Sermon: Masks, politics, and self-sacrificing neighbor-love (Aug. 30, 2020)

 Pentecost 13A
August 30, 2020
Matthew 16:21-28
Romans 12:9-21

 

INTRODUCTION:

         Last week we witnessed one of Peter’s shining moments, as he correctly identified Jesus as the Messiah, the Son of the Living God. Jesus in turn says he will build his Church upon this rock. The shine didn’t last long, though. Today, Peter will turn from Rock to stumbling block, as he rebukes Jesus for saying that the Son of Man will have to suffer and die. And wouldn’t you? Who wants a suffering savior – wouldn’t we rather have a powerful one?

         Of course, we know that Jesus is right on this one: suffering, and self-denial, and sacrifice are all a part of the life of faith. Even all the nice “marks of a Christian” that Paul will outline in our second reading require some sacrifice and self-denial at times. Turns out, Christianity isn’t about serving ourselves and doing what is best for us, but about doing whatever it takes to live out the gospel of Jesus Christ, to take up our cross and self-sacrificially love our neighbor. Our readings today address this head on. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

         I love that this reading from Romans always comes up in August, because this is the month we were married, and it was one of the texts that was read at our wedding. “Let love be genuine,” Paul writes. “Hate was is evil, hold fast to what is good; love one another with mutual affection; outdo one another in showing honor. Do not lag in zeal, be ardent in spirit, serve the Lord. Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer. Contribute to the needs of the saints, extend hospitality to strangers.” I think it is very good advice for a newly married couple, or even one married seven or 57 years, which is why we chose it for our wedding!

It's not just for married couples, of course. In the NRSV Bible translation we use, this section is called, “Marks of a true Christian.” These are all behaviors and efforts and traits of someone who not only follows Christ in word, but also in deed. In other words, if you call yourself a Christian, then these should describe how you live your life.

         Really, that first line, “Let love be genuine,” is the main point. All those things that follow, those other marks of a Christian, are really just elaborating on what genuine, non-hypocritical love looks like in practice. You wanna love genuinely, Paul says, then don’t just talk to the love talk, but walk the love walk. Say you do these things, and then, actually do them.

This is really the heart and soul of faith, isn’t it? From the very beginning, God has always acted in love: creating the world, redeeming God’s people through Christ, and empowering the Church to service of the world. No one can deny that genuine love is a pretty big part of being a Christian.

         What’s sometimes tricky, though, is knowing just how that genuine love should be enacted. Sometimes it is obvious – we see genuine love in kindness, and generosity, and compassion. We have seen that a lot during this pandemic, from the relentless care shown by healthcare workers, to people who remember to check in on friends and neighbors, or leave groceries on their neighbors’ doorstep.

But sometimes love is less obvious – like the spouse of an alcoholic finally putting her foot down and forbidding her beloved what he craves, or putting boundaries in place to keep your children safe, even if they scream and cry about it. Or on a larger scale, speaking out against an oppressor on behalf of the vulnerable, like Moses did to Pharaoh, or the prophets of old to the kings, or more recently, Martin Luther King to the institutions that kept Black people from getting the rights they deserved. In these cases, while the vulnerable person may feel loved, the one not getting what they want is likely not experiencing that action as loving. You see, love can be complicated, and can look very different in different situations.

         So, as we try to sort all this out, let’s try to understand what genuine love looks like in light of our Gospel text today. Jesus says to his disciples, “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.” They are tough words – though no tougher than what Jesus himself does for us. So… if that is genuine love, self-denial and losing our life, then what does that mean for us?

         Let me start by saying what I don’t think it means: I don’t think it means you have to literally leave behind everything dear to you, nor that you have to literally die, lose your life. Though, I do think it means you have to be willing to do those things, if it is in service to the gospel. There are a few exceptional examples in history who have indeed died for the sake of making sure God’s love is known: MLK and Dietrich Bonhoeffer come to mind. But for those of us who are not called to be martyrs, what might it look like to deny ourselves and lose our life?

         There are so many big issues we could talk about, and discuss how love looks amid them, but for the sake of brevity, I’d like to suggest just two timely examples. The first is regarding our response to this pandemic. In the midst of so much loss these past months, maybe you, like I, bristle at the thought of self-denial. What more can we give up, after all – we’ve already given up seeing our loved ones, travel and outings, social events, sports, worshiping together, communion, performing arts, education the way to which we’re accustomed, and more. And the enduring symbol of all of this loss is the mask: the ubiquitous, annoying, glasses-fogging, voice muffling mask that serves as a near-constant reminder that life is not normal.

         Yes, masks are annoying. But they are also the perfect expression of self-denial and neighbor-love. When I wear a mask, if keeps you safe. When you wear a mask, it keeps me safe. It doesn’t so much help the one wearing it; instead, it helps the other. And so we put up with the annoying stuff, we deny ourselves, in order to keep our neighbor safe. On the other hand, when I don’t wear one, it doesn’t say, “I’m okay with getting sick,” it says, “I’m okay with you getting sick” – which, of course, I’m not! When I think of it this way, I no longer groan about slipping those loops over my ears. Instead, I consider it an expression of faith, a way to communicate my care for another. Really, it’s a pretty low bar for self-denial, especially when you consider what Jesus was willing to do for us. But it is an incredibly important one right now, and it does help me, at least, to think of wearing a mask as an act of faithful, self-denying neighbor-love.

         The other example I wanted to mention today is less annoying and potentially more… infuriating, and that is regarding political discourse. We are just off of two back-to-back political conventions, with just 65 days until the election. The slander and lying and attacks are already bad, and they will only get worse, not only from the leaders, but also from their respective ardent followers, on both sides. When I encounter a heated discussion of political issues, I can feel my chest get tight with frustration, and I can very easily find myself slip into fight mode, like I’m out to prove something and argue some sense into people! It’s not a look I particularly like, on myself or others.

So, what if denying ourselves during this election season looked like a willingness or openness to being wrong sometimes? By that, I mean: what if instead of going into a conversation to prove ourselves right and everyone else wrong, what if we instead committed to listening, trying to understand, and assuming we have something to learn, and even leaving the door open to the possibility that we were wrong about something? It’s not so different from the way we come to worship each week, as we open our hearts to God saying, “I sinned again this week, God. I tried, and I failed. I did wrong. I want to do better, and pray that you will help me. Please forgive me.” As Christians, we ought to be pretty good by now at admitting we are wrong!

But no one wants to be caught in being wrong. Very seldom does someone in a heated argument suddenly say, “My goodness, I am wrong, and you are right!” (at least not without sarcasm!), and no one has ever been insulted into changing their mind (like, “You’re right, I am a libtard snowflake, or a deplorable bigot. Thanks for pointing it out. I’ll change my ways straight away!”). So, what if we got ahead of it, working to deny ourselves by asking a lot of questions, and reading a lot of different sources, and spending a lot of time in prayer asking God for guidance?

If we do this genuinely, without hypocrisy, as Paul says, this may well result in having to let go of long-held beliefs, which can feel an awful lot like denying ourselves. But isn’t that what the Christian life calls us to: a life of continual repentance? And don’t we believe that ours is a God who brings about transformation? Isn’t the Christian life one in which we regularly examine our hearts for ways we have fallen short of selflessly, sacrificially, and genuinely loving our neighbor, in which we name those things before God, and pray that we would be able to turn back toward Christ? Isn’t the Christian life one in which we are grateful, again and again, to receive forgiveness? Because that forgiveness, we know, did not come easily for Christ. Christ indeed denied himself, took up his physical cross, and lost his life – so that we would be able to find our new life, a life that is free of the shackles of sin, free of the fear of death, free of all that would keep us from God’s love. It is because we have that new life, that we are able and empowered to deny ourselves and give up our own lives, all for the sake of sharing that life-giving love with those who desperately need it.

Let us pray… God of love, you have shown us what it means to love one another genuinely. Now give us the courage and humility to do it. Help us to see when we are misguided and help us to understand the plight of the other, so that we would be willing to deny ourselves and lose something important to us, for the sake of those in need. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.

Sermon: Who Jesus is, and who we are (Aug. 23, 2020)

 View the entire service here. Sermon begins at 31:40.

Pentecost 12A

August 23, 2020

Matthew 16:13-20

 

INTRODUCTION

         Today’s readings will reflect on the question of what it means to be a Christian, a follower of Christ, not just in the safety of the church community (whether online or in person!), but in the world. “Do not be conformed to this world,” Paul exhorts, “but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God.” It’s a tall order! It is so easy to become conformed to this word, and all of its division and brokenness, and to be influenced by so many worldly powers and persuasions instead of the Gospel we proclaim. Isaiah reminds us to remember where we came from, to find our footing in that. And in Matthew, Peter will make a bold claim about who Christ is, even against the backdrop of a city known for its political and worldly influence – making Peter’s declaration of Jesus as the Messiah, over and against even the powerful worldly leaders for whom Caesarea Philippi is named, all the more remarkable!

         Jesus will ask the disciples in Matthew today, “Who do you say that I am?” As you listen to today’s readings, ponder that question for yourself. Who do you say that Jesus is, especially right now in these strange times? Who is Jesus for you personally, for the Church, for our hurting world? Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

         “Who do you say that I am?” Jesus asks. It is about as basic a faith question as you can get – “who is Jesus?” And yet, I wonder if it is one that we don’t spend enough time thinking about it. And not just thinking about it once, but continually, because our answer may change, depending on what is going on in our lives and in the world around us. So although aspects of God are unchanging, God is also so complex and expansive that we might see God differently at any given time depending on what is most needful at that moment. 

         And so, I ask you today, brothers and sisters: who do you say that Jesus is, today, at this time? Who is Jesus, in the midst of a pandemic that still rages in our country? Who is Jesus, when our country is as divided as it has been since the Civil War? Who is Jesus, when even people proclaiming faith in Jesus disagree on what that faith implies, to the point of being diametrically opposed in the actions that stem from it? Who is Jesus?

One reason this question is so important is that our answer to it reveals a lot about who we, then, are called to be as a Church that follows Jesus. Peter’s answer is that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of the Living God. Jesus responds to Peter by telling him, “You are Peter [the word for “rock”], and on this rock I will build my Church.” In other words, Peter’s confession, his declaration of who Jesus is, becomes the basis of the Church of Christ. Who is this Church that proclaims Christ, the Messiah, the Son of the living God?

 The first thing we can glean about the character of the Church, is that we are a Church that proclaims Christ even amidst conflicting gods. Let me explain. This story begins by saying, “Jesus came into the district of Caesarea Philippi.” This is not a mundane detail of the story. Caesarea Philippi was a cesspool of sin, most of all, abusive political power and back-scratching, and religious idol-worship. It was named for two powerful political leaders, and it was the center of worship of the god, Pan. The city stood at the base of Mount Hermon, right against a large cliff known as “Rock of the Gods,” in honor of the many shrines built against it. In the center of Rock of the Gods was what was called “The Gate of Hades,” because it was believed that this was where the god Ba-al would enter and leave the underworld. Against this backdrop of political power and religious idolatry, Jesus asks his disciples to state, loudly and clearly, who he is – as opposed to all that! When Jesus calls Peter “the rock,” it is over and against this rock of sinful false-god-worship. “YOU are the rock, Peter!” he says, “not all this mess! You [aka the Church] will be stronger than whatever false gods people are worshipping!”

So why does this matter to us as the Church today? Well, because false gods are still very much a threat to our faith. And no, I don’t mean Ba-al or Pan, I mean much more pervasive and sneaky gods – all those things that claim our attention or loyalty, that indeed pull us away from our relationship with God and from our Christian call to love and serve our most vulnerable neighbors. For example, like in Caesarea Philippi, we are sometimes guilty of putting our faith in political powers or politicians. Another common “god” is the god of wealth, putting our trust in money or material things. Another common god is the god of power. We see that especially during an election season, when candidates for office will do anything to keep their position of power, whether that means slandering and making personal attacks on their opponent, or making it more difficult for people to vote. We see it year-round in some politicians’ unwillingness to do what is right for fear of losing support from constituents or wealthy special-interest groups. We even see it in some church leaders who relish more in the size of their congregation and the influence of their position than in actually acting out the mission of Christ.

Other gods I’ve become aware of recently in my own life are the gods of privilege, comfort and safety. I know that white people hold most of the power in this country – in politics, in academia, in the military, in sports, in the media and entertainment – and that my whiteness affords me a lot of privileges I did nothing to earn that I know my fellow citizens of color do not have (like easily finding band-aids in my own flesh color, or the ability to get a mortgage with relative ease). Even though I know that, I have a hard time doing anything to change it because those privileges make me very comfortable and make me feel very safe! Why would I want to threaten that? And yet I know – they are false gods! I know this because if they were true gods they would bring life to all people, not just to white people like me. And when Peter proclaims Christ at the foot of that Wall of the [False] Gods, he is calling upon the Church of today to notice what false gods aim to have power over us – to recognize them, and then to proclaim Christ’s power over them!

The second trait of the Church we can see from Peter’s confession is, we are a Church who speaks up. When Jesus asks, “Who do you say that I am?” – if Peter had remained silent, Jesus would not have declared the Church be built upon him. Speaking up was a pre-requisite to forming the Church. Jesus did not build His Church upon silence, or waiting to gather the facts, or weighing consequences – he built it upon boldness, upon willingness to say what is true – even when some of those false gods might have us say otherwise.

And yet since that moment, the Church has often fallen short of this qualifying characteristic. When the Nazis rose to power in Germany, the Church did very little to stop it, aside from a few people speaking out. In fact, some churches even adapted their theology to be consistent with that of the Nazis, and preached their support of that movement that resulted in millions of deaths. The Church was very much complicit in that dark time in history.

A few decades later, during the Civil Rights Movement, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. did not shy from calling out the Church on her silence. To be silent, he said, was to side with the oppressor. In his famous Letter from Birmingham Jail, he wrote, “All too many have been more cautious than courageous and have remained silent behind the anesthetizing security of stained-glass windows.” In other words, he implored the Church to do what Peter did: to proclaim boldly the mission of Christ into the world, not stay safely tucked away in her sanctuaries or homes, not saying a word about their faith to others and ignoring the plight of the marginalized outside the doors.

Of course, it would be impossible for the Church to speak out boldly, especially against the false gods of our culture, without the final trait I want to highlight today, which is that, we are a Church who forgives and is forgiven. After Jesus informs Peter that he will build his church on him, he gives Peter what we call the “power to bind and to loose.” It is the power to forgive sins or not. Of course, that power ultimately belongs to Christ himself – what is being given to Peter here is the power to announce it, like how I announced it at the beginning of worship. However the logistics work – it is so important that Jesus gives this power, indeed this gift, to the Church. Because being the Church is a difficult calling. It is risky. It pulls us out of our comfort zones. Being the Church is not about coming here each week or turning on our computer to find rest for our souls and sing some songs and chat with friends and pray. Those are all good things, and often that is exactly what we find at church. But the call of the Church is so much more than that. The call of the Church is to boldly proclaim Christ, in word and deed, into a world desperate to know him. It is to look at the political power dynamics, and the false gods, and ways our attention is pulled away from God, and say, “Christ is greater than all of that!” It is to care deeply about the marginalized and the oppressed – the very people that Christ himself cared for – and to serve them, even if it is not in our personal best interest.

That call is so, so hard, and we will definitely fall short. And so Jesus also gave us the continuing promise that in the Church, we would also find forgiveness. He gave us the promise that we could come here, hear words of forgiveness and love and life, and be strengthened to go back out into the world and keep trying. And he gave us the authority to say, “Christ gives this gift to you, too,” to the people who need it the most. All of this – speaking up in faith, speaking out against powers that would draw us away from God, and receiving and offering forgiveness – all of this is who and what the Church is, and we don’t need our building open to do any of it. The Church is open, and it never closed. We are the Church and do these things in faith and hope that all the world would know the love of our living God.

         Let us pray… God our rock, you have called your Church to speak up and speak out against the forces that defy you, and you offer us forgiveness. Give us courage to live out this call every day. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Canaanite lives matter (August 16, 2020)

View full service here.  

Pentecost 11A
August 16, 2020
Matthew 15:10-28

 

INTRODUCTION:

         Today’s readings urge us to question what, exactly, makes a person “good” or faithful or worthy of love and grace. (Spoiler, no one is worthy, and also everyone is worthy. That’s what grace means!) More specifically, they bring up the question of whether one’s race or ethnicity, or their adherence to the law, is what wins them God’s favor. Isaiah makes a bold claim that God’s house “shall be a house of prayer for all people,” regardless of their foreign status. Paul’s letter to the Romans astutely points out that we are all disobedient, but that very disobedience is what makes God’s immense mercy such a gift.

         Matthew gives us two stories that illustrate this point in different ways. Once again, we are right on the tails of the last few stories – the death of John the Baptist, the feeding of the 5000, Jesus’ desperate attempts to get a moment alone to pray, and the walking on water. Now Jesus begins challenging some of the Pharisees on laws surrounding cleanliness. In short, he says: it’s not what you eat that matters, but what you say that defiles. A timely message for a presidential election year, I think! From there, though, Jesus moves into a foreign country, Tyre and Sidon. This is a land of Gentiles, non-Jews, people outside of the children of Israel. Yet even in a foreign land, Jesus’ reputation precedes him, and a woman asks for help. And well, Jesus doesn’t at first respond as lovingly as you might expect. So, we will get to watch as Jesus learns something about the very Gospel he proclaims!

         Judgment of others who are different is rampant in our world – usually, but especially right now. As you listen, consider how these texts can help us to reflect on our own human condition, and what they say to our engagement with those who are different from us. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

         My daughter has a book called, She Persisted: 12 American Women who Changed the World. It’s all about women who broke down barriers, despite so many factors working against them. Grace loves it, and dreams about the ways she will change the world someday. The title, you likely figured out, is based on something Sen. Mitch McConnell said about Sen. Elizabeth Warren, after the Senate voted to silence her and her objections to the appointment of Jeff Sessions as Attorney General, but after being silenced she kept talking and objecting. McConnell explained later, “Nevertheless, she persisted,” and that line became the new rally cry for the feminist movement, and a pretty effective one!

         The Canaanite woman in today’s Gospel is the quintessential “nevertheless, she persisted” woman. I love this woman. I love her insistence that she is somebody, that she is deserving of care, that Canaanite lives matter! The feminist in me loves this story, and points to it as an example of a tenacious woman of faith!

         Unfortunately, I’m not as delighted with Jesus in this passage. He does not come out of this exchange smelling like roses. She asks for help, and he ignores her – an experience I know many women today can relate to. The men following Jesus complain about her talking too much (yup, been there). And then Jesus finally talks to her, and he calls her “a female dog.” Yeah, we have that same insult, though in this case I’m not sure if it is a general insult or specifically an ethnic slur reserved for people of her particular foreign background. (It’s worth mentioning that Jews and Canaanites were longtime enemies.) The woman speaks up for herself and her daughter once more, cleverly spinning Jesus’ words to her advantage, and only then does Jesus change his tune, commend her for her faith, and heal her daughter. So, happy ending, but… yeah. Jesus does not behave here like I would have hoped from the Son of God.

         This is a challenging text, because this exchange conflicts with the idea that Jesus was perfect. The unblemished sacrificial lamb. He must be, right, if our theology is to make any sense? Many have tried to justify Jesus’ behavior by saying that he was just testing the woman, or using her as a sort of object lesson – but does that really make him look any better, to have used this woman in her hour of need, to make a point? So… is Jesus not perfect then?

I remember asking my pastor dad as a kid if Jesus was perfect, and he pointed out that “perfect” isn’t a very helpful descriptor. Did Jesus stub his toe? Sure. Did he sometimes stink up the bathroom? Probably. Did he feel human emotion? Absolutely. Does any of this make him not “perfect”? Better, Pastor Dad went on, is to say that Jesus is “without sin.” But while I was satisfied with that at the time, this story muddies those waters again. Is this exchange, where he ignores a woman’s needs, then claims she is outside of the scope of his mission, and then refers to her and her people as dogs… is this exchange sinful? Whatever it is, it sure doesn’t seem consistent with the Jesus we know and love, the Jesus who is meant to be a blessing for the whole world, the Jesus who, at the end of this Gospel, will commission his disciples to bring the Gospel to all the nations. What gives, Jesus?

The truth is that while we believe that Jesus is both fully divine and fully human, we are often less comfortable when we see him act like a human. And if Jesus truly is fully human, then why shouldn’t he experience one of the most human experiences of all: making a mistake, and having to face up to it. To be clear, I don’t think making an honest mistake is necessarily a sin, but continuing to do it, and not learning from it and using it as an opportunity to grow may very well be. With that in mind, I think the more important lesson to learn from this exchange is not whether Jesus sinned or made a mistake, but what he does when he is called out on it.

         I can tell you what I would do in his situation. I would immediately start thinking of excuses to save face. “I didn’t mean that the way you took it.” Or, “I just didn’t know my mission was supposed to include Gentiles yet.” Or, “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night – you see, I was walking on a tumultuous sea.” Or, I might even admit that the calling out was justified, admit my mistake, but then try to frame it in such a way that still allows me to have some power, like, “I’m sorry I ignored you – I was distracted by all the other things on my plate right now. You see, my cousin just died, and I just fed, like 5000 people, and then there was this incident on the sea, and the Pharisees were all getting on my nerves… Anyway, sorry I was short with you, I just have a lot going on.”

         But Jesus doesn’t do any of this. And if I’m being honest, even though I know that I do that, I’d be even more disappointed in Jesus if he did. If I were that woman in need, and he started feeding me all kinds of excuses and justifications, I would feel utterly unseen and unheard, which is often the far more painful offense. I mean, don’t you hate it when someone makes an excuse for hurting you? It’s like saying, “Your pain, and our relationship, is less important to me than my own ability to save face and maintain my position of power. My comfort matters more to me than your pain.” But Jesus doesn’t do that. He puts this woman, and the relationship, first. When the woman uses his own words to focus his attention on a part of his mission he had previously not addressed, his mission to those beyond the children of Israel, he hears her, and sees her. He receives her objection with grace, recognizing that Canaanite lives do matter, just as much as those of the children of Israelites. He even commends her for pointing it out. And, he heals her daughter. In this story, we get to watch how Jesus turns what could have been a very embarrassing moment for him, into an opportunity to learn and grow and expand his mission.

We all have such opportunities, though we may not handle them quite as graciously as Jesus does. They happen when we make mistakes that hurt people, when our narrow world view doesn’t allow us to see or hear the pain of a person in need (or to impose our own version of their story upon them), when we get stuck in doing things the same old way, when we are faced with a reality that we have been, willfully or not, unaware of. (For myself, I’m thinking of my growing awareness of racism and white supremacy in our society, and the pain of recognizing the role white people like myself have played and continue to play in it, even if that role has largely been passive complicity.) Becoming aware of, or even being confronted with our own limited perspectives, and the mistakes we make because of them, can be a painful and uncomfortable experience, and it is about as human an experience as there is.

And thanks to this story, we see that Jesus, who was himself fully human, did not escape that very human experience. He had it, too. Yet when Jesus is confronted with a challenge to the way he had always done things, he doesn’t use it as a chance to double down and prove himself right. He uses it as an opportunity to widen his vision, and expand his mission. He uses it as a chance to learn and grow – another beautiful, though sometimes very difficult and painful human experience. When faced with something he wasn’t ready for, Jesus adapts, and his willingness to do this allows him to see that God’s vision is bigger than what he had been seeing. He is better for the experience, and so are we.

         2020 has brought one painful challenge to our previous ways of doing things after another. Many of these challenges may make us want to curl up in a ball and shrink our view of the world, focus only on ourselves. I have certainly had days like this, when I have so much on my own plate that I can’t possibly bear anyone else’s pain, and I can’t un-learn or re-learn how to do one more thing, and I certainly can’t completely overhaul yet another of my cherished routines, traditions, perspectives, or expectations.

That is why I’m so grateful for this story today. Because Jesus shows us that he had to do this, too. He had to face up to his blind spots, accept the criticism of another, learn and grow from his mistakes, and in doing that, enter into a new life, a new way of being, a new way of living out God’s mission. No doubt the experience was painful – healing, growth, and new life often are. It always requires the death of old ways, the death of old perspectives, the death of our egos, and for Jesus, ultimately, death on a cross. But from those deaths will always emerge new life – for the tenacious Canaanite woman who persisted in faith, for you and for me as we persist in faith through this challenging year so full of death and loss, and for our very God who died upon a cross to show us the glorious new life that God will, every time, bring about.

         Let us pray… Dear Jesus, both human and divine, thank you for showing us how to handle our mistakes, how to respond to the challenges to our world view with grace, how to learn and grow instead of stick to our same old ways that do not bring about life. Grant us the grace to learn and grow from our mistakes, that they would direct us toward your kingdom ways. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Fear and doubt in a life of faith (Aug 9, 2020)

 Pentecost 10A
August 9, 2020
Matthew14:22-33

 

INTRODUCTION

         In today’s readings we will see an emotion that is all too familiar to us right now: fear. In our first reading, we’ll see Elijah who is running for his life from Queen Jezebel, who has sworn to take his life. He’s at his wit’s end when he hides away in a cave and encounters God not in wind, earthquake or fire, but in the “sound of sheer silence.” The Gospel carries on that fear, with a storm on the sea, and what the disciples believe is a visit from a ghost.

         Since we missed last week, let me set this one up for you, because this story about Jesus walking on water immediately follows last week’s story about feeding the 5000 – and in fact, it does in all three of the Gospels in which it appears. Those stories are always together. So last week, a tired Jesus was trying to get some time alone. He’s just learned that his cousin, John the Baptist, has been killed by Herod, and he needs some alone time to process. But the crowds follow him, and they are hungry. Jesus pulls off one of his most famous miracles: feeding 5000 men plus women and children with a mere five loaves and two fish. But he is still exhausted, perhaps even more so now, so he sends his disciples ahead of him in the boat, and he goes up a mountain to pray. That’s where our story today starts.

         In both stories where fear is palpable, God shows up in unexpected ways. Imagine as you listen what it would feel like to be there, encountering God in these ways, and think of what unexpected ways you have seen God show up in your life. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Walking on Water by Ivan Aivazovsky, 1817-1900

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

         To my great dismay, but not necessarily my surprise, the current division and partisanship in our country has somehow made even a global pandemic into a partisan issue. And sadly, because gathering for worship involves some particular challenges with this virus, it has also driven a bigger wedge through the already wide divisions within the Church. While many churches did as we did back in March – immediately closed the doors and hunkered down, following the advice of medical experts and scientists to limit the spread of the virus – other churches balked in the face of these recommendations. Some of this was based on a fear that the recommendations infringe upon our first amendment right to worship freely, a concern which I understand (though, frankly, we would have chosen to close the building even without these recommendations, so it’s really a non-issue). The other, more troubling argument for ignoring the recommendations, was to say, “I trust God to protect me from the virus. If it’s my time to go, it’s my time. But I have faith, so I do not fear this virus.”

         It sounds pious enough, right, but there are numerous things wrong and, I would argue, unchristian about this approach, starting with the fact that slowing community spread of a deadly disease is at least as much about caring for one another as it is about our personal health (and to say, “I’m not afraid of getting sick” is to deny that each sick person puts many others in the community at risk - and we're about loving our neighbor!). But there is another issue with that argument that borders on spiritual abuse, and that is this: that to say, “I am not afraid because I trust God,” implicitly accuses the other of not having sufficient faith, as if to say, “If you have fear [in the midst of legitimately fearful things!], then you are not being a good Christian. Your faith is lacking.”

         There are Christian traditions that preach this message. Unfortunately, the effect is often that, instead of inspiring courage or trust, that message burdens believers with guilt, shame, and hopelessness, while also not really assuaging the fear at all.

         Thing is, fear is a completely natural human emotion. And while the scriptures are replete with imperatives to “fear not,” there is nothing in the Gospels that calls upon us to prove our faith by taking pointless risks that threaten our lives, or doing reckless things. As one preacher observes, “Whether we’re talking about respecting the power of the sea during a vicious storm, or heeding expert medical advice during a global pandemic, the same caution applies. Recklessness is not faith. Stupidity is not courage.”[1]

         So, as your pastor, let me be clear: having fear in a fearful situation does not mean you lack faith. It means you are human, and that you have a functioning amygdala, the part of the brain stem that makes us feel fear. If you are seeing a ghostlike figure walking on water, or you’re drowning in a storm, it is appropriate to feel fear. You are no less a Christian for feeling it. If you feel fear as you face… sending your child to school during a pandemic, or social isolation, or a failing economy, or systemic racism, or political brokenness, or a strained marriage, or illness, or job insecurity or anxiety or depression – if you feel fear in the midst of those things, you are no less a person of faith, and no less a deeply beloved child of God.

         No, the issue is not feeling fear. The issue is where that fear leads us. Look at where Peter is led. While many-a sermon has interpreted Peter’s reckless act of jumping out of the boat and into the storm as a faithful one – to the tune of, “Get out of the boat and step out in faith!” – I’m not so sure it is an act of faith. Listen to how this plays out: the disciples are in the midst of a storm in the middle of the night, and they see someone who looks like a ghost walking toward them on top of the water. They are understandably freaked, and they shout out. Jesus consoles them, saying, “Have courage. It’s me. No need to fear.” And Peter’s response is, “If it is you, Lord… prove it.” Does that sound like another famous identity test? Remember when Jesus was being tempted in the desert by the devil? “If you are the Son of God,” the devil says, and then gives him several tests to prove his identity. And here Peter says similar, “If it is you, command me to do the impossible, and walk out on the water toward you.” You see, his response was not one of faith, but of skepticism and distrust. Even though Jesus has just identified himself, he can’t believe this is really Jesus. So he seeks proof. (It’s worth noting that in just a couple chapters, Jesus will call Peter Satan: “Get behind me, Satan!” further solidifying this connection!)

         I admit I’m guilty of this, of letting my reptilian brain lead me to distrust. Going back to that amygdala, that reptilian brain of ours that causes us to feel fear – it is what allows us to survive (fight or flight), but that response also drives me to respond to fearful situations sometimes with suspicion. I’m inclined toward a transactional relationship with God: “God, prove to me that you are here with me and that you care for me. I’ll do this, but you had better do your part in return.”

         Thinking of Peter’s action this way totally changes then how I interpret Jesus’ question to him. “You of little faith. Why did you doubt?” I’ve always assumed that the moment of doubt Jesus was referring to is the moment Peter looked around at those huge waves and had that fear response again and started to sink. He doubted, so he sank. But now I think Jesus is talking about the fact that Peter questioned Jesus’ legitimacy! Peter’s true moment of doubt and faithlessness was when he asked Jesus to prove his love and care. Jesus’ question then is, “I told you who I am, Peter. Why didn’t you believe me? Why did you doubt that it was truly I who was coming to you? After all this time, why did you need me to prove it to you?” And this, to doubt who Jesus is and what he is about, strikes me as a far more egregious doubt than a simple fear of the storm.

         The place of fear and doubt in a life of faith is one that comes up in many conversations I have had as a pastor. It’s one that comes up in my own life of faith. It comes up a lot because fear and doubt are such natural human emotions, and because we’ve given into the narrative that these things are the opposite of faith. And so, we seek consolation by looking to Peter, reckless, impetuous, suspicious, eager Peter. Even in his fear, we say, Peter had the courage to step out of the boat and into the storm. We should be like Peter. But while Peter is a useful mirror for our own human condition, our faults and our follies, our consolation cannot come from Peter. It can only come from Jesus. Notice that, while Peter’s actions are all over the place, Jesus never falters. From the beginning of the story, Jesus comes to those he loves. He comes to them when they are in a storm at sea. He comes to them when they think he is a menacing ghost. He comes to them when they shout out in fear. He comes to them when Peter sets out to test him. He comes to them when Peter starts to drown and calls out for help. He comes to them when a soaking wet Peter regrets his rashness. He comes to them when they suddenly realize who Jesus is, and make the confession that Peter, in his fear, was unable himself to believe: that Jesus is the very Son of God.

Jesus never stops coming to this fearful, doubting, suspicious bunch of disciples, and he never stops coming to us. He never shames us for our fear. He never tells us to just try harder. He comes to us. He loves us. He saves us, beckoning us when we are unsure, grabbing our hand when we start to drown, helping us to stay afloat when the waters come up over our heads, and climbing with us into our wind-battered boat. As always, this story is not about us, or about Peter. It is about Christ, and his saving action. It is about Christ, calling out to us, over the tempestuous winds, and into our tempestuous hearts, “Have courage. It is I. Do not be afraid.”

Let us pray… Steadfast God, the storms of life swirl around us and often lead us to fear and doubt. As we feel these human emotions, bring us your assurance that you are who you say you are, and that with you, we need not be afraid. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

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[1] Debie Thomas, “Out of the water,” 2020,  Journey with Jesus.

Sermon: Praying in the Spirit (July 26, 2020)

Full service here.

Pentecost 7A

July 26, 2020

Romans 8:26-39

INTRODUCTION

           This is the last week we’ll be hearing from Matthew’s parable discourse, and, like the finale of a 4^th of July fireworks show, Jesus will give us one parable after another – bam, bam, bam! In this series of short parables, Jesus will use several everyday images to help us understand what the kingdom of God is like. Yet when he asks his disciples if they’ve understood these things, and they say, “Yes” – I call their bluff! Each short parable is so dense and complex to unpack, they couldn’t possibly have understood it all! That said, perhaps they can best be summarized in this way: God’s kingdom shows up even in small, ordinary, and often unexpected ways.

         Perhaps that is why this Gospel is paired with Solomon’s prayer for wisdom. King Solomon is best known for his surpassing wisdom, and today’s reading shows us when and why he was given this gift. A prayer for wisdom is one I think we all could stand to offer, during a time when so many unknowns make it near impossible to make wise choices! Thankfully, we will also hear today this beautiful portion of Romans 8, in which we are assured that whatever hardship comes our way, nothing can separate us from the love of God, and that the Spirit is praying with us and for us through it all, with “sighs too deep for words.”

         There’s a lot of good news in our texts today. So whatever burden or trouble you may be carrying today, I pray that these texts can bring some relief to it. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

            In her book, Souls Raised from the Dead, Christian author Doris Betts tells a story about driving down the highway in North Carolina. As she drove, she saw a bunch of highway patrol men on the side of the road. She could see that a chicken truck had run off the road and broken apart, and chickens were everywhere. The driver was running around trying to capture what chickens he could, some people were trying to steal the chickens, and there was chicken blood everywhere. You can imagine it was a scene as horrific as it was hilarious, as the patrolman was trying to bring some order to the chaos. Betts observes: That’s us. We are that patrolman. In the middle of life’s chaos and horror and humor, we try to bring order, meaning, and stability.

            There are many ways we try to do this, but one way we do, is through prayer – seeking peace in the midst of chaos, wisdom in the midst of confusion, and guidance in the midst of craziness. In my personal prayer life, I have felt a bit like that patrolman these past few months. Watching the virus continue to ravage parts of the country as numbers of cases and deaths shoot ever higher. Racism and white supremacy, and drastic tactics made to try to stifle people’s voices and concerns. The end of some benefits that have been helping people stay fed and keep their homes. The fear and anxiety of parents and educators, as we all anticipate how to hold school this year in a situation with no right answer. Ever-deepening partisanship. Not to mention the personal pains and losses – sick loved ones we cannot visit in the hospital, strained and broken relationships, addiction, mental illness, loss of connection, deaths of people we love.  

            As I have tried to pray for all of these things, I have felt like that patrolman, wanting so badly to help, to bring some sense of calm and order to a world that seems to have spun out of control. But even as I try to pray, whether while I’m driving, or in the quiet of the morning or before bed, I often find I am at a loss. No words are enough. And even if words were enough, I don’t always know what words to pray! Some of these situations are so complicated and have so many different sides, so even if I could be sure that whatever I pray will come to pass, I’m not always sure what outcome is the best!

            In times like this, when the words of prayer escape me, I am grateful for Paul’s words this morning in Romans. “The Spirit helps us in our weakness,” he says. “For we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words.” I just love this image. I love that although I know God delights in my prayers, God also doesn’t let me just flounder around helplessly with no direction. I picture putting myself out there, vulnerable and in need, and the Spirit swooping in under me, holding, even cradling me securely, and saying, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this for you.”

            But I also love that even the Spirit doesn’t use real words, but rather “sighs too deep for words.” When you think about it, what better prayer is there than that? What better prayer of lament than someone’s gut-wrenching sob? What better prayer of thanksgiving than uncontrolled laughter? What better prayer of praise than a toddler’s squeal of delight? Mere utterances, with no verbal language behind them, are perhaps the most creaturely prayer of all – even as they are also the most divine.

Prayer is that way, too. When words escape us, our sighs and sounds are enough. That is how the Spirit prays on our behalf, and that is how we can pray in the Spirit. We are released from the demand we may put on ourselves to pray beautifully worded prayers, as if God will somehow hear and understand those better, and respond more readily. God doesn’t need those beautiful words – our breath, our deep sighs, are plenty to get the point across.

Something else happens when we so intentionally consider our breath to be our prayer: it connects us to one another. With a deadly virus floating around, spreading through our aerosols and breath, we’ve started thinking about sharing air as a bad thing – no singing together, no shouting, no playing wind instruments, nothing that requires sharing too much air with too many people. But in reality, there is no way to avoid sharing breath. The air we breathe, the air that makes us produce those sighing prayers, is truly a shared commodity, and in that way, it is unifying. It is common to all of us. And just as we say that the Holy Spirit, the Holy Breath, gathers us together and makes us one body, one Church, our deep breaths do this, too. In this way, every breath, every prayer, that we pray for ourselves, is for someone else, and every breath we pray for someone else, we pray for ourselves.

It reminds me of a Martin Luther King, Jr. quote I’ve seen a lot lately: that “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” If any of us suffers injustice, none of us enjoy the peace and justice that God intends for us. If you’ve paid any attention to the protests happening in response to George Floyd’s murder, you’ve seen signs that say, “I can’t breathe.” These, of course, refer to Mr. Floyd’s last words, as the officer kneeled on his neck. I’ve been very moved to see these signs, because it reminds me that breath really does connect us – and if one can’t breathe, we all are with that person, even if it means that we must then use our breath, our prayers in the Spirit, to pray and stand up for those who have no breath. The Spirit’s breath connects us. For we all share the pains and sorrows of this world, though they may take different forms for each of us. With the Holy Spirit, we pray as one body, one breath, sighing deeply for all the earth.

And of course, when we pray in the Spirit, with deep, Spirit sighs, not only are we connected to one another, we are connected to Christ, who is our head and our life. At Jesus’ baptism, the Holy Spirit came down on him like a dove, and that same Spirit came on each of us in our baptism, just as the Spirit will in a moment for Bobby. And so all of us – you, me, Bobby, Jesus – all of us are a part of each other: one Body, one Breath. It is because of that, as Paul so powerfully states at the end of today’s reading, that “neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

That love promised to us through all things… is in every breath – every breath inhaled for life, every breath uttered as prayer for ourselves or another, every breath that contains the smell of this beautiful earth, every breath that produces laughter or weeping or song or stillness. Every breath is the breath of the Spirit, interceding on our behalf, sighing prayers for us and for this world that are too deep for words.

As we close in prayer, I invite you simply to breathe deeply. I don’t think we do enough of that. (And, in the absence of being together in the flesh, I want to be sure you are actively participating at home, so put down your cup of coffee and do this with me!) We are going to take some time this morning simply to breathe deeply, all the way to our toes, trusting that with each deep breath, each sigh, we are praying with and being filled by the Holy Spirit. While we breathe, think about something or someone in need of prayer, maybe even yourself, as you inhale and exhale. If you have others in your house with you, consider putting a hand on the back of the person next to you so you can feel their breath, or even breathe together. Our breath, and the Breath of the Spirit, shall be our closing prayer. Let us pray.

Several seconds of silent breathing… In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Evil, the Enemy, and God (July 19, 2020)

View the full service here. Sermon starts about 35:10.

Pentecost 7A
July 19, 2020

Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

Romans 8:12-25

INTRODUCTION

         Today we continue through Matthew’s parabolic discourse, this series of parables. Remember last week I mentioned that Matthew has set up his Gospel with five discourses – the first is Sermon on the Mount (instructions for faith), the second is the missionary discourse (instructions for the apostles proclaiming the kingdom of God), and now we are into the parable discourse, which will teach us some truths about God. Today’s story is the parable of the wheat and the weeds, in which an enemy sows weeds among the good seed, and the farmer tells the workers not to pull the weeds, but to wait until the harvest, when all will be sorted out. This powerful parable, along with the other readings today, bring up some tough questions about evil – where it comes from and why it is among us. Each reading offers a directive that brings us both comfort and discomfort: wait. God’s got this under control. Evil and suffering will, finally, come to an end. “Hope for what you do not see,” Paul urges in our reading from Romans, “and wait for it with patience.”

         In the midst of so many unknowns in our world, that “wait and see” message can be a difficult one to hear. But friends, do hear it today. And try to find in it some comfort and solace for the uncertainty before us, as we wait with patience “for the glory about to be revealed to us.” Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

         On this day, July 19, 2020, the economic recession and high unemployment is still an issue. Racism is still an issue. How the US is dealing (or not) with the rapidly rising numbers of Covid-19 cases is still very much an issue. But the issue that I have heard more about this week than any of those is the question of what to do about opening schools in the fall. Guidelines from the NY Department of Health came out on Monday. All week (and for the past few weeks) I have seen roughly a zillion posts on social media about the myriad concerns at play: health of students, teachers and staff; the particular needs of at-risk students who lack resources, or who depend upon in some cases life-saving services the school provides; for parents the balance of work and childcare. On Tuesday I received a survey from our school district asking about our hopes, needs, and preferences for the fall. When I opened it the first time, I could feel my chest tighten as anxiety crept into my heart. The realization hit so hard that: there is no right or just answer here. Each solution brings up another problem. Every possibility puts someone at risk, and most often the ones who lose the most are those who started at greater risk, namely, the poor and those with special needs. Every bad weed we try to pull out of this mess, we inevitably pull up some good wheat with it.

         The wheat and the weeds. I have a real love-hate relationship with this parable. On the one hand, it seems straightforward enough: leave the judgment to God. You do you, and let God do God. Everything will work out. Nice enough message. But on the other hand, it makes me feel very stuck and helpless, because it clearly names that evil is real and it is among us, but also tells us, “Don’t do anything about it right now.” Paired with the Romans text, a beautiful text that I love about waiting in hope and patience, this message about waiting is an especially difficult one to hear right now.

         Because friends: I’m tired of waiting! I’m done being in limbo. I’m done not knowing what to expect out of school this year, and it hasn’t even started! I’m done waiting for racial justice just to magically happen. I’m done waiting to see how bad (or how long) this pandemic will really be. I’m done waiting to see if the economy will recover, if people will be able to make rent, if we will ever travel again, if I’ll have to wait yet another year to see my parents or my brother’s family. I’m done “waiting for what I do not see with patience,” as Paul says, because I already do see some things, I’ll tell ya what, I do not like it! I don’t want a parable today about waiting for God. I want a parable that says, “Okay, Johanna, here’s what you have to do next. Here’s how you can safely get some of the bad stuff out and leave only the good stuff.” Where is that parable?

         Of course, that is first of all not the purpose of parables. That was what Jesus was doing in the first two discourses: he gave instructions for living a life of faith. Now, Jesus has turned to teaching us about who God is and how God works. And it turns out, black and white certainty about every situation is not how God or faith work. If we could peg God and know exactly everything, if our human minds could comprehend that, what kind of God would that be? One with enough limits to fit inside the human mind? No instead, ours is a faith full of paradox: God is one in three, and three in one; Jesus is fully human and fully divine; we are justified by grace through faith alone, and also faith without works is dead; we are simultaneously saint and sinner, at once freed from sin and captive to sin. It’s a wonder any of us can sleep at night with all this uncertainty!

         I find some relief in recognizing that it is not the purpose of this parable to provide certainty, nor to tell us what, specifically, to do about evil. If I can put aside that expectation, I can instead focus on what this parable can show us – about faith even as we struggle, and about God’s faithfulness in the face of evil.

         So with that focus, what can we learn from the wheat and the weeds? The first thing I hear from this parable is this important truth: Yes, there is evil in the world, but no, God did not put it there. We must acknowledge that there is evil about, and it is a real force whose goal is to turn us away from the God of life. There is an enemy, as Jesus calls it. Did you notice that line? The workers say, “Didn’t you sow good seed? Where’d the weeds come from?” and the master’s ominous response is, “An enemy has done this.” In other words, this evil is not of God. God never wills evil. Despite many common platitudes, such as, “God has a plan…” or, “God will reveal his purpose…”, evil is not a part of God’s plan. It never was – remember, God created all things good.

That said, God can and does always use the evil we face to bring about God’s purpose. God is always powerful enough to overcome the evil and use it for good. Let me tell you a real-life example: we have been praying each week in worship for Chelsea Ellis, who is the 30-year-old niece of Tim and Linda Jackson. Chelsea is a vibrant young woman who works with refugees, has done missions in 13 different countries, leads Bible studies out of her home, and whose dearest hope in life is to bring people to Christ. On April 15, she was walking down the sidewalk and was struck by a police car responding to what turned out to be a phony call. She was thrown 58 feet and sustained injuries generally incompatible with life – including what appeared to be a severely damaged brain stem. Yet God spared her life. She is currently unable to move anything below her neck, is on a ventilator, and has had several setbacks in the past three months, but she keeps recovering, and each day God brings about more miracles in her healing. She is now in rehab, learning to talk, swallow, stand, and move her wheelchair around with her eyes. She intends to play her guitar again soon, and has every intention of walking, singing, and dancing once again. More importantly, you cannot believe the number of people who have expressed that, through their encounters and interactions with her and her story during her recovery, they have come to see and know God in ways they never had before. People are coming to Jesus through her story. No matter what roadblocks “the enemy” throws in her way, God is finding ways to overcome them – and not just barely, but in huge, miraculous ways!

God did not put Chelsea in the path of the police car. That was the enemy. God does not cause the various infections she’s endured. That is the enemy. What God does is show Chelsea, and the thousands of people around the world who are following her story, that evil is not more powerful than God. (See Chelsea's Go Fund Me page here to participate in her recovery.)

No more profoundly do we see this than in the very central story of our faith, the story of the cross. Evil put Jesus on a cross. Evil mocked him and flogged him and left him for dead. But God did not let that be the end. God turned even that horrific evil into the promise of and the gateway to new life. The cross is testimony that evil is real, but that it is not powerful enough to overcome God. God always wins. That is who God is. For all the uncertainty in the world, and all the paradox, and all the gray area, this is sure: that in the end, God will always win over evil.

I do still wish I had a parable to instruct us about how exactly to address the pandemic, and racism, and recession, and what on earth to do about school in the fall. But that is not the role of this parable. The role of this parable is to assure us that God has got all of this under control. It urges us to name evil for what it is and to acknowledge its presence among us. It does not grant us the power to decide for ourselves who or what is wheat and weed (that’s God’s job), but it does encourage us to live our lives knowing what is expected in a life of faith – to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God – to live that life trusting always that whatever ways we try and fail to live the faithful life to which we are called, God will win in the end. God will sort out the evil from the good, burn it in the fire, and welcome us into eternal light and life.

Let us pray… Victorious God, we get discouraged when it seems that evil is overcoming good, and we long for the time of waiting to end. Grant us patience and hope, and the assurance that whatever evil crosses our path, it will never be more powerful than you. Help us remember that you will win, every time. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Reckless Sower (July 12, 2020)

Full service is here. Sermon starts around 34:30.

Pentecost 6A

July 12, 2020

Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

INTRODUCTION

         Of the four Gospel, the Gospel of Matthew is the most meticulously organized. One feature of his Gospel is that during this middle part of the Gospel, Matthew sets up five distinct discourses. The first is one of the best-known and often-quoted parts of the New Testament, the Sermon on the Mount, which outlines the basic tenets of Christian faith. Then we get what we’ve been hearing the past few weeks: the missionary discourse, instructions for the twelve apostles as they are sent out to proclaim the good news of the kingdom. Today we begin the third discourse, the “parabolic discourse” – for the next few weeks, we’ll be hearing a lot of parables.

         So to set this up, let me ask you: what is a parable? Parables in the Bible are stories that teach us something about God. The word in Greek literally means, “throw alongside,” so often what you’ll see is something very common thrown alongside something else to help us understand that latter thing better. Today’s parable, for example, is the parable of the sower – an everyday image of planting, used to show us how the Word of God takes root for us. As you listen to it, think about which aspect of the story resonates with you – is it the sower, the seed, the birds, or one or more of the four types of soil?

         Our first reading and Psalm are chosen to echo the planting image. Isaiah offers a poetic vision for a people in exile. He describes how all of creation praises and celebrates God for the ways God’s word waters and nourishes its growth. As you listen to that one, just hear the hope in it. Hear the joy. Let it be in this fearful times a word of hope, joy and peace for you, one that replenishes your soul.

Finally, in Romans, Paul will talk about what brings life, and what brings death. Listen for where you might find life these days. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

         The other day, my sweet family and I were sitting around the dinner table, sharing with each other things that we love about each other. I love Isaac’s kindness. Isaac loves that Daddy plays cars with him. Daddy loves Grace’s creativity. When it came time for Grace to say what she loves about me, she said, “I love that Mommy teaches me about planting things.”

         It’s true: during this quarantine, I decided to take the gift of time stuck at home together, and teach the kids about growing things. We read some books, we got some seeds and soil and celebrated when each little sprout poked through the dirt, we planted flowers from seed, and some flowers that were already blooming… but friends, I have to confess something. Despite Grace’s affirmation, I’m actually terrible at planting. The vegetable seeds we planted never got further than sprouting. That bucket of dirt you saw for the children’s sermon last week? Yeah, that was supposed to be peas, and you saw how well it’s doing! The flower seeds we planted never sprouted, the blooming ones mostly died, I have even managed to kill hostas and mint (yes, it IS possible), and this I’ve done on multiple occasions. I am just not a good gardener.

         Though I have to say, for all my lack of success with gardening, at least I seem to know more about it than the sower in today’s parable. Because even I know that before you plant, you have make sure you have proper place for the seeds you have, proper light and water, and of course, that you have to prepare the soil. This guy, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to get any of that, least of all about preparing the soil. Instead, he walks about throwing seed willy-nilly, even though he must know that it is a waste to throw seed into thorns, or onto what amounts to a cement parking lot. He is reckless and wasteful, no model to follow for any aspiring farmer or gardener!

         And I have to say, I find his method very irritating. You see, I have always been someone who carefully counts the cost. Just ask my husband about how long it takes me to order in a restaurant, as I carefully consider price, my mood, how hungry I am, and how good the leftovers will keep. I remember for one birthday when I was kid, a friend gave me a package of clay that came with instructions for how to make pottery based on Native American designs. It even came with some black paint so I could paint the designs on the side. Such a cool gift! I was delighted. But every time I looked at the package of clay in my closet, I thought, “No, not today. I might mess up, and then I will have wasted it. I should save it for a time when I am sure I will be able to make something beautiful with it. If I use it now, then I won’t have it anymore, and then I’ll be sad later that I was so reckless to use this before I was really ready to get everything out of it that I could.” See – I was careful, thoughtful, and I thought ahead. Nothing like this sower in the parable.

            Well, I’d love to say my thoughtfulness, care and foresight paid off. But guess what happened to that clay, that lovely, interesting gift from my friend? I kept it – for years, until I was too old to really enjoy it anymore, and then a little longer in case my interest might return… until the clay dried up and became worthless to me. I ended up throwing it in the garbage one day many years later. I never did get to enjoy it.

            How much of life passes us by like that? How many opportunities do we miss because we are afraid of not doing it right, because we are waiting for the timing to be perfect, because we want to make sure we are absolutely prepared and so we know things will go well? How many of us need to make sure the proverbial soil is perfectly tilled before we take any risks and try to make anything grow?

There are many ways to enter this parable. We can think of ourselves as the sower, being sent out to spread the good news to others. We can think of ourselves as the seed that is being spread upon the world. But my favorite way to understand this well-known parable is to think of ourselves as the soil, and God as the sower. But – we’re not always the good soil, are we? At least I’m not. Just as I sometimes miss opportunities to share the good news with others, I have also missed opportunities to receive the good news. My guess is I’m not alone in this. Sometimes it is hard to hear and receive God’s Word, because our hearts have been hardened and burned too many times before, and we’re not in a place to receive the good news of God’s grace. “Well that can’t possibly be for me,” we think. “That might work for someone else, or at a different time, but not me, and not now.” Or sometimes we hear God’s Word, but quickly let it be choked out by other things that seem more important in the moment, or by our own preferences or fears. Or we hear it, but ignore it and let it be overcome by the elements and the ways of the world.

It’s a good thing, then, that the sower is so reckless, spreading seed even on the bad, unprepared soil – so that if we miss it the first time, we will still have another chance. This parable, you see – it is a parable of abundance. It is a story about a God who throws seed out to all different kinds of soil – not because God is a bad gardener who doesn’t understand about tilling and fertilizer, but because God knows that all of that seed will do some good. The seed that gets eaten up by birds – well, at least it is feeding the birds! The seed that gets thrown among thorns – it is fertilizing the soil for future harvest.

And the seed that lands on good soil – that not only grows and thrives, but is an abundance beyond our understanding! A good harvest is one that yields between seven- and ten-fold. Jesus tells his disciples that the seed that fell on good soil yielded 30 times, 60 times, even 100 times! Surely the farmers in the audience were laughing at his absurdity – it is impossible! But God’s grace IS absurd. It often makes little sense, is not at all the way we would do things, and certainly is not, in any reasonable mind, the “best” or most efficient way to do something.

But you see, what is impossible and unreasonable with humans is possible and effective with God. Because our God is one of abundance – who throws seeds everywhere without counting the cost, who doesn’t worry that some of those seeds may not do a bit of good, and some will do good that we didn’t expect; a God who knows that some of those seeds will yield a crop that is lavishly beyond human comprehension. With God, there is always enough. There is always more than enough.

That story I told about my clay… I think I got that for my 7^th birthday, and it has stuck with me for 30 years since, probably because in some ways I am still that cautious little girl who wants to be sure she has what she needs when she needs it. But I wonder: what if I received God’s abundant grace the same way I received that gift of clay? Admiring God’s grace in its package – water in a font, bread and wine, a word proclaimed, a baby in a manger, a man on a cross – and I understood what a great gift it is… but I was never willing to actually delve into it and experience the joy it brings. What if I was unwilling to take it and touch it and use it, lest I use it up and then not have it when I need or want it. Concerned that I might mess it up if I get too invested in it, and so content simply to admire it from afar. What if all that was how we viewed God’s grace?

Thanks be to God, that is not how grace works. Our God, the Sower, is a reckless God of abundance, lavishly spreading grace and love upon the world. Some will receive it with joy, and bear fruit in absurd amounts. Some will not be ready to receive it – yet. But the seed keeps coming. The grace keeps coming. It never runs out, and it is never wasted. It may not make sense to us, but that is the way of our abundant God of grace.

Let us pray… Reckless Sower, thank you for throwing more and more grace our way, until we are ready to receive it. When we do, help us to bear fruit 100-fold.  In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.