Sermon: What a Christian welcome looks like (July 2, 2017)

Pentecost 4A

July 2, 2017

Matthew 10:42-44

Genesis 22:1-14

            “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore, Send these, the homeless, tempest tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

            Anyone recognize that poem? It is the inscription on the Statue of Liberty. This world-famous statue was a gift to the United States from France, meant to commemorate the alliance of France and the US during the American Revolution. The gift was also given by France in hopes that France, too, would someday be able to attain a government in which people’s natural rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness would be embraced, as they were in the United States. For 130 years, “Lady Liberty” has stood on Liberty Island in Manhattan, welcoming immigrants coming by boat – it was the first glimpse they saw of America, and of the hopes and dreams they believed rested in our great country. The torch, lifted high, would light the path to freedom, to hope, to liberty, to new starts, to all the ideals on which America was built.

            And what a beautiful welcome she offered – not to the educated, the rich, the accomplished, but to those listed on that beautiful inscription: the tired, the poor, those yearning to breathe free, the “wretched refuse of your teeming shore,” the homeless, those tossed about by storm upon storm – in short, those who sought a better life than the one they had.

            The statue and what she stands for was meant to be a tribute to and a celebration of Enlightenment ideals. But the welcome offered by this inscription could have come right out of the mouth of Jesus. All throughout the Bible we see and hear the same thing: welcome the stranger, care for the poor, heal the sick. Jesus reaches out to all those “wretched refuse” – people of different faiths, different genders, different races, different abilities (Gentiles, women, Samaritans, lepers) – all those people that good, respectable Jews would have nothing to do with. He reached out to them to heal them, and even, to make them his disciples.

            Today, in our Gospel reading, Jesus is now equipping and instructing some of those very same “wretched refuse” to bring his message to others. In the past weeks we have heard the earlier part of his instruction, telling them not to pack anything, but rather, to rely on the hospitality of strangers. He warns them that their work on his behalf could bring division in their own families. In this closing section, he offers what maybe is supposed to be an assurance: that when someone welcomes them, it is like welcoming Christ himself. I’m not sure how much assurance that would offer me, though. Putting yourself at the mercy of strangers is pretty risky. It’s one thing to go to someone’s house when they’ve invited you, where the risks may include having to listen to music you don’t like, or eating unfamiliar food, but to rely for all your basic needs on the hospitality of people you’ve never even met, people who may reject your beliefs and what you stand for, people’s whose history you don’t know… that’s about as risky as it gets.

            But I’m not sure which is riskier – that, or being the people who will be doing the welcoming. As I’ve reflected on this text this week, I have tried to put myself in both positions: the position of the ones Jesus is talking to, who are to rely on the welcomer, and the position of the one reading this 2000 years later, who may be the one called upon to welcome a stranger, to welcome someone I might call tired, poor, homeless, tempest-tossed, even, “wretched refuse” – to welcome them into my home, my church, my town, my country.

            That’s pretty scary stuff. We don’t really know what we’re getting into by extending that welcome. If we were the ones whose doors got knocked on by some dirty, tired stranger claiming some guy, Jesus, whom we’d never heard of, was Lord… would we let them in? Would we offer them a cup of cold water? They could steal from us, or hurt us. They could challenge our beliefs. They could say something that doesn’t jibe with how we see and understand the world. And all of these things can be very threatening.

            And yet, it is these, these ones who offer the welcome to the stranger, about whom Jesus says, “none of these will lose their reward,” and that indeed, they will be welcoming Christ himself into their home and into their hearts.

            Yes, it is the faithful thing to do – to welcome without counting the cost, to see Christ in our neighbors, even those who are strangers about whom we are skeptical. It is faithful, but it is not without risk.

But who ever said faith was without risk? Man, you don’t have to look any further than our Old Testament reading today! The sacrifice of Isaac has never been a favorite story of mine, and all the less so now that I have a son named Isaac! To imagine that God would call Abraham to sacrifice his own son! We talked

Sacrifice of Isaac, Marc Chagal
http://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=54647

last week about how faith means loving God with heart and soul and mind and strength, even more than our families, but this is a bit extreme, no? Of course, God doesn’t make Abraham go through with it, which is a relief (though just imagine the lasting trauma of the event, for both parties!). But the point is that trusting God means that we listen to God in all things, and in all ways try to follow God’s command – even if it puts us or our loved ones in danger.

            Or maybe better is, the point is that our faith may call us into risky or dangerous positions, but at the end of the day, God will provide: God will provide the ram, a conversation partner, a new perspective on our old views, a lesson in faith, a deeper relationship with God – and finally and most importantly, God will provide forgiveness of sins and life everlasting through the sacrifice of God’s own Son, Jesus Christ.

            Stephen Bouman was our speaker at Synod Assembly this year. He loves to tell this story: When Steve was just 8 years old, he and his grandpa went fishing. They stood there in silence, as fishermen often do, until suddenly his grandpa turned to him and blurted out, “The only death you ever have to fear is behind you in your baptism.” Then he smiled, and returned to his fishing in silence. Young Steve stood there, stunned, unsure of what to make of this outburst. Many years later, in 2001, when Steve served as the bishop of the Metro NY Synod, he thought of this, as he stood at Ground Zero and watched first responders running into the collapsed buildings to save people. He thought of it as he anointed their heads with oil in the sign of the cross, a recollection of their own baptism as they ran toward what may very well be their death. The only death we ever have to fear is behind us in our baptism. It is this assurance that makes it possible to have faith and to trust God.

            The Statue of Liberty promised to many immigrants over the years that new life, liberty and freedom were possible in this land called America. But we who believe in Christ know that true freedom comes in the trust of God’s providence. It comes in the knowledge that Christ died for us and rose again so that we need not fear the grave, so that we could trust that the only death we have to fear is behind us in our baptism, when we were welcomed into the death, and into the life of Christ.

So let us step out in faith, sisters and brothers in Christ. What in our lives and in this world requires our faith and our trust in the providence of our living God? What tired, poor, homeless, and wretched refuse of the world need a cold cup of water, or the promise of new life? Let us welcome them in the name of Christ, trusting that when we welcome them, we welcome also Christ himself.

Let us pray… Life-giving God, you have shown us from the beginning that faith requires all of our hearts, souls, minds, and strength, and you have also shown us that when we give everything we have, you provide everything we need. Help us to trust your promise as we seek to serve the tired, poor, and homeless in need of help. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: God who sees and hears (June 25, 2017)

Pentecost 3A

June 25, 2017

Genesis 22:1-14

Matthew 10:40-42

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

            Families. They can be such a joy for us, offering us safety, protection, and love. Many of us name family as that which is most important to us, that which brings us more joy than anything else on this earth. Families can certainly be a blessing.

            Unless, of course, they aren’t. Some, when they think of their family, don’t think of words like, “safety, protection, and love,” but rather, their opposites: abuse, instability, disfunction. Even if you have an overall pretty good, stable family, there may still be some dark spot: an estranged sibling, an emotionally abusive parent, a grown child who never calls. Or it may be that the sheer amount of love you have for one another causes its own problems: anyone whose children live far away, or who married someone whose family lives in a different state and has to navigate who goes where for what holiday ought to know this!

            Yes, families are complicated. Some of us, when we read Jesus’ difficult words in our gospel today, think, “No way, I would never turn against my mother/father/son/daughter. Nothing could make me do that.” Others may say, “Yeah, I could see that. In fact, I have seen that.” It is interesting, I think, when people refer to their congregation as a “family church,” because while that has a positive connotation for many, it could just as easily have the opposite effect on someone for whom family has not been a place of safety, stability, and comfort. It could bring up memories of being excluded, trampled on, held to impossible standards, or forced to fill a role you don’t want to fill.

            This summer, we will be reading through the book of Genesis, a book full of stories about the complexity of family relationships. Two weeks ago, we heard the creation story, including the creation of the first human family, Adam and Eve. How lovely it was in the Garden of Eden… until it wasn’t. Eve gives birth to Cain and Abel, and then… out of jealousy, Cain kills Abel. Ladies and gentlemen: the first biblical family. What a start! Last week we heard the story of the birth of Isaac, the long awaited son of Sarah and Abraham. But this birth didn’t come without plenty of family angst. Abraham and Sarah were so old and had not yet received the child God kept promising them. In desperation, Sarah takes matters into her own hands, and gives Abraham her Egyptian servant-girl, Hagar, who conceives. But the idea backfires: Sarah is consumed by her jealousy: her husband lay with another woman, who was then able to give him what she could not! In her jealousy, she chases Hagar away.

            Now a part we didn’t hear last week. I said last week that I find scripture most meaningful when I can find my own story in the biblical story. This is the part of Hagar’s story where I am first able to see some of my own story. Hagar finds herself in the wilderness, pregnant and alone. She was driven there by someone apparently chosen by God, someone who asked a favor of her, and when she came through on that favor, she was punished for it. She was blamed instead

of rewarded – as Sarah told Abraham, “Hagar looks on me with contempt!” When Sarah took her rage out on Hagar, Hagar bolted; she was no longer safe in that place, emotionally or possibly even physically. Out there in the wilderness, Hagar begins to doubt herself, begins to imagine that this was, indeed, all her fault. Had she looked with contempt on Sarah? She must have. After all, Sarah was the chosen one, not her. Now with a baby in her belly, she feels all the worse, for not being able to care for this child God has gifted to her. Out in the wilderness, there is no one to stop her downward spiral into self-hate.

Any of that sound familiar? Does it describe any of your own wilderness experiences? It does mine! The good news, though, is I also see myself in the next part. You see, God doesn’t leave her there. In her anguish, God comes to her. God tells her she is a part of God’s plan, and must return to this difficult situation because God has called her there. God promises her that the child in her belly will also be a great nation, that she and he both will be taken care of. No, this child is not the chosen one, but he is, nonetheless, a treasured one. In this moment of promise, what touches Hagar is the mere fact that: God has seen her. In fact, at this point, Hagar becomes the only person in the Bible to name God: El-roi, God who sees me. God has not left her alone: El-Roi sees her and loves her. She returns to Abraham and Sarah.

            Back to our text for today. Fast forward 15 years or so, and Isaac, son of Sarah, has been born and is being celebrated. True to his name, which means laughter, he is giggling away, playing with his older half-brother. Hagar has continued to live in Abraham’s household, along with Abraham’s eldest son – a blended family if ever there was one! But Sarah has never gotten over her jealousy. She sees the boys playing, and feels that familiar ache in her stomach – she sees the boy as a threat to the son she gave to Abraham. In yet another rage, she tells Abraham, “I want her out of here. Both of them – send them out. I don’t want to see them anymore.” Abraham is distressed (this is his son, after all!) but God tells him, “Go ahead, Abe. Do as she said. I’ve got this taken care of.” And so Abraham, showing minimal compassion, sends Hagar and her son (his son!) off once again to the wilderness with only a loaf of bread and some water, to fend for themselves.

            Once again, Hagar finds herself in the desperation of the wilderness. Her family, the father of her own child, had done this, claiming it as a moment of faithful action, and God had done nothing to stop it. Once in the wilderness is bad enough – but twice! Once the water runs out, Hagar has reached rock bottom. She casts her son under a bush, unable to bear watching him die of hunger and thirst, and she raises her voice to God, and weeps.

            Here, too, I see my own story: I, too, have desperately wondered what on earth God could possibly have in mind here, wondered how I would survive a situation, hidden myself even from things that I love in an effort to escape pain. I have wept in despair. Have you?

            And in my story just as in Hagar’s: God hears. God gently asks Hagar what troubles her, and urges her not to be afraid. The God who sees, El-Roi, is also a God who hears – hears our deepest pains, our saddest woes, our unspoken desires, even when all we can articulate is our sobs and weeping. God sees us and hears us. In this moment, the name of Hagar’s son, Ishmael, becomes a promise: it means, “God hears.”

            And from there, God shows Hagar that not only does God see and hear, but God also provides. God opens her eyes, and there, not 50 yards from where she sits, is a well. She had not seen it before, perhaps too blinded by her woes, but God shows her. And she drinks. And gives drink to her son, “God hears.” From the brokenness of her contentious blended family, to the deepest wilderness, Hagar, the outsider, the disenfranchised, the Egyptian slave-girl, has come to know God more intimately than perhaps anyone in the Old Testament: she names God, has a child whose name embodies God’s promise, and experiences God’s providence in her very darkest moment.

Hagar did not have the easiest time with her family; for all the joy they may bring, we don’t always have the easiest time with them, either. Families are often a blessing to us, but nothing in the Bible says they will always be a blessing. To the contrary, scripture is replete with stories of pain in families. Jesus even acknowledges that in today’s reading, warning that following him may even have a divisive effect on our family relationships. Perhaps that is why the Bible doesn’t say that we should love our families with all our heart and soul and mind and strength and our neighbor as ourselves, but rather, that we should love God in this way. That love of God, and following Jesus, is the good above all others. Because while families may on some days provide everything we could hope for – God always provides everything we could hope for and much more: water in the desert, sustenance, forgiveness of sins, life out of death, and eternal and unshakable love. God is a God who sees us and knows us. God is our God. God hears us when we call out, and even when we don’t. God will provide for us – not always what, when, and where we wanted, but somehow and some way, God makes a way where there was no way. With this conviction in our hearts, we will indeed find our way through the dividing swords of life, and find peace.

Let is pray… God who sees, God who hears, we give you thanks for the many blessings in our lives, and especially for the gift of family, wherever we may find it. But most of all, we give you thanks for the many ways that YOU see and hear us and all our needs, even when we find ourselves out in the wilderness, and for the many ways you love us, from now until eternity. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Laughing into despair (June 18, 2017)

2^nd Sunday after Pentecost (Lectionary 11)

June 18, 2017

Genesis 18:1-15, 21:1-7 (Semi-continuous)

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

            Sarah had lost all hope. God had tagged her and her husband Abraham to be the mother and father of a great nation. God had promised them many descendants, even as many as the stars. And yet, Sarah’s womb remained barren. Her empty womb was an echo of her empty heart. Though Abraham seemed unshakable – and oh, did she love him for that – her pain was too great to hold hope any longer.

            One day, in a moment of desperation masked as faith, she said to Abraham, “Why don’t you take my slave-girl, Hagar. Have children by her, and, since she is my slave, I will call her children my own.” Clearly, God wasn’t coming through for them, and Sarah would have to take matters into her own hands. Did it pain her to give up in this way, and to see her beloved husband with another woman who could give him what Sarah never could? Of course. It broke her heart. But if God wasn’t going to make good on the promise, something else had to be done. She would take care of it herself.

Maybe a part of her had hoped it wouldn’t work… but it did. Soon enough, Hagar was pregnant with Abraham’s child – pregnant with the promise Sarah had so longed for.  

            Sarah thought she could be brave, even, that she could be happy. But every time Hagar lovingly touched her swelling belly, every time she smiled her joy to herself, it was a dagger in Sarah’s aching heart. In her pain, she took it out on Abraham, blaming him for what had been her idea. Oh, how heartache can wreck havoc in life, destructively worming its way into all of our most important relationships! Abraham urged Sarah to deal with it, and Sarah did. She sent Hagar, the awful daily reminder of what Sarah did not have, away – and with her, she sent away her fractured hope that God’s promise could ever come to be.

            Here is where we find Sarah in the part of the story we hear today. To me, that backstory makes all the difference in how I understand Sarah’s words and actions in today’s story. Every time the Bible has been meaningful to me, it is when I can see my own story in the story of scripture, and when I see Sarah’s story here, I recall all of my own dashed hopes, all of my own resentment that God didn’t deliver when and how I wanted, all of my own insecurities. Do you see yourself in Sarah? Whether you had hoped for a child, or something else in life that you had been certain God wanted for you, but found yourself wondering if God would ever come through – have you felt the despair, that sadness, even that resentment toward others who got what you so badly wanted?

Abraham and the visitors at Mamre (Marc Chagall)
http://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=54658

            When three mysterious visitors arrive at Sarah and Abraham’s home, she thinks little of it. Though Abraham is excited enough, Sarah doesn’t have much left to give. Since her bout with Hagar, God had promised again that the covenant would be fulfilled. God had changed their names (from Abram and Sarai to Abraham and Sarah), and instituted circumcision as a sign of the covenant, but Sarah remained doubtful. But, as she goes through the motions of offering hospitality to these men, something does begin to stir in her. Could that be – hope? She dares not enter into it; too many times she had been hurt. Yet the stirring cannot be stilled.

            Abraham meets with the three men under a nearby tree. Sarah knows her place is in the tent, but she can’t help but feel drawn toward them. She hides just inside the door – under that tree is where hope resides, where a plan, even a date for the fulfillment of God’s promise exists, but Sarah is unwilling to enter fully into this possibility that has been kept from her for so long. She still holds all the resentment of her past, even as she creeps toward hope, hiding just at its edge. And there, on the brink between hope and despair, as she hears the impossible and wonderful news that so many years of hope is not in vain… she laughs. Her laughter is the sound of resentment cracking, of pain beginning to dissipate. Her laughter is the sound of healing. Her laughter is, indeed, the sound of hope, and of belief that nothing is too wonderful for God. Her laughter is the name given to her son, Isaac, because he lives as the proof that with God, hope is never lost. Nothing is too wonderful for God.

            Here, too, we have the opportunity to see our own story in the miraculous story of Sarah. Hope and despair are a part of the human story, the church’s story, and our individual stories. Even when despair is dark and dense, the laughter of hope-revealed can crack it, shed light into it, dissipate it.

            Where do you see your story in Sarah’s story? When have you crouched on the brink between despair and hope, and fallen onto the side of hope, laughing at

Sarah laughing, detail from "Angel Appears to Sarah"
Giovanni Battista Tiepolo

http://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=55120

the goodness of God?

            Where do you see the life of this congregation in the story of Sarah’s despair and her laughter?

            In 141 years, this story has surely made an appearance in the life of Bethlehem. Though I wasn’t here at the time, I suspect there was a sense of this when your long-time pastor, Pastor Zajac left, and with him, the organist. Suddenly Bethlehem found herself without a pastor, a musician, or a budget to call someone else into those roles. And suddenly, the possibility of an intern fell into your laps, and with a laugh, the congregation painted the walls of the parsonage – right over the wall paper – to prepare for her imminent arrival. An organist in need of a loving community showed up, on a day that the supply pastor did not – a story Bethlehem members now remember with a laugh. Nothing is too wonderful for God! Some years later, it was still clear that a fulltime pastor was not a possibility for this congregation. How easy it would be to fall into despair. But Bethlehem did what she does best: she prayed. And in the midst of that prayer came the possibility of a covenant, partnering with another congregation to share ministry and a pastor. On the day of my call sermon, a toddler who was here for a baptism pulled the fire alarm – and laughing, we all stood outside to greet each other while we waited for the fire department to arrive.

            Laughter has played a role in many of Bethlehem’s most uncertain moments. Laughter has broken into what would be despair, to remind the good people of Bethlehem that God’s promise is good, that God will deliver, that nothing is too wonderful for God.

            This past year in the life of Bethlehem has presented its own challenges. Like in the story of Sarah, myriad emotions have been embedded in those challenges. Speaking personally, it is not lost on me that, through those struggles, I was pregnant with a child I would soon know as Isaac, who smiles and laughs more than any baby I’ve ever met, whose existence in my life is a daily reminder that laughter can be born into difficulty.

That is what God does, again and again: God takes despair, and laughs into it. God takes our hurting hearts, our resentments, our insecurities, and says, “Believe me: nothing is too wonderful for me!” God takes death on a cross and turns it into resurrection, forgiveness, and new life. God takes suffering, and turns it into endurance, and character, and hope – and hope does not disappoint us, because, as Paul writes, “God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.”

Sarah’s son Isaac, laughter, did go on to become a great nation – his offspring was Jacob, who had twelve sons, who would become the twelve tribes of Israel, God’s chosen people, a people that still exists some 6000 years later. Sarah’s laughter, the sign that God’s promises do come true, exists throughout the generations, even to ours.

How will this laughter, this promise, make itself known in your life? How will it make itself known in the life of Bethlehem? How will God take suffering and turn it into endurance, character, and hope? How will God turn something difficult into something life-renewing? How will Bethlehem’s story continue to be grafted into the story of Sarah, as it is grafted into the story of Christ’s own death and resurrection? I don’t know the answer. What I do know is that: God will. Because nothing is too wonderful for God.

Let us pray… God of laughter and hope, make us ever confident in your promise, because in your promise we find the hope of life renewed. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen