Thursday, October 31, 2019

Not Like Them -- Reformation Sunday


Luke 18:9-14
October 27, 2019

            “There but for the grace of God go I.”
            I find myself using this expression a lot. I say it to myself when I see someone selling The Contributor on a street corner in Nashville, or when I see a person on the side of the road with a duffle bag and holding up a sign asking for food or money or anything that can be spared.
            “There but for the grace of God go I.”
            The first time I ever heard that phrase was when I was about 11 or 12 years old. It was my first trip to California, and my mom and I had gone out for a family wedding. During our visit, my mother, my aunts, my cousins and I were eating pie in a pie shop when a woman came in would now be considered morbidly obese. She was noticed. Every person I was sitting at table with that day understood the painful and constant struggle with weight. I was only in 8th grade, but I was well on my way to understanding that struggle as well. I think that the empathy felt by my family members was real and sincere. But as we sat there, eating our desserts, shaking our heads with sadness and sympathy for her plight, one of my aunts said,
“There but for the grace of God go I.”
I have to be honest, I liked that expression the minute I heard it. I thought those words expressed care and concern for the recipient of the sentiment, while also reminding the person saying it that there were people far worse off. It seemed like the perfect way to put myself into the proverbial shoes of another. Whenever I see someone in a bad way, I think,
“That could be me, but it’s not. There but for the grace of God go I.”
I would probably continue to use this expression, had I not referred to some biblical commentators who pointed out that saying those familiar words is just a nicer sounding way of expressing what the Pharisee expresses in his prayer.
“Thank you God that I am not a sinner like that tax collector over there.”
What would you think if I were to stand in the pulpit and call us to prayer saying,
“Dear God, thank you. Thank you that we are not like the losers outside of these doors. Thank you that we are not like the people who don’t go to church at all or sleep in on Sundays, or read the paper or stare at their phones more than they read your holy Word. Thank you that we know how important it is to be here. Thank you that we know how right it is to be in your house rather than at brunch somewhere.” Thank you, God that we are not like them.”
If I prayed that prayer, you would be appalled, and well you should. But think about what I could get away with if I stood here and prayed, “There, but for the grace of God go I.”
You see the problem with this kind of prayer, however I might express it, is that I pray not out of humility but out of self-righteousness. That is what Jesus is getting at in this parable that he tells, isn’t he? He tells it in response to people who exalt themselves and look at others with contempt. Right from the start then, we know that do not want to be like the Pharisee. We hear how his words ring with false piety.
“Thank you God that I am not like bad people all around me. Thank you that I am not a thief or a cheat. Look at me, God. I am so good. I do all the right things. I keep the Law; in fact I go above and beyond what I am required to do to keep the Law. Yay me!”
No, we want to be like the tax collector who beats his chest and simply prays,
“God, I am a sinner. I am a sinner and I know it. Have mercy on me. I am a sinner.”
Forget the Pharisee. The truth is, I know I am so much more like the tax collector. I know I am a sinner and I am not afraid to admit it. I know that I need to turn to God for grace and mercy. I am definitely not self-righteous like that Pharisee. I know I could be like the Pharisee, but thankfully I’m not! There but for the grace of God go I.
Oh. No.
Preacher and scholar David Lose, describes this parable as being so clear and to the point that we miss the trap that it sets for us. None of us want to be like the self-righteous Pharisee, proclaiming his goodness and his faithfulness. We want to be like the tax collector; willing to admit our sinfulness, asking only that God have mercy on us. As Jesus says, the exalted will be humbled and the humbled will be exalted. I want to be one of the humbled that gets exalted in the great reversal emphasized again and again in Luke’s gospel.
But here is the reality that we often miss. It is just as easy to be self-righteous in our sinfulness as it is in our goodness.
I am a sinner and I know it! But thank you, God, that I am not like them, those other sinners who don’t know it. They are so smug and self-righteous. But I am not like them. There but for the grace of God go I.
Kind of puts a different slant on it, doesn’t it? Either person we choose to identify with – the Pharisee or the tax collector – means that we can fall into the trap of self-righteousness. We are just so grateful that we are not like them.
But I think in trying to be or trying to not be like either one of these characters is actually us missing the point.  Maybe the real point of this parable is that it isn’t about the Pharisee or the tax collector. It’s not about them, and it isn’t about us. It isn’t about us at all. That’s where we run into trouble. We think that it is about us, but it’s not. It’s not about us being good or about us being sinful. The real subject of this parable is God. It is about what God does, how God acts in the world, the mercy God shows to all of God’s children, the exalting or the humbling at God’s hand. It is about God.
Isn’t that at the heart of the Reformation? Today is Reformation Sunday; the day when denominations still willing to claim Martin Luther and John Calvin and so many others as our spiritual ancestors remember how we as Reformed Christians came to be.
What do we know about Martin Luther? While traveling he was caught in a terrible storm, and he promised God that if he survived he would dedicate his life to God. He did and he did. Luther became a monk. He was called upon to teach and to preach, to preside over the sacraments. Yet he felt so completely unworthy that he tortured himself over his salvation. There was nothing he could do to earn it. He could never be good enough to merit salvation or justification by God. He was conflicted, to say the least, and he began to see the Church with new eyes. He traveled to Rome, the great holy city, and there he saw firsthand how the indulgences that the church sold exploited the poor and the powerless. Buying an indulgence meant that you brought a loved one a few more steps out of purgatory and a little closer to eternal life in heaven. It was when Luther began to study the book of Romans that he realized it was not about him. It was not about what he could or could not do. It was not about his own self-righteousness. It was about God.
John Calvin, although he came to his own conversion and covenant with God differently from Luther, also realized that every aspect of our lives should give honor to God. God was the subject of every aspect of our lives. God was the author of every part of our lives. We had no choice but to put God first. When he answered the call to go to Geneva and lead the people there that was Calvin’s intent. Geneva would be a truly reformed city. It would be the city that understood that everything is about God. The first time Calvin tried this it didn’t go so well. He was run out of the city on a rail. But the second time went much better than the first. I guess it may have taken the people of Geneva a while to understand that it wasn’t about them either.
I’m not making the claim that these two men or any of the other reformers, and there were many, were perfect. In spite of their best intentions, they still fell into the trap of thinking it was about them. I suspect they still prayed the prayer of the Pharisee: thank you God that we are not like them. But what the reformers recognized was that it was not just individuals who forgot that the subject was God, the Church had forgotten that as well. The Church had forgotten that, and it is still forgetting; just like the Pharisee, just like us.
While we talk about the Reformation as an historical event, it seems to me that what being a church in the reformed tradition really means is that we understand that we are never done with reforming or being reformed. That is our motto, “Reformed, always reforming.” We are never done with the need for reformation, because it is just so easy to make everything about us. But it isn’t about us. It is about God.
It is about God: a Creator who pulled and pulls good out of bad, life out of chaos. It is about God; not just some far off being who watches us from a detached position somewhere out there. It is about God who loves, who became incarnate, who became one of us to make manifest that Love. The Love of God had flesh and bone, eyes, hand and heart. It is about God who is still with us, showing up in unlikely places and in unlikely people, blowing new life into what we think is dead. It is about God who is in every act of kindness, mercy, grace, forgiveness. It is about God who calls us to be the body of Christ in the world; to be the hands and feet and heart in a world that is so broken because we keep forgetting it isn’t about us. It is about God. It is about God. It is about God. May we be truly humbled in our knowledge of that glorious, wonderful, amazing good news! It is about God.
Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!” Amen.


Delays


Luke 18:1-8
October 20, 2019

            (Take a moment of silence, then put on my kickboxing gloves.)
            I consider myself to be a non-violent person. I seek non-violence in my own life, and I advocate for it in other situations. But in what may seem to be contrary to my commitment to non-violence, for the last six years I took cardio kickboxing classes every week. And I loved them! It was and is one of the best forms of exercise I’ve ever done. It got my heart rate up and my blood pumping. It was not only great cardio; it was great resistance training too, because you’re kicking and boxing against a hard bag with someone else kicking and boxing on the other side. I loved going to kickboxing and I regretted the times I had to miss class, because I got such a good workout. I also became good friends with the teacher, LaDawn, and with a lot of the other regular students. Plus, it was just fun.
            So as much as I strive to be non-violent, kickboxing was my jam. I used to joke that a lot of people remain alive to this day because I kickboxed at least once a week. I can do hammer punches, jabs, shovel punches, backhands and hooks. Don’t even get me started on my kicks. All this is to say that I love kickboxing, and I miss it. I haven’t found a class here yet, but I have not given up on that. I may just have to get my own bag and kick and punch at home.
            Talk of kickboxing may seem to be a strange way to start a sermon, I know, but there is an element of the pugilistic in this passage from Luke. The translation we have in front of us does not reflect that, but what is translated as “so that she will not wear me out by continually coming,” can be more literally translated as “so that she will not give me a black eye.”
            The widow, in this strange and somewhat troubling parable found only in Luke’s gospel, is dogged in her determination. She wants justice. She demands justice. She will not give up until she finally gets the justice she seeks. She is not just harassing the unjust judge to give her what she wants; she is hammering him with her complaints. She is, metaphorically speaking, punching him with persistence; willing it would seem to give him a black eye – both literally and figuratively if that’s what it takes to get the justice she requires.
            Jesus does not give specifics about what injustice has occurred in the widow’s life. We do not know the circumstances of the opponent she refers to. And we also do not know why the judge is unjust; why he has no fear of God or respect for anyone else. While Jesus does not give us these specifics, we can infer some details from the passage. The fact that it was a widow who refused to leave the judge be tells us that she was a marginalized person. Widows and orphans were the least of the least of these. Being without a husband in that culture meant not only that she was alone, but that she was vulnerable. She could easily be taken advantage of, exploited or worse. Repeatedly in scripture, in both the Old and New Testaments, the people are commanded to care for the widows and orphans because they are so vulnerable.
What do we know about the judge? The fact that he will not hear her complaint immediately tells us that he truly did not fear God or respect anyone else beside himself. He was happy to disregard scriptural command and not help the most vulnerable in his midst. Not only does Jesus describe him as having no fear of God and no respect for persons, he possesses an insightful self-awareness about it. He knows full well that he has no fear of God. He is completely open about the fact that he has no respect for any other person. But in spite of this, he grants the widow what she asks for. Clearly he did so grudgingly. There was no change of heart, he just wanted her off his back. He wanted her to stop punching and poking at him. He was afraid that her haranguing would leave him with a black eye. So he does what she demands. He grants her justice against her opponent.
Then Jesus tells those listening that if this unjust judge who doesn’t give a whit about God or others will grant justice, then how much more will God – who does care and does love – grant justice to God’s chosen ones who cry after him day and night? God, who loves God’s people, will not delay in giving justice. God, who cares and wants the best for his children, will not stall or dither or hesitate. God will grant justice and God will grant justice quickly.
Jesus began the parable by telling the people listening to him that they should pray always and do not lose heart. Do not lose heart, do not give up. Have faith, trust God, pray without ceasing, seek justice with persistence. Be like this widow with the unjust judge.
“And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”
That closing question is a tough one. Will there be anyone who can persist for the long term? Will there be anyone left who has not given up? It is a tough question, but there are tough points all the way through the sermon. Is Jesus trying to create a connection between God and the unjust judge? Is this an allegory, and each character in the parable represents someone else? Does the unjust judge actually represent God?
What do these words say to the people who spend their entire lives hammering away, pushing and prodding, but still don’t get justice?  What do they say to the people who are told that they will have justice, but not now? Not yet. And what does it say to the fact that although we believe God is with us and that God answers our cries for justice, we can also look around this world and see that justice is routinely not given. The truth is that oppressed peoples, vulnerable peoples have been crying for justice for thousands of years. Are they any closer to seeing that justice fulfilled now than they were then?
Another troubling point is Jesus’ use of the word, “quickly.” God may grant justice, but how do you define quickly? More often than not, God and I have different definitions of what “quickly” actually means, what it actually looks like. A delay is not just something you experience in an airport. Delays are also found in the granting of justice.
In his “Letter from a Birmingham Jail,” Dr. King wrote about this kind of delay.
“We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed. Frankly, I have yet to engage in a direct action campaign that was ‘well timed’ in the view of those who have not suffered unduly from the disease of segregation. For years now I have heard the word ‘Wait!’ It rings in the ear of every Negro with piercing familiarity. This ‘Wait’ has almost always meant “Never.’ We must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that ‘justice too long delayed is justice denied.’”
“Justice too long delayed is justice denied.”
But it was the unjust judge who delayed in the justice giving, not God. But that is my point. It seems that God delays too. How long did Abraham and Sarah wait for a child? They waited until they were beyond too old. They waited until they should have been completely dried up with despair. Then, after this long waiting, this seemingly unending delay, they had Isaac. There are people who fight for justice until the day they die, and unfortunately they die without having seen the justice they pursued. Why does it seem that not only does the unjust judge delay in granting justice, God does too – in spite of what Jesus said about God’s quick response?
The truth is I don’t have any answers to these questions. I don’t understand why it seems that God delays granting justice any more than I understand the delays in granting justice from institutions and structures. I don’t think that Jesus set out to give an answer to that question either – at least not in this parable. But I do think that in this story he was emphasizing what he said at the beginning.
“He told them a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart.”
I do not think that he was trying to convince those around him – and us – that we just have to pray and pray and pray some more and God will grant us whatever we desire. It seems to me that Jesus was encouraging them. Jesus understood that there would be trials and tribulations ahead. Jesus knew that the mountaintop experiences of faith, those times when they would feel strong and filled with the power of the Spirit, would be far fewer than their times in the valley of the shadow of death. Jesus knew that the world around them would impel them to give up, give in, give out.
Jesus knew that the delays in justice would feel untenable. Jesus knew that they would grow weary of having to constantly push and push and push for justice to be done. Jesus even knew that some, if not many, would go to their final rest without having the seen the fruits of their labors. They might never see justice granted in their lifetimes. Jesus knew, but he also knew that however they might, as Pastor Robert put it at lectionary group, give up on God, God would not give up on them. So Jesus encouraged them and exhorted them to pray always and do not lose heart.
Pray always and do not lose heart. We look at the world we live in, and the delay in justice is real and vivid. We may be like that widow, boxing and pushing and haranguing and harassing, but the justice we long for is certainly delayed if not completely denied. But we can also look at the world and see God’s presence in it. God’s presence may be recognized in a person, in a place, in an event or a circumstance. We may recognize God in very different ways, but God is there. God is here. And we are called to keep going. We are called to keep pushing, keep fighting, keep demanding, keep working, keep striving for justice. We are called to keep trusting that God will not delay forever. We are called to trust, and we are called to a dogged, indefatigable hope. To lose heart is to lose hope, and it is hope that gets us up in the morning. It is hope that pushes us back on feet when we’ve been knocked down. It is hope that brings us back here to worship. It is hope that inspires our hand to serve and fills our hearts with compassion. It is hope that keeps us going in spite of delays. We don’t have all the answers. We don’t have complete understanding, but we have hope. We have hope.
Thanks be to God.
Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!” Amen.

Tuesday, October 15, 2019

Have Mercy On Us


Luke 17:11-17
October 13, 2019

            Woe unto me as a child if I called one of my friends and asked,
“Is Andrea there?”
Woe unto me if I called one of my friends and asked,
“Can I talk to Andrea?”
Woe unto me if I answered the phone with a curt,
“Hello.”
Woe unto me because my mom was a stickler about manners, especially phone manners. If she overheard me calling a friend and asking for said friend in the manner of my two examples, she would come up behind me and say,
“May I speak to Andrea please?” 
At the sound of my brisk “hello,” she would correct me and say
“Hello, Busse residence.”
She did this as many times as it took, until my use of phone manners stuck, and I no longer needed to be prompted. However, her lessons in manners did not stop with phone etiquette.     
            There were table manners. 
“Take your elbows off the table.”  “Chew with your mouth closed.”  “Were you actually, in fact, raised in a barn?”
If I walked into the den and stood in front of the television, ignoring that others were watching it, I would hear,
“Amy, you make a better door than a window.”
            There were the manners that went with sharing. Pulling out a stick of gum in front of my friends meant I better have enough to share. It was impolite to have something and not offer some to the others around you. Having manners meant you didn’t interrupt people when they were talking, especially adults, unless it was an absolute emergency. Manners meant speaking politely in response to someone when you were spoken to.
            Of course my siblings and I were drilled on the basics, “Please.”  “Thank you.”  “You’re welcome.”  “Excuse me.”  These were the “magic words. Whenever I would ask for something or receive something, I was asked, “What’s the magic word?”   
            And if we didn’t mind our manners, we heard about it; and not just from my parents. Other adults were not shy about reminding my friends and me to mind our manners. 
            I am grateful to my mother, my father and all of the other adults who stressed the importance of politeness. But that does not mean that I didn’t hate the constant reminders to “mind my manners” when I was a kid.
Hated.  Them.
I made a solemn vow that if I ever had children, I would not do the same to them. I would not drill them on manners. Then I actually had children. Becoming a parent made me realize how important it is to teach my own children manners. So, in the spirit of my mother, I drilled manners into them. Good manners go a long way.
            This wasn’t because I wanted to be the etiquette police. I did not push manners on my kids just to conform to some expected social convention. Teaching them manners was my way of teaching my kids to be gracious; to be respectful. I want them to know that they have the power to turn an awkward situation into a joyful one. They have the ability to transform a moment just by saying “thank you.”
            “Thank you” is the critical phrase in this passage from Luke’s gospel. Only two words, but they make a world of difference. Jesus encounters ten lepers, heals them of their leprosy and out of those ten only one turns around and says “thank you” to Jesus for his healing.
            This isn’t the first time in Luke’s gospel or in any of the other three that Jesus meets lepers, but the idea of giving thanks to Jesus for healing is unique to this particular passage.  There doesn’t seem to be any other passage in any of the gospels where Jesus encourages the people he heals to turn around and give thanks. I doubt Jesus healed someone, and then prompted that person with “what are the magic words?”  But in this instance, Jesus singles out the Samaritan leper because the Samaritan turned around and gave thanks.
            As I said, Jesus has met lepers before in other situations. Lepers were absolutely some of the least of these in this particular culture. Not only was leprosy – and there were many different kinds of leprosy – considered to be a physical ailment, but it was also thought to be a spiritual misfortune as well. Lepers were ritually and spiritually unclean.
            Because they were considered unclean, lepers lived outside of the main community in their own colonies. When clean people approached their “space,” lepers were required to call out “unclean, unclean!” This warned people to keep their distance. But they still had to survive, and begging was often the only way to do that. So in spite of their uncleanness, they would sit near major traffic ways and beg for charity as a means to survive.
            I can imagine these ten lepers sitting on the outskirts of the village, crying out, “Unclean. Unclean.” And then they see Jesus. Although they didn’t dare get too close to him, I can hear their cries of “unclean, unclean” turning into a plea for help and healing.
“Jesus, Master!  Have mercy on us.”
            This is not our typical gospel healing story. Jesus sees the lepers, but he does not lay hands on them. He does not speak words of healing to them. Instead, he sends them to the priest. When a leper was healed, cleansed of leprosy, a visit to the priest was required. When the priest saw the leper and declared him or her clean, that person was finally able to return to the larger community. Jesus’ command for them to go to the priest was not out of the ordinary, and certainly within the structure of the Law. The ten obediently respond to Jesus and make their way to find the religious leader. While on their way, they are healed. As they were walking in faith, listening and responding to what Jesus told them to do; they were once more made clean. One of them, a Samaritan, happens to notice that his skin, his flesh has been healed. When he observes his healing, he immediately turns back to Jesus and begins praising God with a loud voice. He prostrates himself before Jesus’ feet and thanks him.
            Jesus asked him, “Didn’t I heal ten lepers, and only one came back? What happened to the other nine? Only this foreigner saw fit to praise God and give thanks.”
            Only this foreigner. The one leper who turned back to Jesus had a double whammy against him. He was a leper, therefore an outcast, and he was a Samaritan, therefore an outcast. But he, the foreigner and the outcast, was the one who turned around and cried out his praise and thanks. It was the alien in the land, the Samaritan, who showed an attitude of gratitude. He was the only one who came back. And the result of this was that not only was he cleansed of his leprosy, but Jesus also blessed his faith. The Greek verb translated here as made well can and has been translated as to be saved. Jesus healed ten lepers and saved this one foreigner. 
            This is not the first time Luke’s gospel has given us a story about a Samaritan, a foreigner, doing something unexpected. The Samaritan along the Jericho Road also acted in a way that surprised and even confused the listeners of that story. Once again in this story of thanksgiving, it is a foreigner, a Samaritan, an enemy who does the most loving, godly, righteous thing. When the Samaritan saw that he had been healed, he turned back to Jesus, praised God with a loud voice, and gave thanks.
            It was the Samaritan who showed gratitude. I don’t think that this is evidence of the Samaritan’s mother drilling manners into him – although who knows. I think that this Samaritan understood something about gratitude and thankfulness and graciousness that perhaps the other lepers, and the others listening to Jesus, did not; or at least they did not yet.
            Being grateful is not just an automatic response designed to oil the wheels of social convention. Being grateful, living in gratitude is actually a way of being, a state of mind. Preacher and teacher David Lose wrote that gratitude is like a muscle. We have to constantly practice it and work it and practice it some more. Gratitude is not necessarily easy, and it is not always our first response. But gratitude actually does make a difference in our attitude and in turn, can make a difference in our lives. There is a growing body of science to back this up. People who live with gratitude tend to be happier.
            I think my gratitude muscle has gotten kind of weak. While I am pretty good about being polite, I am my mother’s daughter after all, I do not live in a state of gratitude. I tend to live in a state of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I tend to live in a state of waiting for the next bad thing to happen. Worry, anxiety, frustration, etc. are my much stronger muscles.
            Don’t misunderstand me, there are some events in our lives that makes practicing gratitude incredibly hard. I do not believe that we are called to cover or hide the genuine emotions that we feel when we are grieving or hurting or scared. People who are depressed can’t just be told to get happy and everything will be all right. But even as I say that, to be able to practice gratitude in the face of the other things, even the overwhelming things, helps. But it takes practice. So for just a minute, I’d like you to close your eyes and think of one thing, one person, one aspect of your life for which you are grateful. You don’t have to tell anyone. You don’t have to write it down and put it in the offering plate. Just think about one thing that you are grateful for. (pause)
            Now, for the rest of the day, for the rest of the week, think about that thing, think about that person. Say to yourself, especially in those moments when life feels like too much, I am grateful for … See if it helps. See if it changes anything. These are not magic words, but they may remind you that we have blessings that we don’t always see as blessings.
            I know that all of these blessings will be different for each of us, but I also know that one thing we all have in common is that when we ask Jesus to have mercy on us, Jesus does. That’s grace. We don’t deserve it. We don’t earn it. It isn’t always what we expect. But it’s there. Jesus had mercy on those lepers, and it was the Samaritan, the foreigner, who recognized it, turned around and gave thanks.
            Jesus has mercy on us. Let us give thanks. Let us be grateful. Let us practice and work this gratitude muscle. Then let us show that grace, that mercy, that unqualified love to others. All others. Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!” Amen.

Stirred Up -- World Communion Sunday


II Timothy 1:1-14
October 6, 2019

            Many years ago, a friend of mine called me, and this was long before the days of cell phones; we just had the now lowly landline. My mother and I both answered the phone at the same time, and when my mom realized it was for me she excused herself and hung up. The first thing my friend said when my mom got off the phone was,
“That was haunting.”
            You see my mom and I sound a lot alike. We have the same intonation, the same timbre and expression, etc. So when we answered the phone at the same time, my friend heard my voice – only in stereo, and it kind of freaked him out.
Not only do I sound like my mother, I look like her too. She can never deny that I’m her daughter. Well she can, and there were a few times when I was a kid when she tried; but she can’t get away with it. I’m too much like her. I have inherited many of my mom’s traits, and I’ve inherited many of my dad’s as well. I’m basically fine with this – I love my parents. But it isn’t just that I have the same physical traits or characteristics; I have also turned into them. I have become them. I’m more used to it now, but the first time I saw a kid – not my own, mind you – just some kid out on a chilly afternoon without a coat, and I heard myself say, “That child is going to freeze to death,” I was shocked. I turned around and looked for my mom, because I opened my mouth and it was her voice that came out.
            It happens to all of us, doesn’t it? It’s not just DNA that gets passed on from one generation to the next; behaviors, attitudes, ways of doing things all get passed down too. I’m silly like my mother. I laugh like my sister. I have a strange, dry sense of humor like my brother, and when something happens that really gets me upset, I hold my head in my hands just like my dad.    
            In seminary I learned to use a tool called a genogram. A genogram is similar to a family tree, but instead of focusing solely on when folks are born and when they die, who married who and how many children were born to one family, the genogram shows the kinds of relationships that are passed down from family member to family member, from grandparent to grandchild, father to son, mother to daughter. A genogram makes you ask questions, such as how was money dealt with? How were arguments handled? Which child seemed to be the star of the family, and which child seemed to cause a lot of trouble?
            When I was working on my own genogram, I learned much more about my family than I ever had before. I realized that I have inherited a lot more than just physical traits and characteristics. You could say that I have inherited ministry. Neither of my parents were ministers, but both grandfathers were. And I have great-grandfathers who were ministers, and great great-grandfathers who were ministers. I think I even have great, great great-grandfathers who were ministers. A predominant profession in my family seems to be ministry.
I’d always known, in some form or another, that we have quite a few ministers on both branches of the family tree. But it was still impressive and intimidating to see the names of these many men lined out on paper. All of these men, my ancestors, have traveled the path of ministry before me. And here I am – the first person in two generations and the first woman to follow that same path. Maybe you can imagine then why I related so quickly to this passage from II Timothy. The idea of a faith that is passed down from generation to generation, a faith that lived first in my grandparents, then my parents and then me, powerfully resonated with my own experience.
            Reading these words of encouragement from Paul to Timothy has made me think a lot about these ancestors of mine, and the faith that has passed down to me through them.
            Faith was a central part of my life as a child. I always wanted to know more about this God, this Creator of the world, the Being that Jesus called “Abba, Father.” I wanted to comprehend the God that we prayed to and read and sang about.
            I remember asking my mother questions about God when I was younger. Questions such as, “”If God made everyone and everything, then where did God come from? Who made God?  My mother would patiently try to explain to me that God was not made or created; God has always been here. I was never fully satisfied with answer, and I wanted to know the how and the where and the why of God.
            Mom didn’t have an answer for that one, but I kept asking those questions. No surprise to some of you that by the time I was a teenager, probably close to the same age as Timothy, I argued with all the answers about God and church and faith that I had ever been given. 
            At that age I was no longer convinced that the faith that had been handed down to me was relevant, so I left faith behind for a long time. Yet God always seems to have different plans. And eventually I made my way back. The faith that I’d inherited never went away, it just had to find a way to grow up, to become mine.
            This passage from II Timothy is about a faith that is handed down. When Paul addresses Timothy’s concerns, he writes that he is reminded of his faith that lived first in Timothy’s grandmother, Lois, then in his mother, Eunice, then also in Timothy. And Paul goes on to exhort Timothy to rekindle the gift of God that is within him. 
            The word “rekindle” here is a faithful translation, but to me it loses some of the urgency, the passion that the Greek offers. Paul is urging Timothy to “agitate,” to “stir into a flame” this gift of God. Paul is persuading him, exhorting him to coax the embers of his faith into a brightly burning flame. Paul is telling Timothy to get stirred up!
            I wonder if Paul’s advice to Timothy is actually more warning than words of wisdom: a warning against complacency, against a faith that is settled and predictable and placid. Don’t take the faith you have for granted! Stir it up, ignite it, take the faith of the generations before you and fashion it into a faith of your own!
            Stir up the faith of your family, agitate the faith of your childhood, mold it, shape it into a faith that is yours. I believe that this kind of agitation, this questioning, this stirring up of faith is a good thing. Because in its most positive, constructive sense, agitation of our faith makes us clarify our faith. It calls us to consider and reconsider what God is calling us to do, who God is calling us to be.
            But there’s one more part of this verse to consider. Paul tells Timothy to rekindle the gift of God that is within him...through the laying on of his hands.
            In this context Paul is referring to Timothy’s ordination as a minister. Through the laying on of Paul’s hands, the gift of the Holy Spirit was passed from Paul to Timothy so Timothy would be empowered to minister to the people of his church.
            Laying on of hands brings to mind ordinations and installations of elders, deacons and ministers of the Word and Sacrament. There will be laying on of hands at my installation. Hands are laid upon us at our baptism; whether as an infant or as an adult, the laying on of hands ushers us into a new life in Christ. And we are not baptized into a vacuum, but into a community of believers, who welcome us with hands outstretched. Hands are laid upon us in prayer. Holding hands when we pray can remind us that we are connected, that we are not disciples only as individuals, but as part of the larger body of the church.
            Our hands become instruments of the Holy Spirit through our service to one another. The hands that prepare meals for others, the hands that serve with hammer and nail, the hand that places all it can into the offering plate. That is also the laying on of hands.
            In the laying on of hands the gift of God that is within each of us is stirred up and passed on to person after person, from generation to generation. I find this especially meaningful on today, World Communion Sunday, when we remember that all around the world, people from every nation, every ethnicity, every walk of life, are gathering around tables in churches, cathedrals, outdoors, in camps, conference centers, campuses, retreats, homes, and hospitals; and they are taking the bread and they are sharing the cup and they are hearing the familiar words about Jesus taking bread and wine and saying, “This is my body, this is my blood, shed for you.” And as they pass around the bread and the cup, they are all passing on faith. They are also laying on hands. The gift of faith that is in them and us is being rekindled, agitated, stirred up. Think about all those hands, those beautiful hands: hands of every color, hands of every age. Think about the faith that is being stirred up in all of those wonderful hands.
            It seems to me that not only have we inherited faith from generations of believers who have gone before us, we also have our faith rekindled and stirred by the people we share pews with and the people we share the world with. Although our particular faith stories are distinctive and unique, we all share the same stories of faith that are witnessed to in Scripture: stories of people, real people, with real flaws and passions, challenges and setbacks, disappointments and joys, people very much like us, struggling to be faithful, struggling to rekindle the gift of God that is within us.           
            It is God who fashioned and shaped us. We are created in God’s image and bear the imprint of God’s hands. The faith that we have inherited and that lies within us is a gift from God. The words that Paul spoke to Timothy ring as true for us today, as they did when Timothy first read them. Don’t let this gift of God stand idle or grow stagnant. Agitate it, rekindle its flame, stir it into a blazing fire. Pass it on from one person to the next with the laying on of hands. Stir up your faith. Stir it up.
            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!” Amen.

Tuesday, October 1, 2019

A Great Chasm


Luke 16:19-31
September 29, 2019

            Back in the days before community colleges were a common feature in the academic landscape, there were Junior Colleges. I went to a Junior College in Nashville; St. Thomas Aquinas. In many ways it was a big leap for a girl who’d grown up Southern Baptist to attend a college that was Roman Catholic, specifically of the Dominican tradition. But it was a good fit for me at the time, and it prepared me for life in a four year university. I loved many of my teachers and made friends with a lot of students there, but one of my favorite teachers was a priest named Father Nolan. I took Ethics and Psychology classes from him. He was an interesting, intelligent and funny man, and a good teacher.
            In his classes, especially in Ethics, our discussions would focus on both theory and current events. I don’t remember a lot of aspects from my classes in those days, but I do remember this. Our class discussion had wandered into the area of heaven and hell. Being brought up in the religious tradition I was, and having the grandfather that I did, I had heard a lot about hell in my lifetime. I believed it. I doubted it. I was repelled by it. I was scared of it, and I struggled with its implications. Another student asked Father Nolan whether he believed in Hell and, if so, what he thought Hell would be like. The padre paused for a moment before he answered, then he said words that I have never forgotten.
            “I think we start creating our own hells right here on earth, and when we die we take those hells with us.”
            I was maybe 19 years old when I first heard those words, and death and whatever awaits us in the afterlife seemed much farther away back then than it does now. But I thought long and hard about Father Nolan’s words when he said them, and I still think long and hard about them in the present. We create our own hells here on earth and we take those hells with us when we die.
            To the casual bystander it would not have seemed possible that the rich man in this parable was creating a hell for himself on earth. I suspect that the rich man wasn’t aware that he was creating hell for himself either. Outward appearances showed him living the life of luxury. He dressed in purple and fine linen – purple was the color of wealth and possibly royalty. He ate sumptuously every day, each meal a feast.
            Yet while the rich man lived lavishly, there was a poor man named Lazarus at his gates. The word translated as “gate” would not have meant a nice wrought iron gate such as the ones opening onto our courtyard. They would have been more like immense portals, the kind you see with mansions or castles. This man Lazarus, lying outside these vast entrances, was sick and diseased, covered with sores, desperate with hunger, and he would have been thrilled to have even the scraps from the rich man’s table. It wasn’t bad enough that he was starving to death; but his only attention came from dogs who would come and lick his wounds.
           Lazarus’ body finally gave up the ghost, and he was carried up to heaven by the angels. There he was with Abraham. Our text tells us that he was by Abraham’s side, but the better translation is “in the bosom of.”
Think about the old spiritual, “Rock-a my soul in the bosom of Abraham. Rock-a my soul in the bosom of Abraham. Rock-a my soul in the bosom of Abraham. Oh rock-a my soul.”
So while Lazarus was being rocked in the bosom of Abraham, the rich man went to Hades. There he was tormented with flames of endless fire. But he could look up and he could see into heaven’s portals. He could see Lazarus with Abraham, in comfort and care. And what always astounds me about this parable is not that he had a glimpse into that other place, but that clearly the flames hadn’t taught him much of a lesson.
He calls up to Abraham,
Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.”
Say what?! Rich man, even in death, even in Hades, even with fire and flames licking all around you, you still think Lazarus should come and give you comfort?! You don’t even address Lazarus directly. You talk to Abraham about him as though he were more object than subject. Even in death you treat Lazarus as though he were less than you. The torments of Hades haven’t gotten through to you yet, have they?
Abraham refuses.
“But Abraham said, ‘Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony. Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.’”
The rich man persists. He still clearly thinks Lazarus is meant to do his bidding. Okay, he says to Abraham, if Lazarus can’t come to me then send him to my father’s house, to my five brothers still living, so that he can warn them and they can avoid this place of torment. If Lazarus goes to them, they will change their ways. But Abraham tells him that his five brothers have Moses. They have the prophets. They have already been warned. If they won’t heed the warnings of Moses and the prophets, a man risen from the dead won’t make them believe. Maybe Charles Dickens had this parable in mind when he wrote “A Christmas Carol.” It took Jacob Marley and three ghosts to shake up Ebenezer Scrooge, and dislodge him from his life of greed and miserly tightfistedness.
But Abraham would not concede to the rich man’s request. The warnings were already there and clear.
We create our own hells on earth and we take them with us when we die.
When Jesus first begins to tell this parable, perhaps those listening were tempted to give the rich man an out. Maybe he just never knew that Lazarus was lying at his gates, desperate and sick and alone. Maybe the rich man was shielded from seeing him. Well-intended advisors and lackeys kept the rich man’s eyes from straying so low to the ground and seeing Lazarus lying there. But when the two crossed over to the other side, they – and we – find out that the rich man did indeed know Lazarus. He knew his name. The rich man cannot plead ignorance or lack of vision. He knew his name.
This is actually the only parable where Jesus gives us a name. The Samaritan was known only by his ethnicity. The prodigal was defined only by his wasteful recklessness. In this parable the rich man’s only designation is the rich man, but it is the poor man, Lazarus, whose name is known.
I realize that I have made the reference and the connection to the afterlife, but in all truth, I do not think this passage or this parable is meant to be an instruction manual about what happens when we die. What I do think is that the chasm that was fixed between the rich man and Lazarus in the afterlife was started long before they crossed over that line between life and death.
A great chasm was there between them in life. Perhaps it was not a chasm that the rich man originated, but he perpetuated it. He knew Lazarus’ name. He saw him outside the gates of his home, but he did nothing. He did nothing, and the chasm that was between them grew.
It seems to me that Jesus’ purpose in telling this parable was also not about instructing those around him on what will happen when they die. His point, as I understand it, is that the chasms between us do not and should not be. He gave Lazarus a name. Lazarus was a full person. He had a story. He had a past. He had an identity beyond just being poor. He had a name. It is clear from the beginning of Luke’s gospel to its end that the poor are of special concern to God. Lazarus was of special concern to God. I think we lose something in our translation that Lazarus was by Abraham’s side. I think to hear that he was being comforted at Abraham’s bosom suggests a deep and abiding relationship. Lazarus, the man with a name, abided in a relationship in heaven that he was not given in life. A great chasm was fixed between him and the rich man and others who might have helped him, and while that chasm might have caused suffering in his life, it would not cause him suffering in death.
So what do we do with this? What do we do? Maybe we are the brothers. Maybe we are the ones who are still living, the ones who have at our fingertips the warnings of Moses and the warnings of the prophets. Maybe we are the ones who are being cautioned to see how great a chasm lies between us and others. Maybe we are the ones who are being enjoined to reach across it, to bridge that divide. And even if we are not able to completely repair that breach, we are called to know each others’ names. We are called, I believe, to see that every person we encounter has a name, a story, a history, and was born to be into relationship with God and others. We are called, I believe, to see that every person is a child of God.
The good news is that our God is a God of grace. I know I say this all the time, but it bears constant repeating. Our God is a God of second, third, fourth, fifth chances and so on. May that grace open our eyes and our hearts. May that grace help us each day to cross the divide, to bridge the gap, to narrow the great chasm between us and our sisters and brothers. May God’s grace be with us, now and always.
Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.” Amen.