine what it is like—to stand there with anticipation, excitement, and outright joy for finally realizing your dreams. One of your closest friends falls to the ground in joy, tears streaming down his face—what can he do but worship G-d? A woman slides down into her partner’s arms, overcome—she had been faithful to G-d, but she never thought she’d see this day. Children tugging at their parents’ clothes in awe and wonder at what this new land will look like.

Our Thanksgiving story shares some of those elements, doesn’t it? Pilgrims, seeking freedom in a new land; a dangerous journey that imperiled their very existence; anticipation of what would come.

For the Israelites, this was the end of a long journey. A journey in which many who were responsible for getting them there, would not get to finish. Moses and Aaron, for their betrayal of G-d, would die. In fact, those that left Egypt would be prevented from completing the journey: only their offspring could enter the new land. G-d’s punishment is severe and undeniable in light of this incredible gift. A gift so perfectly described in our Old Testament lesson from Deuteronomy which says:

Do not say to yourself, ‘My power and the might of my own hand have gained me this wealth.’ But remember the Lord your God, for it is he who gives you power to get wealth, so that he may confirm his covenant that he swore to your ancestors, as he is doing today.

It is hard when we are feeling an economic crunch to be thankful for what we have and to think about it as wealth. It is hard to give up ownership of it. It is hard to give God any credit, let alone total credit. It is hard to give God ownership of what we have, because what is left? It is hard not to conserve, store, horde, or otherwise “play it safe”. This is what we do. This is no different than what the Israelite people, wandering in the desert were doing when they questioned G-d.

We’re addicted to ownership and possession. Its part of what it means to be an American. We own our responsibility, our independence. We might give God credit for accidents: the things that weren’t supposed to work in our favor like winning a raffle or finding a ridiculously good parking spot on Black Friday. But the rest is our own ingenuity and natural talent, isn’t it?

In the gospel of the talents from two weeks ago, Jesus tells a parable about these slaves that are each given talents: the first receives five, the second receives two, and the third gets one. Later, the master comes back and through the courage and mindfulness of the first two slaves, God doubles their investments (100% is an incredible interest rate, isn’t it?). The third slave, on the other hand, sits on and squanders what is given him for which the master severely punishes the slave. With unemployment heading into double digits, increased poverty and need for resources, and churches and non-profits strapped for cash, in a moment of scary, economic uncertainty, how can we not be that third slave?

In other words, today, as we gather here, how can we be thankful? How can we be thankful for such misery and fear? How are we to be a people of light and hope when we can’t see it— when we don’t know it? When the winter is bleak and the prospects are few?

Moses shows what giving real thanks is about: relinquishing ownership. Giving it up. It’s about what G-d has given the people, how G-d has provided for the people, how God today provides for us. It’s about giving thanks. Giving thanks for the incredible gifts that none of us deserves, let alone earned.

This is God’s undergirding economic philosophy: faith can achieve miracles that far surpass compound interest and dividends. We just have to give up ownership. As Paul wrote in tonight’s Epistle: “And God is able to provide you with every blessing in abundance, so that by always having enough of everything, you may share abundantly in every good work.” Paul clarifies ownership rules. He helps us understand God’s contract. The contract made with a people long passed. A people we know only through story; through the tradition of sharing the lives of our ancestors with the next generation. A story tradition that saw a people in the midst of extreme adversity set foot on a foreign shore and try to do the unthinkable: simply survive the winter.

Like the Israelites, there is no happy ending, really. Centuries of abuse, exploitation, and death follow. The treatment of the Native Peoples is perhaps the biggest scar on American history—and the most embarrassing part of our story.

And yet it is our story. As is the struggle and arrival of the Israelites. As are the trials of Jesus and His apostles. As is the formation and fulfilling of St. David’s Episcopal Church. This is the story—our story. This is what we talk about as we gather around tables tomorrow. Our story. As we share a communal meal, giving thanks for those that came before, in the tradition of our foremothers and fathers. Our story. As we gather tonight around this table to share in this tradition from ancestors. Our story.

What G-d revealed to the Israelites and reveals to us tonight is a different ownership model. We own our relationship to God. We own our story. We own how we relate to people. All of the wealth—the houses, the property, the cars, the TVs, comfy beds, dining room tables, couches, skyscrapers, bridges, freeways, railstations, airports, seaports, vessels, temples, pyramids, ruins, and Wonders are God’s. All of this is God’s.

Tomorrow, I’m going to my sister’s house with Rose and Sophia. We’ll gather at a table with three generations, two family branches, to share in our history—our story. We’ll visit with my Uncle Hal and Aunt Barbara as they celebrate their wedding. We will gather to talk about the next chapter in our story. All of this will serve as the impetus of thanksgiving—the time to reflect on thankfulness, to set aside as Sabbath thankfulness.

Because we don’t run around with 364 days of thanklessness—but we also don’t need to put all of our thankfulness pressure on one day—one dinner—one shot at praising God for what God has given us. We don’t need to run around perfecting a feast to be thankful—in fact that usually distracts us. But we do need to sit with other people, telling our story, walking through the lives of ancestors and the old you—yesterday’s you—the you that is captured in a sister’s memory. That is our story.

May the God of hope and wonder guide you safely on your journeys, bring compassionate action from your thankfulness, and grant you grace through your storytelling.

Humility and the New Equality

a Sermon for Proper 26A
Text: Matthew 23:1-12

“The scribes and the Pharisees sit on Moses' seat,”

Jesus says. They are important. They are our leaders.

“[T]herefore, do whatever they teach you and follow it; but do not do as they do, for they do not practice what they teach.”

They are, in other words, hypocrites.

The Jesus of this morning’s gospel is…difficult. He has gone on the offensive and verbally attacks the Pharisees and scribes. He concedes that they’re actually very good teachers, that they know what they’re talking about, but just don’t act like them. They’ve got that all wrong.

The gospel continues through the rest of this chapter as Jesus’s condemnation continues, and increases.

In verse 13, Jesus says:

“But woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you lock people out of the kingdom of heaven.”

In 17 he says:

“You blind fools! For which is greater, the gold or the sanctuary that has made the gold sacred?”

In all, He says “Woe to you” 7 times, he calls the Pharisees and scribes “hypocrites” 6 times, and “blind” 5 times: all in this one chapter.

But let’s put this in perspective. Though we are approaching Advent, the beginning of our church calendar, we are in the midst of the final days of Jesus’s life here in Matthew. Jesus has entered Jerusalem, foretold his impending death to his disciples, explained their place in all of it, and here, he has come to the Temple for his sacrifice and final teachings. As we have heard in the last few gospel lessons, as the Pharisees and scribes attempted to trap Jesus in theological exercises, Jesus trapped them. Remember especially last week’s gospel about the Greatest Commandment as Jesus argues that:

‘“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.” This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.’

So Jesus, after thoroughly trouncing the authorities, turns his attention to the people, to make his own statement, and directs his ire toward the Pharisees and scribes.

When Jesus talks about phylacteries and fringes [a phylactery is a long box containing scripture—think of a fancy Bible cover], you can imagine he is talking about one of our candidates for public office, can’t you? One of those people who is always smiling and kissing babies and speaking about the “strength of the American workforce” going on about the virtues of American Exceptionalism. He or she wears a tailored suit, making sure to have a flag pin prominently displayed on the lapel.

In fact, we ask for substantive debate from them, and then bemoan when we actually get it. We are really listening for the zingers: those memorable lines.

As much as Jesus is nailing these leaders for their hypocrisy, he is revealing something about himself that troubles us here: he is passing judgment on them. We want to be open people. We fight against that voice of judgment because of what it means. We have watched the negative campaigning that has held our TVs hostage for months. We have witnessed the judgment passed by us and about us as Episcopalians, as members of the Diocese of Western Michigan, and as the people of St. David’s. Who is Jesus, then, to pass judgment? How can we learn to love all of our neighbors if we are allowed to judge some of them? Who am I, standing in the pulpit, to pass judgment? What kind of example is Jesus giving us and what kind of example are our candidates for elected office giving us?

Jesus reveals to us in the gospel that judgment is a part of love. Recognizing difference and relationship is central to our ability to love those around us. Recognizing when someone you love is doing something wrong gives you the chance to help them. This is why the previous verses about the Great Commandment are so essential to this gospel: loving one’s neighbor is a part of loving God. These two are essentially connected. Loving your neighbor, the hypocrite, involves pointing out his/her hypocrisy. Jesus uses judgment to not only reveal the problem with the Jewish authorities (their hypocrisy) but also to reveal the true teaching (humility). See, it isn’t really about who the Pharisees and scribes are, but about who they are not. They are not humble. They see themselves as special and demand that others see them that way too.

For Jesus, the teaching is really directed at the crowd. A visual example of the way not to act. He tells the people not to use titles like rabbi and father. The instruction, that these are God’s titles highlights what they are not: our titles. You may be a mother or father because you gave birth to a baby, and yes, you are her mother or father. Jesus isn’t calling for the stripping of such a title from you. But He is talking about position, power over or dominance of another. We, as children of God, are equals; it is only God that has a position of power over us. We are all saints. This is a radical concept here: true equality.

When Jesus says “All who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted” he is telling his disciples to do more than simply “be nice” to people: to be humble before them. The disciples, as leaders, must serve their followers.

For most of us, that seems pretty messed up. Some of us like our “phylacteries broad and [our] fringes long”. Some of us exercise the only authority we have in life when we come to church. Some of us only know how to lead through dominating others. But Jesus calls us to something different.

We are currently living in a moment in which we have no choice but to re-examine our understanding of leadership. All leadership: in the church; in our city, state, and country; in our global communion. We have the chance to look at how we lead and at our motivations. We can look at our priorities and our vision for the future. Jesus reveals the style of leadership (humility) in our lesson today, but he also reveals the why: preparing the Kingdom of God. That’s why we are listed among the saints. It is our right relationship with each other that brings closer that right relationship with God (and vice versa).

As you go into this week, take time to reflect about the Kingdom as you prepare to vote. Reflect also on what God is calling you to do in the life and ministry of St. David’s. Through planned giving and outreach to the powerless: here and abroad. Through food baskets and mosquito nets.

Jesus reveals the Kingdom as a great reversal of fortunes. For virtually every one of us in North America, that means that we are all called to serve others. May God reveal to you your place in this radical equality.

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NOTE: I chose not to move All Saints' readings to Sunday, as this text was so good! That, and it made much more sense in the context of our lectionary!

Getting a Job in Jesus’s Economy

Text: Matthew 20:1-16

Two words come to mind when reading that gospel: not fair. Jesus’s parable, spoken to the disciples doesn’t seem fair, the landowner doesn’t seem to be treating these laborers fairly, and the fact that we know that Jesus is talking about our relationship with God, well, that seems to make it worse. How fair is it that somebody working out in the sun all day would receive the same wage as someone that was working for an hour? It just isn’t.

The landowner goes into the marketplace and chooses some day laborers and agrees to give a daily wage for a day’s work. The laborers agree and go inside. Then the landowner goes out again at 9:00, noon, and 3:00, each time finding laborers willing to work, ushering them into the vineyard with the promise that they would receive “what was right” (a promise of justice). Lastly, an hour before the end of the workday, the landowner goes out again and finds more laborers standing around. He asks them “Why are you standing here idle all day?” To which they reply “Because no one has hired us.” We don’t know what is going on with these people, what took them so long to get there, but we are already upset, worrying about those that have been working in that vineyard all day. And when Jesus flips around the line to receive wages, that the last in get to be first out and they are getting the same wage as everyone else¸ it makes us want to scream, doesn’t it? It just doesn’t seem fair.

And even though we’re willing to admit that some people have it harder, that some people have life stacked up against them, it doesn’t preclude the landowner from being responsible. A flat tire on the way to work is an excuse. Childcare, foster care, or caring for one’s elderly parent doesn’t get us very much in the sympathy department—you still have to show up to work on time. Life has to be separate from work. Any sympathy we might have for those laborers, seemingly showing up at the last minute, is nothing compared with our sense of unfairness in this passage.

There are so many ways in which we look around at all of those around us and say “that’s not fair”. We like to compare ourselves, where we’re at, with others, don’t we? We look at the stuff in our neighbor’s yard and we say, “well, maybe I should get a sail boat. I don’t know how to sail…but I’ve always wanted to learn!” Or we see fairness as all paying the same. An early episode of Friends highlighted the problems people from different situations have in balancing fairness. The group goes to a nice restaurant and the three with steady, high-earning jobs expect the group to split the bill into six pieces equally. To many this is fair. When it is highlighted to those three that it isn’t fair, that the other three didn’t spend as much, each pays for his or her own—another variation of fair. But for those three, even going to that expensive restaurant wasn’t fair—they couldn’t afford a full meal—in gospel terms—a day’s bread.

And our gospel doesn’t just deal with fairness of wage, but fairness of interaction: as each set of laborers receives a different promise, with different respect. Isn’t that part of our irritation, part of what makes this gospel seem unfair? Don’t we think that the hardest working, the most talented, and strongest among us deserve the highest reward? Don’t we reward success and punish laziness? How could the same wage be fair?

Our state and federal governments have often tried to find ways to make things more fair, progressive taxation, affirmative action, Medicare, Medicaid to name a few. But our understanding of fairness seems less interested in theoreticals and strangers than in the people we know. We obsess about what our neighbor has or what our neighbor receives—that we forget to notice who they are and what is really going on with them.

Jesus’s economic justice is unfair.

In the setup for our gospel, the preceding passage was the one about the young rich man who is told to give up his possessions (he doesn’t). Then Jesus teaches the disciples about wealth using the example of the camel through the eye of the needle. Lastly, Peter asks—‘we’ve done all that, so what do we get?’ Jesus responds by telling them that they’ve got a special place, but don’t forget: “many who are first will be last, and the last will be first.”

For Jesus, it isn’t fairness—it’s justice. It’s breaking free of egocentrism: “What do I get?” and revel in the glory of God. That Kingdom work on Earth will raise up every valley and make every hill low. This isn’t an environmental or agricultural suggestion—it is an economic reality! The landowner has agreed to hand out a usual day’s wage to anyone who works in the vineyard—an agreement that the eager beavers accept with no reservation. They only get upset when it occurs to them that someone else will get the same: someone that they judge as inferior; someone they judge as lesser and undeserving of such mercy. What do I get? A daily wage—enough to get me through today. Tomorrow is another day and these same laborers will be out in the marketplace again, looking for work, looking for a generous landowner that will overlook today’s tantrum or performance, negotiating another contract for a day’s wage.

According to Jesus’s Economy, we get the daily opportunity to make a daily wage from a generous landowner. We get the chance every day, regardless of where we come from, to turn to God with the hope of mercy and justice.

Talking about justice and the economy reminds me of a place that certainly doesn’t represent Jesus’s Economy: Mississippi. We know that Mississippi has one of the worst economies in the country, but they have a regressive tax structure, which means the poor pay a higher percentage of their wages in state taxes than the wealthy: in fact, they pay nearly three times as much. For us, Jesus’s Economy is one of justice, not fairness. It is one in which circumstances and ability do not keep a person from receiving the uncompromised love of God. It is one in which we are given the opportunity to share in this ministry with God, showing courageous, unbridled love to all.

It also reinforces the position Jesus takes in Matthew 19:30 and in the Beatitudes in which the last are first: those last picked for kickball or for a debate team; those ignored because they live in the wrong place and do the wrong things; those driven to the edge of our consciousness must be placed in the center of it. Making the last first (and our rightful place at the end of the line) is to give them the preferential position, closest to God’s heart; loving the poor and the marginalized with incredible love.

What is so hard for most of us to get is that the Kingdom of God is not a meritocracy. Praying harder or better doesn’t get you a better parking spot in heaven any more than it does at the mall. The true gift is working in the kingdom, getting the chance to share in God’s mercy by showing it. By leveling the playingfield for others. By taking the same wage that God freely gives to others. This is the reward for hardvwork, this is the opportunity in Jesus’s Economy. When we adopt it, we aren’t going to make a lot of money, but we are assured of one thing: Jesus loves us. That’s the binding contract. That’s the payment we receive, regardless of whether we were picked first or last for kickball, regardless of the mistakes we’ve made (and will make again). And to all who have been pushed to the margins, forgotten or exploited by our secular economy, overcome by their physical and environmental conditions, God in Jesus says “You are loved. Come on in. These people will gladly make room for you in the treasured seat next to me.”

Aren’t we ready already?

Text: Matthew 16:21-28

[Previously on Matthew:

Jesus: “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?”

Disciples: “Some say John the Baptist, but others Elijah, and still others Jeremiah or one

of the prophets.”

Jesus: “But who do you say that I am?”

Peter: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

Jesus: “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven.”

And now the conclusion:] [1]

Remember last week, we had this thrilling moment where Peter “gets” who Jesus is. He calls him “the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” It is a highpoint of the story so far and serves to mark it off as significant. God, the Great Mystery, has revealed Jesus’s identity to Peter. But don’t think that these words of congratulations serve as a true conclusion. As Stanley Hauerwas puts it: “Simon’s recognition of Jesus changes who Simon is.” [2] It is this reason that Jesus gives Peter a new name, changing it from Simon to Peter, and it is this reason that he gives him a new position: not one of superiority but one of preserving the church’s gifts.

Hauerwas continues:

“By making Peter the rock on which the church will be built, Jesus indicates that the church will need to be so built because hell itself will try to destroy what Jesus has established.

It is not Peter’s task to make the church safe and secure or to try to insure its existence. Rather, it is Peter’s task to keep the church true to its mission, which is to witness to the Messiah.” [3]

Listen again to the opening words of this morning’s gospel: “Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem”. Jesus reveals to his disciples that 1) he must go to Jerusalem, 2) undergo great suffering, 3) be killed, and 4) be raised. The new man named Peter, with his rockish need to protect the mission not only attempts to stop this from happening, but he actually takes Jesus aside and rebukes him. This is the proof I promised last week for how Peter could “get it” without understanding it. Jesus’s response, seconds after commending Peter, after heaping on the praise, is to call Peter “Satan” and “a stumbling block to me”!

We all know that Peter is trying to protect Jesus. We all know that he doesn’t think that Jesus is ready to die. He doesn’t think that the disciples are ready to die. And he knows that he isn’t ready to die.

We have a lot of examples for those times in which we aren’t ready. Those examples are truly everywhere, aren’t they? This time last year the media was discussing whether or not we were “ready” for a woman president or a black president. There are currently 21 female heads of state, including three monarchs (Denmark, The Netherlands and the United Kingdom), eight prime ministers (Germany, Haiti, New Zealand, Moldova, Mozambique, The Netherlands Antilles, Ukraine and The Åland Islands) and seven presidents (Argentina, Chile, Finland, India, Ireland, Liberia and The Philippines). I should hope that we’re ready.

We also worry that we aren’t ready for disasters. Hurricanes Katrina and Rita didn’t paint a picture of readiness. But if we dig a little deeper, we can see that for decades, Louisiana had called for improvements to the levees. Katrina’s effect on New Orleans doesn’t represent a lack of readiness, but of federal short-sightedness and negligence. Better examples are of the way Kansans deal with tornados, Californians deal with earthquakes, and yes, Floridians deal with hurricanes. These people deal with their expectations and display a relative readiness for what they know is coming.

So why is it that we in the church sit in an active state of unreadiness? We evolve at a snail’s pace, dealing with small issues as if they are catastrophic (You picked what color? We sang that hymn?)—leaving us in a catatonic state when big issues arrive. For some, the solution is to stick fingers in the ears and sing “La la la la!” For others, the solution is to collect an unscientific poll with the predictable “We hate change” result. Or we give in rather than rock the boat.

No, for the most part, we aren’t ready to die, either.

But Jesus gives us real hope:

“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or what will they give in return for their life?”

He’s not mincing his words here. Taken with the new identity of Peter, we can see how Jesus calls not just his disciples, but the church to act. To take up its cross, following Jesus to death in Jerusalem. Because this is a life-and-death issue, there isn’t time to get ready.

Jesus rebukes Peter because Peter is “setting [his] mind not on divine things but on human things”: demonstrating the polar opposite of what got him praise last week. He is worried about preserving the physical life of the Messiah, the son of the Living God so that this earthly king can rule the Kingdom of God on earth. Just like the Pharisees and Sadducees rebuked earlier, Peter is actually trying to preserve the status quo, the very world as he knows it; turning his mind to the revelation of a heavenly king on earth, Peter posits that this new earthly king will soon be ready to wage earthly war. In this way, Peter is obstructing the Kingdom of God from coming. A Kingdom with a spiritual king—not a militaristic one.

Remember the clue from last week? Making reference to the Son of Man, or Son of Humanity, is our cue that Jesus is talking about the Kingdom of God. Jesus brings it up again here to demonstrate that this is his primary interest. It is establishing the church as a means of bringing the Kingdom closer. That Peter couldn’t quite comprehend the Kingdom is no surprise: look at how easily we avoid the Kingdom. For Jesus, the issue has everything to do with death. Everything to do with our fear of death, the violence that can cause death, and how humanity uses the fear of death to manipulate others. By taking up our crosses, not just any crosses, but THE cross, Jesus’s cross, we are freed from death, the fear of death, the violence of death, and the manipulation of death because it is the Kingdom that matters. It is God that matters.

We fear death. This doesn’t surprise any of us. Death is scary. And the disciples surely felt that they didn’t sign up for that. But they followed him all the way to Jerusalem. It is there that they abandoned him. They walked up to the edge, but couldn’t do it. Fear prevented them. Some of the great stories in Acts and in traditions tell of how the disciples, decades later, accepted death, finally getting what Jesus had been saying years earlier. Their example is truly comforting, because this stuff is scary.

But Jesus promises us resurrection after 1) Jerusalem, 2) punishment, and 3) death. Our fear for our lives need not be predicated on our survival. This is Jesus’s great offering. That we can gather up God’s strength and become a people whose ministry is to bring the Kingdom closer is not just an awesome responsibility, but an awesome responsibility. Jesus was putting the church in the hands of fisher-men and -women who showed not just great devotion, but great willingness to give up on the safety and security of the world around them. How could that message not resonate with us? How dare we not hear that message in the midst of our own culture, with our jobs and our childcare and our responsibilities and our families and our sports and music and reading and gardening and on!

We are church not because we are friends or we like to dress up or we like to give to charitable causes: these things are a part of us: but we are church because we have accepted that responsibility. We, like Peter, have answered Jesus’s question by calling him “the Messiah, son of the Living God” and because we believe that Jesus’s challenge for us is worthy. The grace revealed in this gospel is that we can deny ourselves, take up the cross, and follow Jesus. That we have nothing to fear in death. As Jesus often told his disciples, “Do not be afraid.”

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[1] For the 9:30 service only.

[2] Hauerwas, Stanley. Matthew. (Brazos Press: Grand Rapids, 2006) p. 150.

[3] Ibid.

Living in Tyre and Sidon

Text: Matthew 15:10-28

There’s a short gap between last week’s gospel and today’s. In it, Jesus heads for Gennesaret, where tales of Jesus’s miraculous powers of healing spread and “all who were sick” come, touch his cloak, and are healed. Then the Pharisees come all the way from Jerusalem to harass Jesus and his disciples, claiming that they have broken the Law by eating without washing their hands. It is a sure example of Jesus claiming hierarchy and nuance to Law, that purity laws are nothing compared with matters of faith. Then Jesus says to the Pharisees:

You hypocrites! Isaiah prophesied rightly about you when he said:
⁸“This people honors me with their lips,
but their hearts are far from me;
⁹in vain do they worship me,
teaching human precepts as doctrines.” ’

It is this that precedes Jesus’s talk of defilement.

Taking today’s gospel out of this context, we might suggest that Jesus is railing against gossip, profanity, or lying. Or we might take it literally—that the talk of going into and coming out of the mouth…well, having seen some of Sophia’s spitups, I would say that is pretty gross. Or in his articulation to Peter, Jesus seems to suggest that our emotional reactions, those things we say when we’re cheesed, those things that we do without thinking, are bad.

But Jesus’s taking on the purity codes, his talk of defilement in Gennesaret, and the movement in the second half of the gospel to Tyre and Sidon should be taken together.

Tyre and Sidon represent, for the Pharisees, places of defilement. These locations would greatly distress the Pharisees. If they thought Jesus’s disciples were bad for not washing their hands before eating, what will they think of going to impure towns, talking with impure people, doing impure things?

This is a common situation in the gospels: Jesus either seems to be doing something he’s “not supposed to do” or he’s being scolded by the “true believers” for what they’ve seen, or more commonly, heard that he’s done.

We all know who is battling for the title of Pharisee today. They go by many names including the self-dubbed “Bible-believers”. They serve as the unelected watchdog of faith and encourage the crowds to not only see things the way they do, but to turn on each other ravenously. Imagine if the Pharisees had the Internet! Or access to journalists eager for a juicy story (about sex)!

We’ve included in this week’s bulletin an insert from the National Church. It highlights the Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams’ closing remarks to Lambeth in which he encourages a continued interest in the forming of an Anglican Covenant. What a truly fortunate thing to discuss in the midst of something so contentious as Jesus’s propensity to break the Law and get caught. How freely Jesus disregards the Laws that impede on the primary law, the Greatest Commandment and its partner: Love God and love your neighbor. How easily the Law is lesser to these fundamental principles.

This proclamation, found in the three Synoptics, concludes in Matthew 22:40 by suggesting that “On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”

Covenants are radically inclusive decisions of mutual benefit. The Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church defines covenant as “A bond entered into voluntarily by two parties by which each pledges himself to do something for the other”. Its use prior to the Old Testament was in civil and governmental matters and implies the relationship of two parties, not the 44 regional and national churches that comprise the Anglican Communion, or a single document to which each church must subscribe; the Augsburg Confession is just such a document for Lutherans. Perhaps there are now too many Pharisees in the church, like cooks in the kitchen.

In this chapter from Matthew, Jesus is highlighting that the notion of defilement, or ritual impurity, is not a matter of what one eats or where one is/lives, but about what one says and does. Like in Jesus’s other demonstrations, such as his parable of the Good Samaritan or his regular meals with tax collectors, Jesus shows priority for love in the midst of ritual impurity over the avoidance of those things that would cause defilement according to the Law. The Samaritan, considered impure by the Pharisees, based solely on where he lives, helps a man made impure by his situation while two observant Jews left the man there to die. This is Jesus’s radical proposition! He demonstrates for all of us that tradition isn’t a problem—traditionalism is. That some traditions need questioning. Some need to be discussed and re-examined. By physically placing himself in a land that represents impurity, conversing with a woman who is impure by the nature of her home, Jesus questions this very tradition, challenging the puritanical around him. It’s as if he is saying to the Pharisees “You don’t like it that we didn’t wash our hands? Wait and see where we’re going to eat!”

Now, Jesus calls the woman’s faith “great”—33 verses after calling Peter’s faith “little”—not because of who she is or where she comes from, but because of what she feels and says. My heart doesn’t always cause me to spew filth (though occasionally when I’m driving it does), but can motivate loving action. Jesus’s interaction with this woman seems to demonstrate that difference in faith between little and great. His disciples are following him, but she is acting like him. Remember last week, when I said Peter “gets it”. He does. But does he do it? For in their time, it was the disciples’ job to live like their rabbi. They followed him wherever he went, they listened to his teaching, they followed his instruction, and lived like him. Think about Jesus with these followers, wandering all over Palestine. They lived together, ate together, always watching their rabbi for instruction. You know they watched him eat, how he walked, how he spoke to strangers, and were trying to learn how to do that too. You know they’re doing that! But sometimes they are so busy watching that they forget to do! They forget to act! Their heads are in the way. But this woman speaks from her heart with her great faith and Jesus commends her on the spot. Unlike Peter, whose faith wavered and needed to be rescued by Jesus, her faith is strong, regardless of her environment and who is watching her.

We are called to that kind of faith and discipleship. Jesus knew his disciples didn’t get it all right. He didn’t expect them to. He didn’t pick the best scholars, he picked fishermen for a reason. But these examples of great faith served them as they serve us today.

And it is hard to live out that kind of faith and discipleship, isn’t it? Sometimes we have great faith—but don’t act upon it. Sometimes we are such great disciples that we forget to have faith. As we guard and protect our faith, out of love and devotion, of course, we no doubt smother it. I can see how easy it is for the Pharisees (then and now) to object. But Jesus was a boundary pusher, living by faith in God, moved by the Holy Spirit. He knew that a Spirit, active and glory-filled should not be confined by rules of adherence.

These rules included the traditional boundaries of right living and behavior, boundaries of preaching and interpretation, boundaries of worship practice and prayer forms, Jesus pushed all of these boundaries.

Jesus calls us to follow him, live like him, act like him. We should love our traditions that form us and feed us. But what of those boundaries that confine us? What of those things that prevent us from loving God and our neighbor? I have faith that an Anglican Covenant, regardless of what has caused its creation, will be Spirit-led. But I’m also incredibly confident that it will be a means of measurement and a further set of boundaries for our faith.

Instead, we are called by Jesus to look for today’s Tyre and Sidon. We are called to minister to those people rejected because of where and how they live. This is living and loving like Jesus.

Standing up to the wind

Text: Matthew 14:22-33

Our story today picks up from last week with cinematic detail. Jesus disperses the crowds that have just been fed (the Five Thousand + women and children), sends the disciples out in a boat, and walks up a mountain to pray. Suddenly, a storm gathers, Jesus walks on water, is mistaken for a ghost, and the terrified disciples cry out.

A few of us will remember this passage from Vacation Bible School in June in which we learned that Jesus gives us the power to be brave (“Aha!”). The participants had the chance to “walk on water” like Peter did. Bravery is one element in this gospel.

But think about where this takes place: it is immediately following the feeding of the Five Thousand. We know from that gospel from last week that Jesus asked four things of the disciples: collect the food, offer it up to God, distribute the food, and collect the remainder. Jesus’s miraculous act was an expression of God’s relationship to humanity, more than it was a showy display or a requirement of belief. Those two fish and five loaves feed thousands of people with twelve full baskets remaining, one for each disciple to take out into the community.

Think about how that story informs this immediately succeeding gospel. The disciples are sent out into a boat, into the middle of the water. They are separated from both Jesus and their ministry to the people. If they were on an island, that would at least imply stability—they’re in a boat, made vulnerable to the waves, the rain, and the wind. “The wind was against them” it says.

Like the disciples, we often feel like we are out in a boat in the middle of a storm. The very elements seem to be working against us.

Our Western model for dealing with adversity seems to be about overpowering it. Standing firm against it. Daring it to topple us. Standing in the middle of the storm ignoring conditions, yelling at the clouds, daring lightening to strike.

Those elements that make us afraid are everywhere. Many worry about crime, cultural change, numbers, rising costs of upkeep. Many worry about the direction of our local church, diocese, national church, or fear those that sow the seeds of separation. Many worry about budgets, youth, worship style, and music. Many worry about what Mt. Hope or St. Paul’s are doing. Many fear the government, the police, and intelligence agencies. Our environment so readily isolates us, pushing us out to sea—we drift further and further from our ministry partners and God.

Heading into Lambeth this summer, that every-10-years conference in England, attended by all of the bishops of the Anglican Communion, it was expected that this conference would be more wind, more storm. Just as every major meeting was supposed to settle our disagreements for ever, and then failed to do so. And there we were, with the world watching us—all eyes on Canterbury to see how things would fall, cameras poised, mics extended and… we talked. Bishops from all over the communion got together and talked. Even bishops from boycotting provinces were in attendance. Nearly every bishop that was there was giving the conference a shot.

But the issue isn’t really about a conference, communication, or collaboration. It’s about that bravery, isn’t it? Some think that they’re being like Peter when they jump out of the boat. Some think they’re going to walk on water. Or worse, some think the boat’s going in the wrong direction and choose to walk toward Jesus on their own—maybe they join another boat. They believe that they are following the will of God.

It is never that simple.

Jesus appears to the disciples, walking on the water. The very nature of this act is fantastic—but it is God that created the Earth. It is God that formed the rules—gravity, molecular shape, and form—and only God that is beyond those rules. Jesus’s appearance to the disciples is an expression of God. It is an expression of God’s command.

And as he approaches the disciples, Jesus says to them "Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid." That middle phrase, “it is I” is actually two words: I and AM. This, of course, is the divine revelation, the way God, the Great Mystery, was revealed to Moses in the burning bush: I AM. Jesus reveals to the disciples in visual sign (walking on water) and linguistic cue (I AM) that this moment is divine. It reveals Jesus’s relationship to the Great Mystery.

We may be tempted to push Jesus into that great theological shoebox in which most of us keep him most of the time. We might suggest that he is revealing himself as God, as divine. But that’s an argument for another time. Instead, we see that Jesus is revealing God’s work in the world. Like the Feast of the Transfiguration on Wednesday and last week’s gospel, God’s work is revealed to us by Jesus.

But Peter flips the script: he takes initiative. His love for Jesus and his desire to serve God causes him to try this audacious act. To actually walk on water.

He wants to do it, but he knows that he can’t do it on his own. He’s smart enough to know that. So he makes the audacious request: "Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water." He knows he can’t do it alone—he needs God to do it and Jesus has to command him to do it. So Jesus simply says “Come.”

We love courage and audacity and bravery. In Harry Potter, it is the preferred attribute to skill, compassion, and cunning. We expect our leaders to do things we ourselves are reluctant to do. We want other churches to try something out before we invest in it. Bravery is an attribute we seem to reserve for others or for the things we are sure about. The things we are certain about. Maybe that’s why we are so attached to tradition—it was someone else’s bravery.

For the disciples, bravery and faith are the same. To follow Jesus was an expression of valor and courage. For Peter to walk on water, spoke to the way faith in God is formed. So think about what this gospel tells us today about our bravery in faith: Peter’s “little faith” was the most mature of the disciples! Peter got it, but he just got distracted by the wind—the world around him kept his faith in check.

How easy it is for all of us, in our community of little faith, living out our lives of little faith to act like Peter. We’re here aren’t we? We each got up this morning, got ready, and came to church. Like Peter, we are making that request: “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” We are taking that audacious step today.

We are making that first move to be in relationship with the Great Mystery. But we don’t always listen for the response, do we? We don’t always listen for that simple command of “come”. We rather think about bills and count the people around us and dream of big churches filled with perfect people.

But the gospel reveals to us that the Great Mystery doesn’t want that kind of faith—it is security in bravery that God cares about. We can easily see the church in that boat, and like the disciples, we can cry and fret and make a stink. But Jesus shows a different way. A way of patience and love. He tells us to not be afraid because God is with us. Be brave because I AM here. Don’t be afraid.

So what do we do? We listen for God’s call to us and then we stand up and…

A generation of possibility

Texts: Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

“To what will I compare this generation?”

Speaking to a crowd, Jesus calls out the people living in the first quarter century.

Writing a gospel to his community, the evangelist we know as Matthew calls out the people living at the end of the first century.

Proclaiming this gospel in churches all over the country this morning, deacons and priests call out the people living in the 21^st Century.

“To what will I compare this generation?”

Jesus answers his seemingly rhetorical question by saying “children”. And not just children, but children that demand of others and expect gratification.

But we know that he isn’t speaking to the individuals in the crowd exclusively. This condemnation goes toward the whole generation. It is not only universal, but he is talking about the entire system, the entire culture.

This is further reinforced by his use of Son of Man—a signal that he is talking about the Kingdom of God. It is his signal that not only their behavior, but their very culture keeps them from the Kingdom of God.

Jesus gives them an example of the problem: “John fasted and you called him possessed. I didn’t fast and you called me glutton and drunkard.” Petty judgments of each other are not kingdom behaviors, but worse, they impede the revelation of the Kingdom of God.

So, “to what will I compare this generation?”

Are we not still children? Are we not still possessed of the need to judge? Are we not still projecting out this separation from God’s Kingdom?

I am reminded at this time every year that the one holiday that needs to go by its proper name is Independence Day. “The 4^th of July” hides the purpose of a national celebration, instead we wrap it all up in a flag, fireworks, and a nebulous sense of patriotism. Two hundred thirty-two years and two days ago, a small group of people declared their independence from an empire. They incited a revolution against a human king.

This was not manifest destiny. This wasn’t the influence of God because our republic looks nothing like the Kingdom of God. We as a people were not ordained to be God’s new elect.

But we as a people have seen revolution—we know it. We have seen what change looks like. For some, it reveals a host of horrors: a monstrous separation from principles of belief. For others, it is the revelation of deeply rooted desires. Revolutions are nothing if not messy.

Despite this intimacy, this knowledge of revolution, this sense that pervades the very fibers of our national being, we have rejected revolution. We have rejected the principle of overthrowing tyranny for a world of freedom and self-determination. We have rejected the essential component, precursor, and securer of our freedom for comfort, status, and self-promotion. We are children demanding that others dance for our amusement. We are children that cannot understand why others don’t cry at the sight of our tears.

The Episcopal Church’s canons were written alongside the U.S. Constitution. Embedded in our polity and church practice is that sense of revolution and corporate freedom from tyranny. And yet, where is that sense today? Where is that place where we stand up together? But again, we are children, demanding and judging, preferring destruction and self-preservation.

But what does Jesus do after the thorough condemnation in the missing verses from this morning’s gospel, verses 20-24, but pray:

I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants

The prayer reveals that God cares for infants—putting the earlier derision on its head—he cares for infants and children.

Stanley Hauerwas points out that

In [First Corinthians] Paul tells us that God chose the cross to ‘destroy the wisdom of the wise.’ Paul directs the Corinthians’ attention to their own selves, pointing out that most of them are not wise by human standards or of noble birth. They were chosen not because they are strong, but because they were, in the world’s eyes, weak and foolish.[1]

Sounds like the disciples to me.

And he continues:

Jesus, like Paul, is not suggesting that we try to be infants, but rather as those engrafted into the kingdom, we in fact are infants. We are just beginners, dependent on Jesus and one another for our very survival…That the deaf, the mute, the blind, the poor, those rendered helpless in the face of suffering, recognize Jesus is not accidental.[2]

Jesus explains to the crowd what living a Kingdom life is like, revealing this commonality of our own status as infants. Our society doesn’t merely break us down between race, class, gender, sexual orientation, and ability, but between each individual. We are the others. Like on the show Lost. We are our own opposition, othered by a system demanding our separation.

In Jesus, however, we are shown the nature of the Kingdom of God. We are able to witness to a Kingdom that doesn’t support an earthly king, that doesn’t hope for the denigration of all of the disabled and maligned in our culture (which must include our children, youth, and even young adults), but encourages the unthinkable: a revolution.

The revolution that Jesus taught, that Peter and Paul sought, was not a military revolution like those we’ve read about or have known since we were born, no use of guerilla tactics in the city streets and homes of the East Coast, especially in New England. No use of muskets or guns, or guillotines or genocides or mass graves. No military heroes becoming dictators. No foreign nations hoping to make a financial profit due to suffering, destruction, and manipulation. None of these things are in any way associated with this revolution.

And this revolution doesn’t create new laws of oppression and restriction. It doesn’t create a new class of ‘wise and intelligent’ (and wealthy) elites. It doesn’t replace one earthly king with another or even a round table headed by 12 earthly kings.

No, this revolution is different. This revolution is of children: children whose wisdom is faith in God. Children who love one another. Children who refuse to ‘other’ those around them—using laws, money, location, status to separate themselves, to wall off their houses from the kingdom around them.

This new revolution is different because we won’t wall our church off and drive strangers away. All are welcome here. We will encourage our fellow children to love one another by serving one another.

The new revolution is different because the stakes are no longer tied to the current ruling system. We won’t measure success by money or influence or power. We will know the Kingdom of God when we feel it.

The new revolution is different because it may be us.

“To what will I compare this generation?”

Jesus.

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[1] Hauerwas, Stanley. Matthew. (Grand Rapids: Brazos Press, 2006) p. 116.

[2] Ibid.

A reminder on the hand

Texts: Isaiah 49:8-16a, 1 Corinthians 4:1-5, and Matthew 6:24-34

“[F]or he who has pity on them will lead them”. That is what the prophet known as 2^nd Isaiah just told us. For he who has pity on them will lead them.

Later in that first lesson, the prophet describes the cries of Zion: "The Lord has forsaken me, my Lord has forgotten me." We can see in that cry that 2^nd Isaiah used the divine name, which has been replaced with “The Lord”. It more literally says “YHWH has forsaken me, my Lord has forgotten me.”

We are so used to the words Lord and God in caps. We see them and just run over them, ignoring the power in God’s name. “YHWH has forsaken me, my Lord has forgotten me” Zion cries.

Distance from God was a common element in scripture and it is an element that we can often recognize. It is easy to relate to that lament. We think “God has forsaken us” sometimes.

Other prophetic works are so often interested in the workings of the world that don’t make sense next to our vision of God. From cyclones and war to famine and oppression, we have always had trouble with this. “Where is God in these things?” we ask.

I want to raise up a study that came out a year and a half ago out of Baylor. You may have heard about it. It is called the Baylor Religion Survey. They were looking for church attendance patterns and the shape of American religious life and stumbled upon an interesting discovery.

According to the researchers, there are 4 distinct views of God:

• · 31.4 percent believe in an Authoritarian God, who is very judgmental and engaged
• · 25 percent believe in a Benevolent God, who is not judgmental but engaged
• · 23 percent believe in a Distant God, who is completely removed
• · 16 percent believe in a Critical God, who is judgmental but not engaged[1]

These findings show that about the same number of people think God is judgmental as believe God isn’t.

They also show that fewer than 57% of people think God is engaged in our lives. From the revelation of Mother Theresa’s journals to our own lives, we are able to see examples of worry over a sense of separation.

We have only to look at the marvels of the Torah, those wondrous acts in the first books of the Bible and then look around us to wonder where our age’s displays of power are. Where are these grand, paternal gestures? Where is our Great Father today?

But Isaiah and our psalm give us mother language:

“Can a woman forget her nursing child, or show no compassion for the child of her womb?”

And

“But I still my soul and make it quiet, like a child upon its mother's breast”.

Having witnessed the power of a mother in childbirth, there is nothing that a man can compare to this. This is the real power.

Jesus, like the prophet, reveals that God’s power is most clearly served in creation and support, not destruction and works of grandiosity. He says: “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these.” The care in creation and power inherent to a lily is greater than Solomon, the most authoritarian and grandiose King of Israel.

Isaiah teaches us that God promises to “turn all my mountains into a road, and my highways shall be raised up.” Significant gestures, yes, but nurturing, and supportive gestures.

In our gospel and lessons, God is promising and encouraging and reassuring us of God’s presence among us and also promising the protection and devotion of a mother. The lily reference is preceded by the question: “And why do you worry about clothing?” Jesus then suggests that “if God so clothes the grass of the field” despite their short and seemingly insignificant lives, then “will he not much more clothe you”?

The lesson we had from Isaiah and the gospel from Matthew are clearly intended for different peoples with different issues. But they have a common need—one that has never left humanity from the beginning.

2^nd Isaiah was dealing with the issue of separation and lost hope. She gives voice to God who comforts us: “See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands.” A permanent and vivid reminder.

Matthew depicts Jesus as encouraging his followers to worship God, not culture. He says:

“[D]o not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?”

But they both reveal something about God and us. We’re worriers. We ignore God. We fear for our lives, our safety, our security, our homes. God, on the other hand tells us time and again to stop worrying and lighten up! God tells us that we are children and that we are loved and supported. God reminds us that our needs are not really our concern—they’re God’s.

“[F]or he who has pity on them will lead them”. Pity is an expression of love. An expression of support. An expression of caring. And mercy. God continuously shows pity and mercy on us. And asks to stop worrying.

I know it’s hard. We pay lip service to it, right? We say, “yeah, I’ll leave it up to God—there’s no use worrying about it.” And then five minutes later, we’re back at it. Maybe we want to believe God, we just don’t want to rely on God—God doesn’t literally pay the electric bill for us, right? We make out that check.

But Jesus’s last statement in the gospel is surprisingly direct: “So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.” Jesus, a man who is continuously confounded by his disciples, tirelessly teaching and repeating himself, who is so effortlessly directive, who so easily told a rich man to sell his possessions and follow him gives such a subtle mantra: “Today’s trouble is enough for today.”

He doesn't say "never think about tomorrow", but "do now worry about tomorrow". The grace that Jesus promises is through our lack of worry. God will take care of us. God already does. We know this, not because there is a message on our voice mail: "Hey Drew, this is God; 555-2345. Don't worry about it, I've got this one." We know this because he promised us. For God, a promise is showing comfort. It is reassuring a devastated and conflicted people that they will be nurtured and loved. That they will be cared for and nursed. That we are children. And God says to us "I love you. See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands."

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[1] Excerpted from the website: http://www.baylor.edu/pr/news.php?action=story&story=41678

Proof

Easter 2A—Text: John 20: 19-31

Love/Hate relationships. We’ve all got ‘em. I have such a relationship with this gospel. This gospel we attribute to a writer we know simply as John. Tradition has held that this was a man that lived a ridiculously long time, was a disciple of Jesus, wrote the least historically accurate gospel, and then decades later was exiled on the island of Patmos where he wrote the Book of Revelation. Oh, and he is the beloved disciple in his own gospel. Our brains know better. We hear these things and I imagine we look like a Lewis Black routine [-exploding head-].

And yet, we love John, anyway. We love the writing—it’s clearly the best written gospel—and we love the imagery. We love the depiction of the distant, transcendent Jesus that has no qualms about his divinity, and has a downright cockiness that we want the Son of God to have.

Unfortunately for us, John, on the other hand, is human. Last week he needed to prove that he (the beloved disciple) is both better than Peter and humbler. He bests him in a footrace, but lets Peter go first. Aw, shucks! What a guy! Look how morally superior he is!

Then you have this week’s gospel which seems to have two very different and very interesting conundrums:

1. Chronology: this gospel shows Jesus’s appearance to the disciples twice and the disciples don’t seem to be expecting him.
   
2. John’s humiliation of Thomas.
   

So, Jesus appears to the disciples twice. And a week apart. Think about that for a second. Last week we rejoiced in the risen Christ, right?—Jesus appears to Mary M. She is to tell the disciples that Jesus will appear to them, Jesus then shows up, though they don’t seem to be expecting him (remember the door is locked). But one of them is missing, so he leaves, comes back a week later as if to say “Is Thomas here yet? Jeeze Louise! Where the hell have you been?” I don’t know what Jesus was doing for that week. None of the other gospels suggest this double return—just John. And the room is locked. And Jesus just sort of…shows up. They look one way and then: “Oh Jesus! You scared me!”—he’s there.

And then there’s Thomas. If we read this gospel as most of us are inclined to—calling the singled-out disciple “Doubting Thomas”—we are led to believe that he is a bad disciple for suggesting that he would like proof—for suggesting that a crazy man standing in front of him could be the risen Christ.

Our favorite obsession is for the proof. This is not an obsession for the truth, mind you, but for the proof of a defined reality. Two high profile stories were in the news over the last few weeks, one you definitely heard about and one you probably didn’t.

The first was the retired black pastor of Trinity United Church of Christ in Chicago, The Rev. Jeremiah Wright. He is the spiritual guide for Sen. Barack Obama, and you no doubt heard the clarion call for the proverbial public execution of this man’s character; on the eve of Holy Week no less. And you probably missed the symbolism of the denigration of his message, a message about our embodying the Kingdom of God all because of a YouTube soundbite. Pastor Wright had the audacity to preach about injustice among us—about how far we are from what God wants from us and from what Jesus taught.

The second is a death row inmate in Georgia named Troy Davis. On March 16th, the Georgia Supreme Court decided in a 4-3 decision not to give Mr. Davis a new trial, after spending the past seventeen years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. This was his final appeal and he will soon be executed. The court wasn’t swayed by the rescinded testimonies of virtually everyone that testified against him at trial, including the man who has since confessed to the crime. DNA evidence does not place him at the scene and there is evidence of police tampering and coercion of witnesses. The court is not interested in a current understanding of truth, but in defendingold proof.

Both of these real experiences have a lot to do with racism and fear and injustice and oppression. They deal with our fear of the real truth discussed here—a truth that exists with or without proof.

A truth that flies in the face of how we have been conducting business. But if you’re still not convinced, look at how we react to the Bible, to the historical record, to the tradition—we demand proof. We demand that we see those nails to believe. No doubt when anyone stands up and talks about the human that wrote these words, and that these words are not historically accurate we get scared. We worry about our faith, our tradition, our inherited beliefs, and we even fear for our personal experience with the divine—that it might go away. We are frightened. We are those disciples locking that door, protecting ourselves from the outside world that may attack us. The world won’t execute us for sedition, but to bring facts and findings and questions. It would bombard us with all manner of concern and interest in why we gather each Sunday, what we rattle on about, and why we continue in our arcane worship of a deity that we have colluded in silencing for 1,700 years.

But listen to these words:

"Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe."

Elaine Pagels in her book Beyond Belief: the Secret Gospel of Thomas discusses a first century conflict between two communities of believers: those that followed John and those that followed Thomas. If you have read the Gospel of Thomas, discovered in the middle of the 20th Century, you can see a very physical and Jewish understanding of Jesus—so different from John’s transcendent and powerful Jesus. John’s community was more powerful and John manages to sneak some jabs into his gospel about Thomas, most prominently found in this passage. He knocks Thomas for not being with them, shows up and not believing them, then believes only after touching a physically present Jesus.

But I don’t think that the story is about Thomas needing proof that Jesus was raised, but about the coming work and about the nature of belief in a proof-less post-Easter world. Jesus’s message is still a kingdom-building ministry. He comes to the disciples on Easter to prove to them he was raised and comes again a week later for Thomas. But he is using a living parable—he is showing us the nature of how we believe. He comes to the disciples to prove and gives them the opportunity to help Thomas believe—and he does what any of us do—he demands proof! In using this living parable, we are exposed to what changes in the Jesus Movement when Jesus is not physically present to lead them. “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe” he says—a blessing not for the apostles, but for those that come after. That includes us!

Jesus offers the grace of God to new followers through the work of the disciples and belief that has nothing to do with proof.

This is the crux of this gospel—and this is the thing that separates us. We watch in our public sphere as politician’s pastors and death row inmates are condemned for public fear of the truth. We watch this, and we ignore how easily we are swayed by so-called proofs: of convincing arguments. Whether it is a phrase extracted from a passionate sermon, or it is the testimonies of people coerced by the police, we latch onto it and we wrap our belief in it.

Proof is the foundation of the Intelligent Design debate in schools (Creationism repackaged) and is also the theme of Richard Dawkins’ attacks on behalf of science—as if the scientific community really wanted him to write The God Delusion. Both sides are arguing over proof—as if this were the foundation of our belief. In a course in Philosophical Theology, it became abundantly clear to me that proofs for the existence of God were just as faulty as proofs against: they all fail. But the truth is that both of these groups are clearly missing the point.

John, in all of his confusing and conflicting writings has given us the most clear understanding of our call to ministry as a church: belief. This doesn’t have anything to do with theology or creeds or recitation of facts or memorization of scripture or the focusing our attention on evangelism, it is about belief despite all these things. It is belief that the Kingdom of God is worthy of our time and that Jesus is a persona worth following. It is about your personal faith and our corporate faith. It is belief that the community gathered brings us to Jesus, not Him to us. It is belief that the Christ risen will help us—save us—and bring us closer to God. Belief is not about existence, it is independent of existence. May we soon believe in God in the same way God believes in us.