Sermon: The discipleship of saying "no" (Aug. 31, 2014)

Pentecost 12A/Lectionary 22

August 31, 2014 

Matthew 16:21-28

            Traditionally, we consider Labor Day weekend the end of summer. Even if the weather remains warm a bit longer (please, please remain warm a bit longer!), the summer is over because the kids are back at school, programs start up again, vacation slows to a crawl, and everyone snaps out of the laziness (or at least the different sort of busy-ness) of summer and back into their regularly scheduled lives.

            So as we have made our way toward Labor Day weekend, I have found myself reflecting on

My porch, where many hours were spent this summer.

how I spent my summer. Compared to last summer – which started with major surgery and proceeded with getting married and buying a house – this summer was rather mundane, and in the best possible way. While there were a couple very busy weeks in there, mostly it was relaxing, with many mornings and evenings on our porch, a couple of low-key vacations, going walking and running, some gardening, reading, exploring my new neighborhood, doing morning prayer outside amidst the sounds of nature and neighbors… It was a good summer.

            So why, with all of these wonderful things to be grateful for, do I still find myself thinking, “Ack! There’s so much I didn’t get done this summer! Where did the time go?!” Of course, if I had done all of those things I had in mind, it wouldn’t have been the relaxing, laid-back summer I have enjoyed so much. But isn’t this indicative of the culture in which we live: if we haven’t done something, and have something to show for it, then it isn’t successful.

            The truth of the matter is that in order to say “yes” to some life-giving things, you have to say “no” to others. This has been the lesson I have been trying to learn this summer, and it is one of the

lessons we hear in Jesus’ words to his disciples today in Matthew. Jesus’ words here are some of his hardest to hear – about taking up your cross and denying yourself. He says, “For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.” I have always read these words as a call to action: “Do more for Christ! Be a more sacrificial disciple! Give more even when it’s hard!” I have always associated these words with sacrificial work, and lots of it.

But as the slowness of summer comes to an end, I have been thinking about another part of discipleship, another important way that we are called to “lose our life” for Christ’s sake so we will find it… and that is Sabbath. Resting in a way that is rejuvenating. Read this way, the discipleship Jesus suggests is not, “Do more for Christ,” but rather, “Do less, but do it with Christ.”

            What does that look like, to do less, but do it with Christ? I don’t think it looks much like the distracted, multi-tasking lives to which we have become accustomed. Even as I wrote this sermon on Sabbath this week, I tried to do it in a restful place – out of the office, out in nature – and yet I made the mistake of still having a wireless signal, so I kept stopping to read an email, set up a meeting, make some edits, read an article, get sucked into Facebook. You can’t believe how much I got done while I was writing this sermon! But that is how our lives look, isn’t it? Busy, busy, busy, with hardly a moment to stop and take a deep breath, let alone sit and do nothing at all. When was the last time you did nothing at all for any significant amount of time? I don’t mean read a book or watch TV – I mean, just sit there and listen to the wind, or marvel at the sky, or quietly remember things from your childhood, or offer thanks and praise to God?

            If you’re like me, you don’t have time for things like that, because you have said yes to too many other things! We are so good at saying yes to things, right? It becomes a point of pride to see just how many things we can do, and pull it off. The community looks up to us with admiration, we can feel good about ourselves and our contributions to society, and things that need doing get done. But I wonder if when Jesus urges us to “lose our lives,” if that might mean learning to say no to some of those things that bring us such pride, so that we won’t be so distracted that we can’t say YES to the life of praise and thanks that is God’s Life?

            Courtney Martin tells a story about learning the importance of saying no as she learns to prune apple trees. She writes: “It was a sunny Saturday and Louise — well into her 70s, willowy, and often wearing a t-shirt with some slogan of peace — showed me how each branch of the tree can only

reasonably support two apples. You have to go, branch by branch, and pluck off little baby apples until every branch has only as much as it can support.

“It felt sad to me at first, twisting off these hopeful little apples and dropping them into a bucket. They amassed quickly, collectively robbed of possibility. …. But then I looked over and watched as Louise pruned without fanfare, gentle and direct. She had lived long enough to know that in order for some things to thrive, some things must die.

“You say no so you can say yes. It’s sad in the way that all limitations are, but also liberating. You are human and finite and precious and fumbling. This is your one chance to spend your gifts, your attention, most importantly your love, on the things that matter most. Don’t screw it up by being sentimental about what could have been or delusional about your own capacity. Have the grace to acknowledge your own priorities. Prune and survive.”[1]

            I love that she acknowledges how sad saying no can be – limitations are sad because they reveal to us our humanity. Indeed saying no can feel like an even heavier cross to bear than finding time to help more! But she also emphasizes the importance of saying no for the possibility of saying yes to something greater – or in Jesus’ words, the importance of losing our lives, so that we can find our lives in Christ.

            I read a very short book this summer by preacher Barbara Brown Taylor, called, “The Practice of Saying No.” It was a lovely, life-giving reflection about Sabbath, but I found that even as I loved what she had to say about this sort of do-nothing rest – the sort where you really do nothing except listen and be, the sort that that allows you to remember things, and grapple with things, and relish in things… as divine as this sounds, I felt myself getting anxious. “I don’t have time for that!” I thought. “When I have down-time, I want to get out and finally do some weeding, or read that book that’s been calling to me from my nightstand, or catch up on some emails.”  

Ah, but there is the problem. That is not giving up my life for Christ’s sake so that I might find it. That is proceeding in my same old life – even though they are parts of life I may enjoy – as if I know what is best for me, rather than remembering that God rested on the 7^th day, and gave us that same command for rest, not to burden us further, but so that we would have a chance to refresh and remember and be thankful for the one True Life that comes from God.

Taylor finishes her reflection on Sabbath by saying, “When you live in God, your day begins when you lose yourself long enough for God to find you, and when God finds you, you lose yourself

"Sweet praise" by Karla Dornacher

again in praise.” And that’s really it, isn’t it? We may resist Sabbath because we have too much to do, or because we like feeling important, but there is also a bit of fear – fear that if we rest, we might just lose ourselves, or what we think “ourselves” should be, or what we fancy ourselves to be. But Jesus’ own life, death and resurrection show us that sometimes life has to be lost in order to gain true life. Even as we can trust in that eternal promise, Jesus also calls us to live it each and every day, by saying no to the things that so quickly become stumbling blocks in our lives with Christ and our relationship with God – and saying yes to quiet, dedicated time being in God’s presence. We don’t stay lost there for long – soon enough we are found again by God, and then we are free to “lose [ourselves] again in praise.”

Let us pray… Gracious God of rest and life: we keep ourselves so busy doing such important work that it is often hard to remember your commandment to make time to rest and simply be in your presence. Grant us the courage to find that time, especially as the school year starts this week, trusting that when we lose ourselves, we will always be found by you. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

---

[1] Courtney E. Martin, “The Spiritual Practice of Saying No,” http://www.onbeing.org/blog/the-spiritual-art-of-saying-no/6718?page=1#comment-1573643.

Sermon: Who do you say Jesus is? (A thought experiment)

Pentecost 11A/Lectionary 21

August 24, 2014

Matthew 16:13-20

            I learned something this week. Actually, I learned a lot of somethings – we did have Vacation Bible School, after all! – but the something I’m thinking of particularly was a geography lesson. I learned a bit about Caesarea Philippi. As it turns out, those first words in our Gospel lesson today – “Now, when Jesus came into the district of Caesarea Philippi…” – are incredibly important for how we are to understand the exchange that follows.

             You see, this was a very politically charged place. Once a place of great significance to the

Caesarea Philippi

Israelites, it was now occupied by the Romans. Twenty years before Jesus’ birth, Roman King Herod the Great had built up the city, including a white marble temple to the false god, Pan. When the region passed to King Philip in 4 BC, he renamed the place “Caesarea” to flatter his patron, Caesar Augustus, and Philippi to acknowledge himself (so, Philip’s Caesarville). Philip built his administrative capitol there. Residents of Caesarea Philippi worshipped Augustus, and relished in worldly things. It was an “I’ll-scratch-your-back-and-you-scratch-mine” sort of place, the sort of place crawling with high-paid lobbyists in expensive suits, ready to work the system for influence and power.

And it is here, in this politically loaded city, that Jesus asks his disciples the question: “Who do you say that I am?” Such a simple question, but the location of his asking makes all the difference. Just think, if I asked you right now, out here in the country in this beautiful pavilion, where only the animals and your fellow Christians can hear you, “Who is Jesus to you?” it wouldn’t be such a hard question to answer – at least I hope not! You might offer up words like, “Savior,” “Friend,” “Son of God,” or even, “Peace,” “Love,” or “Hope.” You could articulate these, your experiences of Jesus in your life, and not fear being judged because these are things we, for the most part, have in common, right?

But, what if we were standing on Capitol Hill, at a political rally, perhaps one in which your particular religious convictions might incriminate you in some way, and I asked you the same question? Would you be as willing to declare your faith in Jesus Christ in that setting?

As I have reflected on this question myself this week, my mind has not gone so much to some political rally on Capitol Hill that I made up for a sermon. But it has gone plenty of other places – to Missouri, to the US border, to Gaza, to Ukraine, to Syria… and I’ve wondered, “What is the answer to that question in those places?” You see, who Jesus is doesn’t exist in a vacuum, independent of whatever is happening around him. We see different aspects of Jesus in different circumstances – even as he is always the same Savior, the same Son of God.

So to that end, I was hoping that this morning, you might be willing to participate with me in something of a thought experiment, looking at a couple hot issues here in our own country. As we journey through the country together, think with me about what you know about Jesus, and given that, where you might see him and who he might be in each of these places.

            First, we travel to Ferguson, Missouri. An 18-year-old, unarmed black man has just been shot by a white police officer. The police officer explains that he had good reason to shoot the man, who had broken the law, used force, and as it turned out, recently robbed a convenience store. Witnesses, however, insist that the young man had been surrendering, hands up, facing the officer, when six shots were fired at him. In response to the event, riots have erupted in the streets of Ferguson. The National

Guard has taken up residence in the community. Schools have been closed because of the danger on the streets. Many fear that this incident is proof that racism is alive and well in America.

            “Who do you say that I am?” Who, in this scene, is Jesus? Who do you say Jesus is here? Is he here? Is he present in this mess? Who is he?  

Is he the weeping mother, who had dreams for a son about to head off to college? Is he the police force that has rallied around their accused colleague? Is he in the

Michael Brown's mom

community of blacks and whites alike, many of whom live in poverty, who are asking for justice from the very people they had hoped would protect them? Is he in the protesters, standing up for what they believe? Is he in the counter protest, using what they deem to be necessary violence to keep the peace? Is he in the group of teachers who, while their school is closed, have banded together to clean up the broken glass, water bottles, and tear gas canisters littering the streets?[1] “Who do you say that I am?”

            Travel now 800 miles south, to the US border. Some 70,000 unaccompanied children are expected to cross this border this year. Many are searching for refuge from poverty; many others have

run for their lives, escaping drug lords and violence, and the very real threat of torture and death. Some Americans have responded with concern for the kids, searching for ways we can take in these children and help them find a better, safer life. Some have responded with concern for America, saying that we already don’t have enough resources to take care of our own citizens, let alone this influx of people who come with no English language skill and severe trauma that will require years of counseling and therapy to overcome. Some have responded by vocally protesting their arrival. Schools are scrambling to figure out how to accommodate this influx. Some have traveled to the border to be a loving, comforting presence for these terrified and exhausted children. Federal funds are being poured into better border security and faster deportation methods.

            “Who do you say that I am?” Who, in this scene, is Jesus? Who do you say Jesus is here? Is he

here? Is he present in this mess? Who is he?  

Is he in the scared eyes of an 11-year-old Honduran boy who has been betrayed by his own people and unwelcomed by those from whom he seeks refuge? Is he in the line of people holding signs urging the children to return to their homes? Is he in the border control agent, doing his best to manage a complex issue? Is he in Congress, making decisions about how federals dollars will be best

spent to resolve this issue? Is he among the people who have scrambled to open up more space for these thousands of terrified children to stay? “Who do you say that I am?”

            I don’t know particularly who Jesus is in any of these places or circumstances, though I have hunch he is all kinds of places I might not expect God to be. God is always showing up where I wouldn’t want to set foot, because that is what “Emmanuel” means: God with us, in the riots, in the disappointments, in the violence, in the helpers, in the justice-seeking, in the faithful, in the homeless, in the scared, in the desperate, in the loving, in the comforters… God is with us in whatever extraordinary or mundane events the world is facing at any given time. God is Emmanuel.

So even if I can’t answer all those questions, one thing I do know in all these places is that Peter’s confession is true: “[Jesus is] the Messiah, the Son of the Living God.” Wherever transformation could occur, there is Jesus. Wherever love changes hearts, there is Jesus. Wherever things live and grow and have their being, there is Jesus. Wherever life can be brought out of death, there is Jesus. He is the Messiah, the Son of the Living God, and on this rock-solid conviction, our church, our community of faith, is built. The mission of that community, then, is to live as though the love and life of Christ are indeed our foundation, and to see and to be that presence in the world – out here in the country, in the proverbial city of Caesarea Philippi, in Ferguson, at the border, and in all places that need to hear the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

Let us pray… Living God, our Rock and our salvation: we cannot always make sense of the pain and suffering we see in the world, but one thing we can trust is that you are present in it and working through it. Help us, in all things, to see where you are, and to have the courage to proclaim who we know you to be: the Living God. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

---

[1] http://www.npr.org/blogs/thetwo-way/2014/08/19/341651494/ferguson-teachers-use-day-off-as-opportunity-for-a-civics-lesson?utm_source=facebook.com&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=npr&utm_term=nprnews&utm_content=20140819

Sermon: Learning can be really crumby... (Aug. 17, 2014)

Pentecost 10A/Lectionary 20

August 17, 2014

Matthew 15:21-28

Klaus

            Our Dachshund, Klaus, loves it when I cook. He loves it because I am, well, a bit messy in the kitchen. So after I’m done, and I’ve stopped chasing him out repeatedly, he finds his way into the kitchen, snatching up all the bits of food that have dropped on the floor, under cupboards, all over. Even though he is a domesticated animal, there will always be a part of him that is a scavenger, willing to pick up and eat anything and everything he can find.

            When we think of dogs now, we generally think of the loving, tail-wagging pets that many of us keep in our homes. I don’t think, however, that when Jesus says to the Canaanite woman in our Gospel lesson today that, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs,” that he had in mind an adorable 12-pound miniature Dachshund who loves picking up the droppings of his messily cooking mama. That would sure be nice (I'd like to see more Dachshunds in the Bible)… but no, I think today’s Gospel presents a picture of Jesus with which we are not entirely familiar nor frankly, very comfortable.

            Oh, it’s tempting to jump right to the end, where Jesus does finally heal the woman’s daughter. But if we are to take the Bible seriously, and the way Matthew has chosen to tell this story, we must not overlook the beginning of this encounter. Jesus and his disciples have just wandered into Tyre and Sidon – in other words, pagan country, where the unbelieving Gentiles live. This is not a safe place – imagine walking down Joseph Ave. at 2am on a Friday night and you’ll get the idea. And so when a screaming woman comes running up to them, begging for Jesus to cast out the demon from her daughter, they have every reason to be at least standoffish, a bit annoyed, and possibly downright scared. It’s no wonder the disciples urge Jesus to get her to go away.

            But then we see Jesus’ response to her, and it is hard to reconcile it with our understanding of

who Jesus is. We know Jesus to be attentive to our needs – and yet here, he first ignores her. We know him to be welcoming to and embracing of all people – and yet here, he tells her that his mission is only to the lost children of Israel, not Gentiles like her. We know him to be compassionate – and yet here, he flat out insults her, calling her a dog, a common insult of Jews to Canaanites. Where is the Jesus we have come to know and love and depend upon?

            In the Creed that we say every week, we confess our faith that Jesus was “born of the virgin Mary and become truly human.” We know that just as Jesus was fully God, he was also fully human. But as easy as that is to say, it is much harder to apply it. Sure, there are some ways that it is easier than others. We know that Jesus got hungry, and from the cross he cried out, “I thirst.” He weeps at the death of Lazarus, and also begs God in the Garden of Gethsemane not to make him go through the suffering and cross that lie before him. His righteous anger gets the best of him when he turns over the tables of the traders in the temple, and before he breathes his last, he asks God, “Why have you forsaken me?” We are able to accept without complaint these very human moments that Jesus experiences; indeed they make us feel closer to him, like he really understands our plight.

            But his encounter with the Canaanite woman presents a different aspect of humanity that I, and perhaps you, too, find a little more difficult to swallow: Jesus learns something.

            Learning and growing: this can be one of the best things about being human. The joy of learning – whether a new skill or an interesting fact or something about yourself or a loved one – truly is a blessing. But learning and growing can also be an extremely painful process. I remember, when I was about 7 years old, I had horrible cramps in my arms and legs, and my parents took me to the doctor. The diagnosis? Growing pains. I was in the middle of a growth spurt! And sure enough, when the growing slowed down, the pain subsided. Now in my 30s, the growing pains I experience are not in my arms and legs, but in my heart and mind. They are the pains of learning how to deal with life-threatening illness, both my own and in people I love. They are the pains of learning to admit that I was wrong about something I had held with such conviction. They are the pains of loss – of people, of places, of times of life. They are the pains of asking for forgiveness, of admitting that I did something that hurt someone. They are the pains of sitting with a troubled friend, and having no idea how to help them.

            Growing pains are a very real part of being human, a burden I would really like to be able to share with Jesus. So why is it so hard to imagine that Jesus also experienced growing pains? Presumably Jesus had a lot to learn over his 30-some years. He learned to walk, and he learned to talk. I’m guessing he didn’t just pretend to learn his ABCs – he actually had to learn them! And having to learn something doesn’t make him a bad person any more than it makes you and or I bad people. Isn’t it possible, then, that Jesus also grew as he went about his mission – learning more about how to reach people, about what people to reach, about how to respond to the complex issues of the world?

            What is perhaps most shocking of all is not only that Jesus could have something to learn, but who it was that taught him. As a Canaanite, she is the quintessential “other,” even more removed than the Samaritans to whom Jesus is so compassionate in other encounters. As a woman, she has no business talking to this pious Jewish man. She is as other and removed as she could possibly be.

            And here she has the gumption to come before Jesus, admit her need, accept his derogatory

assessment of her, but still ask him for help. And because of her persistence, her gumption, her assertiveness, Jesus experiences what is perhaps the most difficult of human experiences, the experience many of us fear more than even death: he changes.

            And in his willingness to change and to learn, Jesus once again becomes for us a teacher. He shows us what it looks like to be so humble that we can be impacted positively by someone utterly different from us, even someone we previously looked down upon. He shows us that this humility is essential in building relationships. He shows us that it is okay, even faithful, to allow our minds and hearts to be changed. He shows us that the magnitude of his mission, in which we share, extends beyond where we might be comfortable.

Perhaps the most profound lesson here is even bigger than all that. It comes in the woman’s clever spin on her derogatory name: “Even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from the master’s table.” It may be that our culture, our peers, or our own self-esteem tell us that we don’t deserve to approach Jesus, or deserve his love. Or that even if we could, we are too far gone to ever get enough help. Yet, this woman, who had no business approaching Jesus, does anyway. And she knows that whatever she receives from Christ, no matter how small a morsel, it is enough.

And so we, too, come to the font and have a splash of water poured over our heads – but this small splash is more loving and gracious than we can comprehend! We, too, come begging to Christ’s table, hands outstretched, and are given only a small wafer and a few drops of wine – but in this crumb

from the table is all the love and grace we could ever need.

These grace-filled crumbs from the table are enough for us bunch of dogs. They are enough to change us – into the merciful, compassionate, loving people Christ calls us to be. They are enough to sustain us – through the trials of life, through the moments of self-doubt, through fear and sadness. They are enough to teach us – how to be humble, openhearted people who are willing to learn and grow and change, ever striving to participate in the mission we all share with Christ.

Let us pray… Gracious and merciful God, you are always calling us to learn, change and grow, but this is not always easy for us. Grant us strength for the journey, and help us to trust that even crumbs of your grace are enough to sustain us in all things. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.  

Being my opposite

The acting class I’m taking has affected me in a way I didn’t expect. I had planned on it helping my preaching by expanding the way I use my voice and body in my proclamation, and maybe it will. But more than that, it has been a way to expand my understanding of compassion.

I have thought a lot about compassion in the past year or so, and how it plays in pastoral care. Brene Brown has some wonderful insights about compassion and empathy (read Daring Greatly or watch her TEDTalks to learn more). She observes that empathy is getting down in the deep hole with someone in pain, rather than stand up at the top and bellow down, “You okay down there?” It is much easier to keep that safe distance, though, isn’t it? (The deep hole link above is highly recommended - click on it!)

How has the acting class helped me to think about this? I mentioned in a previous blog about how we were to find our opposite way of using space, then to find an animal that represents that opposite, and now we are to perform a monologue in the style of that animal (as if it were a person). So for one hour a week, I am having to become a different person – the way I move, the way I talk, even the way I think.

I’m doing more than sitting at the top of the hole, and even more that crawling down into it. I am actually becoming a completely different person.

On our anniversary adventure to the Poconos last week, Michael and I ran into two young women, sisters from Long Island, who were staying there. They were a bit out of place at a “couples only” resort, but there were two of them, and it looked like a nice place to stay, so they reserved a room. Naturally, since everyone else was there for the “Land of Love,” many assumed that they were a lesbian couple. I asked how they felt about that. They said it was a really revealing social study: men ogled them, women glared at them and pulled their husbands or boyfriends away, and even the hospitality at the front desk were friendly but hardly looked them in the eye. The younger, more outgoing sister commented, “We’re used to Long Island, where everything is normal. But we feel really judged here! It’s interesting to see a bit of what real lesbian couples experience all the time. Except we can leave that when we check out of the resort.”

What if we all had a chance to do that – even to take on being a kind of person who is totally different from who we are? In my class, my opposite person is someone who is unbound, light, slow, and indirect, and even this makes me a little crazy. Being unbound takes conscious effort (even as I write this, I notice my legs are crossed), trying to be light makes me trip, being indirect makes me feel completely unfocused, and being slow stresses me out (“I’m never going to get there!!”).

These are pretty mundane things. But what if I consciously tried to have the beliefs of someone whose religious, political, or ideological beliefs are opposite mine? What if I spent time actually trying to get in the head of someone I disagree with, and tried to be that person for one day, even one hour, and see what it is like? What would I learn about them? What would I learn about myself?

What sort of vulnerability and humility would it take to do that? I’m having a hard enough time trying to get through my shower in a different order (a.k.a. be unbound).

I continue to meditate on this possibility, and you may see some blogs in the future reflecting on each of the dichotomies we have focused on in acting class. Meanwhile, I encourage you to try it yourself. Get in someone else’s head and see the world through their eyes. Or if that’s too much for you, just try to move more slowly if you move quickly, or more quickly if you move slowly, or any of the other pairings (bound/unbound, direct/indirect, fast/slow, heavy/light).

See what you notice. See how it changes your view of the world, and how it changes your ability to engage in compassion. See if this is for the better.