An Idle Tale -- The Resurrection of the Lord

Luke 24:1-12

April 17. 2022

            “Why do you look for the living among the dead?”

            The Dead Sea is a dead place. It is a hypersaline body of water. Its intense concentration of sodium chloride and mineral salts make it perfect for therapeutic mud baths and peaceful floating, but it does not support animal or aquatic life. To go fishing in the Dead Sea would be as foolish as trying to sunbathe in Mammoth Cave or go water skiing in a mud puddle. The Dead Sea is a dead place. That’s it. There’s no more to it. Except … it isn’t completely dead.

            I spent a quiet hour walking the shoreline of the Dead Sea, and I would never have questioned it being anything but devoid of life. Until I met two Palestinian children who showed me that there were tiny creatures surviving at the point where the water and the shore met. The Dead Sea is a dead place, but at its edges, life persists.

            “Why do you look for the living among the dead?”

            When the two dazzlingly dressed me asked the women this question, the women went from being terrified at their presence in the tomb where Jesus had lain to understandably confused. Where else should they look for Jesus? After all, dead is dead. What are those two certainties of life? Death and taxes. And the women were certain that their teacher was dead. They knew what had happened to him two days before. They were certain that Jesus’ lifeless body was placed in that tomb, so the question these strange men in their dazzling clothes asked was pointless. Dead is dead.

            But the messengers knew otherwise. Jesus is risen. The tomb could not hold him. Death could not contain or restrain him. He was resurrected. He lives. He is risen. He is risen indeed.

            Luke does not describe the way in which the women went to tell the disciples what they had seen and heard, but I suspect they ran. I think they must have sprinted back to the disciples with this incredible news.

            “He is alive! The Rabbi is alive! The stone is rolled away! The tomb is empty! Jesus is alive!”

            But instead of jumping up and joining the women in their exultation, the disciples dismissed their story as “an idle tale.” This is a rather watered-down translation. What we read as “idle tale” in English is a translation of the Greek word, leros. We get our word delirious from leros. The disciples thought the woman’s story was nothing more than hysteria, nonsense, foolishness, ludicrous and outlandish. What the women said was nuts!

            The women’s story about Jesus being alive was hysterical nonsense to the disciples. After all, dead is dead. Jesus was crucified. He took his last breath on that cross. They all saw it. They knew it for a fact. So what foolishness was this story that the women told? It was nonsense. They must be delirious. Dead is dead, and Jesus was dead. Except …

            “Why do you look for the living among the dead?”

            You know the interesting thing about language is that the same words in the same sentence structure can take on entirely new meanings with just a slight twist in punctuation, or with a different inflection or tone.

            The question those men asked of the women, “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” conveyed their incredulity that the women did not already comprehend the truth that Jesus had been resurrected. But change the inflection, modify the tone, and the intent of the question changes.

            “Why do you look for the living among the dead?
            Try to explain to someone  why your faith is grounded in the story of a fully human man who was also fully divine, brutally executed, was really, really dead for three days, then was resurrected into new life, and because of that we also have new life, and you might get asked this very same question with this very same tone.

            “Why do you look for the living among the dead?”

            The angelic messengers were incredulous that the women didn’t already get it that Jesus was resurrected. A whole lot of other folks are incredulous that we believe that he is. An idle tale indeed. But truth be told, there are times when I wonder why I persist at believing in the resurrection. Surely this must be an idle tale. Certainly, I need to stop looking for the living among the dead because dead is dead. Death and its sorrow seem to permeate every corner of this broken world of ours. War and violence rage on. People are hungry. Children are dying. The pandemic has taken the lives of millions of people around the globe. And even if we are not hungry or sick or actively dying, we still live in a constant state of us versus them. If ever there were a people in need of resurrection, we are. But death seems to be the undeniable consequences of our brokenness, our destructive violence, our enmity, our sin. So, I cannot help but admit that it is a struggle to live as an Easter person, as a person whose hope is firmly grounded in the resurrection and its promises, because death seems more persistent than life.

            Someone once told me that the definition of sin is this, “I was always on my mind.”

            We are always on our minds and death is persistent. Some days it is far too easy to dismiss the resurrection as an idle tale. It seems prudent and wiser to shrug our shoulders or change the subject when someone asks,

“Why do you look for the living among the dead?’

But here’s the thing about resurrection. We can’t prove it. Even the people we read about in scripture don’t try to prove it. They attest to those who witnessed it, but there is no mention of proof. There is no explanation of what happened in that tomb. There is only the assertion that something happened because Jesus is risen. So, if the gospel writers, if the disciples, if Paul cannot prove the resurrection, then it is futile for us to try. Yet, here is the good news. We don’t have to. Proven the resurrection is not the point. Coercing others to believe it is not the point. All we can do is witness to what we have seen, to what we have experienced. When we are feeling most unsure about what the disciples dismissed as an idle tale, we need to search our memories for those times when we have witnessed life arising from death. When the angelic messengers asked their question of the women that early morning, the women remembered. The women remembered what Jesus had told them. They remembered the promise he made. So, we need to remember as well.

On this Easter day, when have you experienced God’s grace? When have you witnessed God’s kindness in action? When have you felt God’s hand on your shoulder? When have you most firmly and unflinchingly believed that Jesus is risen because you have witnessed or lived into that new life? When has God’s love filled you so completely, so surely, that death and its consequences had no room to seep in. The consequence of our brokenness may be death – death of hope, death of faith, death of kindness – but the consequence of Love is what we proclaim this day. The consequence of Love, of God’s Love, is that ultimately the grave does not win. Death does not have the final word.

 

On this Easter day and on every day, may the good news of the gospel ring out! The consequence of Love, of God’s Love for us and for all creation is new hope, new joy, new life in abundance. The consequence of Love is that Jesus is risen! He is risen indeed!

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!”

Amen!

Make Believe -- Maundy Thursday

April 14, 2022

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

 

What do you think of when you hear the words, “make-believe”? Do you think of children playing games or vivid flights of fancy or even people acting on a stage or screen? Do you envision actors drawing us into their world of fantasy and fiction, their world of make-believe?
            Minister and author, Frederick Buechner, wrote that communion is an act of make believe. When I first read this, I was taken aback, even offended. Make-believe?! The Lord’s Supper is nothing of the sort! I can be relatively irreverent, but his words felt like sacrilege. But I went back and read his words again, and then again, and I started to understand them a little more. Hear for yourself what Buechner wrote.
            “The Lord's Supper is make-believe. You make believe that the one who breaks the bread and blesses the wine is not the plump parson who smells of Williams' Aqua Velva but Jesus of Nazareth. You make believe that the tasteless wafer and cheap port are his flesh and blood. You make believe that by swallowing them you are swallowing his life into your life and that there is nothing in earth or heaven more important for you to do than this. 
            It is a game you play because he said to play it. 
            ‘Do this in remembrance of me.’ Do this. 
            Play that it makes a difference. Play that it makes sense. If it seems a childish thing to do, do it in remembrance that you are a child.”
            Have you ever watched children play at make-believe? Specialists in child development and education state that play is a child’s work. Their play teaches them social skills like cooperation and sharing. It furthers their emotional and social development. And in their games of pretend and make-believe, they are often acting out the roles they may play when they are adults. Admittedly, not many of us grow up to be princesses, wizards, or cowboys, but when children play, when they make-believe, they are learning more about what it means to be a person in this world.
            Yet make-believe is not limited to the realm of children. What is that phrase? “Fake it till you make it.” I don’t feel it as much anymore, but when I was first ordained to the ministry, there were plenty of times when I felt like I was make-believing at ministry, pretending to be a pastor. The first wedding, the first baptism, the first time I presided over communion, the first time I stood before a family in grief and assured them of the certainty of resurrection. Yes, in those moments, I felt like I was pretending to know what I was doing and saying and preaching. It felt like play acting. It seemed like make-believe.
            But does all this mean that Buechner was right. When we partake of the Lord’s Supper, are we in truth just engaging in make-believe?
            In this familiar passage from John, Jesus and the disciples are gathering for the festival of the Passover. They have come together at the table for their meal, and Jesus knows that his time to depart this world is drawing near. He knows that Judas will soon betray him. He knows that he will soon face arrest and humiliation and pain, so much pain. He knows that soon he will face death and the grave.
            But in this moment, he does not speak of death or fear or the horror that lies ahead. In this moment, he takes a towel, wraps it around his waist, pours water into a basin, kneels in front of each disciple, and washes their feet. He does the most lowly, humble act of servanthood because he loved them.
            Jesus loved the disciples. And because he loved them, he served them. Because he loved them, he took this teachable moment to show them what love looks like. He showed them love by doing love, and then commanded them to love each other and all people in the same way. To use the grammar of John, he did to them this act of love, and commanded them to do likewise.
            This commandment gives us the name of our observance tonight. Maundy is Latin for commandment. Jesus’ command to the disciples to love one another and others as he loved them has reached down through the centuries to us. We are to love as Jesus loved. We are to show that love, enact that love, do that love to others.
            But do we love all people? Do we? Aren’t there people who annoy us, who anger and infuriate us? Aren’t there people who make being civil a struggle?
            Do we love all people?
            Probably not. Loving others, even when we let go of the idea that love is a warm and fuzzy feeling, is not an easy thing to do. Showing our love through servanthood can be extraordinarily hard to do. But maybe serving others as Jesus served is also about make-believe. In our acts of serving, we are making-believe that we love as Jesus loved. We are making-believe that we are trying to live and love and even die as Jesus did. And I don’t say this about make-believe to be flippant or glib about service. I say it, because if I understand the point Buechner was making, the more we make-believe, the more our play-acting becomes reality. We make-believe at loving until eventually we love.
            Maybe Jesus understood that. Maybe Jesus commanded the disciples to love as he loved, to do what he did, not because he knew that they would love everyone automatically, but because he knew that they wouldn’t. But even if they did not feel love for others, they were to do love for others. Even if they did not love the person whose feet they washed, they could make-believe until their heart caught up with their hands.
            So, maybe Buechner was right. Maybe he was onto something. At this table tonight, we remember Jesus in the act of sharing the bread and the cup. At this table tonight, we learn to do Love as Jesus did love. And at this table tonight, we make-believe that we can see one another and this world through the eyes of Jesus. We make-believe until we do see each other in just that way. We make-believe until finally loving and seeing and being as Jesus was becomes our truth too.
            Let all of God’s children say, “Amen.”

The Stones Would Shout -- Palm Sunday

 Luke 19:28-40

April 10, 2022

 

            The more advanced space exploration becomes the more science and the world learns about the intricacies and complexities of space. I’m not talking about the gazillionaires like Jeff Bezos who are now sending manned rockets into space. I’m talking about scientists from institutions like NASA who are sending satellites and telescopes like Voyager and Hubble into the farthest reaches of our galaxy and beyond. Hubble has sent back astonishing pictures from deep space, and satellites are now recording the sounds of space.

            I don’t profess to understand how this works, but I will do my best to tell you about what I have read. The sounds of space are not sounds that the human ear can detect. I think that’s because the vacuum of space would prevent us from hearing anything. But these sounds are recorded as data, and then instruments translate that data into sounds. The sounds that are being made are reverberations. Earthquakes well below the surface of Mars have been recorded. There are lightning storms beneath the clouds on Saturn, and that crackling, sparking sound has been recorded. A few years ago, I read about how a satellite deep into space had picked up the sound of a black hole being formed. I listened to the recording which was available on the NASA website over and over again. It was like a distant and faint ping, but it was there.

            I wish I had the kind of mind that could grasp the physics and math that goes into understanding all the nuances of space, but I know that I don’t have to know all of that to be fascinated and humbled by what is being learned about our universe. To know that the rocks and gasses and heat and light of space are making distinct sounds is enough to bring me to my knees with wonder.

            The next time you go out at night and look up at a starry sky, consider the fact that those stars and planets in the heavens above us are literally telling the glory of God.

            It occurred to me that if the rocks and gasses of space make sounds through reverberations, then surely the rocks that we stand upon make those sounds too. We live in a noisy world, but if we could get quiet, really, really quiet, if the whole world would fall into silence just for a moment, then maybe we would hear the stones shouting about the coming of a king.

            Luke’s gospel is the only version of Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem that records this unique detail. Though all four gospel writers include this significant moment in Jesus’ ministry, they each tell the story from their own unique perspective; they give it their own distinctive twist.

Luke makes no mention of palms or leafy branches, just cloaks. Matthew and Mark both recount that the people laid down their cloaks and leafy branches they had cut in the fields.  Matthew has Jesus commanding the disciples to bring a colt and a donkey. John just has palm branches and it’s a donkey’s colt that is brought for Jesus to ride on. I mention this because I think we sometimes fall into the habit of assuming we know the story when actually each gospel presents a slightly different telling of the events surrounding Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem.

            Yet whether its cloaks or palms, a donkey, a colt, or some combination thereof, all the gospels tell how Jesus made his way into Jerusalem surrounded by great crowds of cheering, confident people. They are confident in his kingship and their greeting expresses all their faith, their hope, and their expectations.

            However, in our reading today, these aren’t just general groups of people gathered to see what all the fuss is about and getting caught up in the moment. These are described as the “multitude of disciples.” Luke does not give us any clear understanding as to whether this multitude was also part of that fickle crowd who called for Jesus’ death later in the week.  Perhaps these are disciples who stayed loyal to Jesus until the end. Perhaps not. 

            As I said earlier, in Luke’s version the most significant difference from the other gospels comes at the end of the story. As Jesus is processing, and as the people are shouting and cheering, some dismayed Pharisees along the route try to pressure Jesus into making his disciples stop their yelling, their cheering, and acts of adoration.

I don’t think it’s fair to just assume that the Pharisees were being the spoil sports of the day, trying to rain on this divine parade. It is possible that some of the Pharisees were eager to see Jesus finally arrive in Jerusalem. Perhaps not all of them wanted his head on a silver platter. But they may have been concerned, deeply concerned, that all this commotion and hubbub would draw the attention of the wrong people. The multitude of disciples were not just shouting for joy after all. They were shouting and proclaiming,

“Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!”

Blessed is the king.

Just shouting these words could be considered treason. So, it is quite possible the Pharisees were worried that the Roman government would not see this event as something to be pleased about. In fact, it could bring Roman wrath raining down on every Jew in the vicinity and beyond. These were not hateful or ridiculous concerns on the part of the Pharisees. But when they voice them to Jesus, his response does nothing to reassure them.

            “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.”

            Even if Jesus were to enter Jerusalem in absolute silence, the multitude of disciples hailing his approach with only mute stares and glassy eyes, the noise from the stones would still be deafening. If the human creation would not proclaim the coming of the Lord, the rest of creation would.

            The stones would shout.

            Although Luke does not give us palms in his version, it is still Palm Sunday; the day when we commemorate the triumphal entry of Jesus into Jerusalem. Whether it was with palms or cloaks or something else, the practice of people laying down something before a coming hero or king was not uncommon in that culture. It was a customary Roman tradition to hail the coming of a royal or a great conquering warrior with branches or cloaks. A procession through the streets signified that the coming one was great, a hero or king who was conquering and powerful and mighty.

            And the crowds who hailed Jesus that day believed that he was their king, their long-awaited Messiah, the victorious champion who would change everything for them from that point on. They were expectant and eager and hopeful for all that Jesus was about to do. But we who know the rest of the story know that Jesus did not meet their expectations. We know that the kind of conquering Jesus did was not military or political or a form of violent overthrow. I guess the claim could be made that Jesus did come to conquer, but it was accomplished through sacrificial love, not military might, or worldly power. 

            But if you were a part of the crowd that day and you expected and longed for military might or worldly power, then the kind of conquering Jesus brought was a disappointment. So, these multitude of disciples, and eventually these fickle crowds, turn their backs on Jesus when they realized he was not the warrior they wanted.

But we know differently, don’t we? We know who Jesus was and is and what he really accomplished in Jerusalem. We know the truth that was found on that cross and when the stone was rolled away from an empty tomb. We like to believe that we know differently at least. We think we understand, but like the disciples we don’t always get it. We cannot always see Jesus for who he was and who he is, even when he is right in front of us.

            But even if we fail to hail Jesus as the triumphant king, even if we were to grow silent at his approach, the stones will shout. Maybe what Luke is trying to get across to his readers and us is that even if we don’t always get it, even if we’re sometime as fickle as those crowds or as prone to misunderstanding as the early disciples, it doesn’t matter. The stones would shout. Even if no one turned up to hail Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, the city where God’s greatest triumph would take place, it does not matter, because the stones would shout. Even if we miss the opportunity to proclaim Jesus; the stones will shout. Creation itself will make a thunderous, clamorous noise.

            Because from the beginning to the end, nothing can stop the glory of God. Nothing can hinder that glory from permeating the world and transforming it. The glory of God, the triumph of Jesus has set all of creation free. Even if we remain silent, never raising our voice or even clearing our throat, the stones will shout.

            And the stones are shouting indeed. The stones are shouting that God has come, God is coming, the Lord is at hand, our Savior soon dwells among us. Every stone is shouting of the glory of the Lord. Every rock, tree, flower, shrub, rolling hill, and mountain peak is declaring that the King of glory is coming. Even the heavens are telling the glory of God. On this day, this triumphant day before the darkness descends, and we wait for the return of the Light, let us join with all creation and shout our joy that the Lord is coming. Let us make the foundation of this church and this town and this world ring with our cries and our hosannas. Jesus is coming! Let the stones shout!

Let all of God’s children say, “Amen!”

 

A Loving Gift -- Fifth Sunday in Lent

 John 12:1-8

April 3, 2022

 

            Traffic had come to a standstill on a road in Iowa. Usually when traffic came to a standstill in Iowa, it was because of a farm implement trying to navigate the road on the way to whatever farm or field it was needed on.

            But this time the traffic was at a standstill because a state trooper had stopped his car and was directing traffic to drive slowly around his vehicle. I couldn’t see the reason he had stopped until I got closer, and I was surprised when I did finally see what the problem was. There was a little puppy, obviously scared and confused, wandering on the side of the road. As I watched the trooper went over and picked up the little dog and carried it back to his car.

            I was so touched by the trooper’s actions, that I admit to wiping away a tear as I drove on. I realized that the puppy would not have been seen by very many drivers, and if it had, I’m not sure how many of them would have taken the time to stop and care for it. If that trooper hadn’t stopped, it’s a good bet the little guy would have been hit and killed.

            It was sweet and lovely to see what this trooper did. I suspect that rescuing puppies were not a top priority on his job description. I realize that he rescued a puppy not a human being, but we would expect a trooper to rescue a human being. We would be outraged if he didn’t. So, the fact that he took a moment to get a puppy out of harm’s way made that moment even sweeter. This happened a long time ago, but I have never forgotten it. I knew when I saw what the trooper was doing, the reason he had halted traffic, that I was witnessing a moment of compassion and kindness. To see this trooper’s kindness was an unexpected gift on an otherwise ordinary day. And I have come to realize that moments like these, moments that contain such gifts, are not something that you see every day, sadly.

            What we have in this story from John’s gospel is a moment of unexpected compassion and kindness. Mary took a moment to give Jesus a loving gift, a gift of compassion and kindness. Versions of this story of a woman anointing Jesus are found in all four gospels. In both Matthew and Mark, the woman who anointed Jesus with precious nard did so for the same purpose as in John’s gospel; it was about Jesus’ burial. Yet in Luke’s gospel, the woman who anointed Jesus was a sinner who realized how forgiven she truly was. Anointing Jesus was a response to this forgiveness. In each version, the woman’s actions are scorned. And each gospel writer records that Jesus told the people who grumbled about her to leave her alone. But only in John’s gospel did this woman have a name. This woman was Mary, the younger sister of Martha. Her brother was Lazarus. In Luke’s gospel this same Mary sat at Jesus’ feet and listened to him while her sister, Martha, worked frantically to prepare the meal and clean the house for the Rabbi.

            Jesus was once more a guest in the home of Mary, Martha, and Lazarus; and as we learn in the first verse, it was six days before the Passover. Martha served the meal. Lazarus, who had been dead but was alive once more, was at table with Jesus and the others. I can well imagine that there was a great deal of activity happening in every corner of the house. Amid all this hustle and bustle, Mary took a large amount of perfume made from pure nard and began to anoint Jesus’ feet with it. As she anointed his feet with the nard, she wiped them with her hair. The fragrance of the perfume filled the house, making her action impossible to miss or ignore. What’s more this perfume, this nard, was expensive. In ordinary circumstances, it would have been doled out in precise measure to prevent any waste. But this was no ordinary circumstance. I suspect that she wasn’t concerned about waste or extravagance. I envision her pouring it on his feet lavishly and lovingly.

            Any of the others watching this would have been shocked by Mary’s behavior, but it was Judas who spoke up. He complained that if Mary had access to such an expensive nard, why wasn’t it sold for a lot of money? That money could have been given to the poor instead of poured out. In an aside, John explains that Judas didn’t give a hoot about the poor. He only wanted the money for himself because he was a thief and stole from the common purse.

            Jesus immediately defended Mary’s actions, but his response is disturbing.

            “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”

“You always have the poor with you?” That seems completely contrary to everything Jesus has said about the poor and the weak and the vulnerable to this point. Jesus made it clear time and again that he came for the poor and the weak and the vulnerable. He came for the others, the forgotten, the lost, the lonely. But in this story, his attitude about the poor seems cavalier at best.

“You always have the poor with you.”

            Scholars speculate that Jesus wasn’t dismissing the poor in this statement. He was referencing verses in the Old Testament that stated that there would always be poor people and people in great need; therefore, they should always be welcomed and cared for. I doubt that Jesus suddenly decided that the poor didn’t matter. But when Mary began to anoint him, he knew that this was a moment of compassion and kindness that was not only nice but necessary. He was still with them, still living, but it would not always be that way. He would soon die a criminal’s death. The rituals and rites of burial would be denied to him before his execution. Mary anointed him for his burial while she could. She showed him love while she could. It was a moment made for compassion.

            I keep emphasizing the word moment because this story is about a moment of compassion during many other moments that were anything but. Knowing the larger context this story is set in, knowing about those other moments, is important for understanding what’s happening in this moment. As it states at the beginning of the passage, Jesus was at table in the home of Mary, Martha and Lazarus. Lazarus had been dead but was now alive and at table with Jesus. It hadn’t been that long since Jesus had raised Lazarus from the tomb. Raising Lazarus caused many people who witnessed this miracle to believe in Jesus. But it had also frightened and worried many more. Once you’re dead, you’re supposed to stay dead. That’s the only decent thing to do. If Jesus had the power to change the order of life and death, then he was too powerful. The chief priests and Pharisees knew that Jesus had to be stopped. If more and more people believed in him, then the Romans would find out and destroy them all. Perhaps he could bring others back from the dead, but surely he could not change that ending for himself. So, a plot to kill him was put into motion.

            Jesus must have been fully aware of this plot because John states that from that time on Jesus could not move about openly. He went to a town called Ephraim, which was near the wilderness, and he stayed there with his disciples; until this moment when they came to Bethany and the house of Mary, Martha, and Lazarus.

            Yet this dinner party did not go unnoticed. In the verses following our story, we learn that when people discovered where Jesus was, they came in great numbers to see him and to see Lazarus who was raised from the dead. This made the powers that be even more nervous. Lazarus was literally living proof of Jesus’ power. Not only did Jesus need to be silenced, but Lazarus must also be silenced. Immediately after our story, a plot to kill Lazarus was hatched.

            So, this is the context in which this moment occurred – this moment in which a loving gift was given. Murderous schemes were in play both before this moment and after. The tension and fear must have been palpable. Yet in this time of fear and anxiety, Mary, who once sat at Jesus’ feet to listen and learn from him, took a place at his feet once more. And she anointed those dusty, dirty, tired feet with precious perfume. She wiped the perfume away with her hair. It was an intimate act, a loving act. No doubt her actions scandalized everyone watching, because that kind of intimacy between a man and woman would never have been displayed so openly; and it certainly would not have been acceptable in private for anyone except a husband and wife.

            Yet however inappropriate her actions might have been, however socially unacceptable and taboo, it was not a time for following social codes or rules. It was a time for compassion. It was a time for kindness. It was a time for unconditional love and tenderness. Somehow Mary knew this. Somehow, she got it. Maybe she understood what his disciples could not; that she only had a short time left with her Teacher. She only had a short time left, and in that moment the minister needed ministry. He needed compassion. He needed kindness. She responded to that need with her whole being. It was a loving gift.

            On this fifth Sunday in Lent, as we move toward triumphal entries, terrible death, and empty tombs, as we move closer and closer to Jerusalem, maybe it is a good time to stop and consider the loving gifts we have been given. Who has given you an unexpected gift when you needed it most? Who has showed you compassion and kindness, ministered to you, when you least expected it? Mr. Rogers used to ask people to close their eyes for 10 seconds and remember a person who has loved you into being. I’m going to do that now. For 10 seconds, close your eyes and think of one person who loved you into being, who loved you with compassion and kindness. Start now.

            Who did you remember? Who loved you into being? Give thanks for that person, because their love was a gift, just as Mary’s anointing was a gift for Jesus. The call today and everyday is to offer that loving gift to others. Who needs our compassion and kindness? Who needs a loving gift from us? May we all give someone and everyone the gift of compassion, the gift of kindness, the gift of extravagant love.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Amen.”

           

 

 

A Father and Two Sons -- Fourth Sunday in Lent

 Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

March 27, 2022

            We adopted our little cat, Pippin, when we lived in Oklahoma. He died last year, and we still miss him terribly. But while he was alive, he drove us nuts. When we were still in Oklahoma, we tried to let him be an indoor and an outdoor cat. He loved to step out into the fresh air and explore the yard. Our neighbor at the time, fed all the stray cats that used to wander through the neighborhood, so there were always plenty of other potential friends that would beckon him to come and play. For a while, it seemed that Pippin going outside was going to be a good thing. I could let him out first thing in the morning. When it was time to leave for school and work, I would call for him, and he would come bounding toward me, ready to come inside, eat, and take his morning nap. No problem. Until one morning, when I called him, and he didn’t come running. I called and I called, and I called again. No Pippin. I wasn't too worried. I figured by the time I came home for lunch he'd be waiting for me at the back door.

Lunch came. No Pippin. I called and called again. I walked all around our yard looking for him. Was he back behind the shed? Nope. Was he hiding under the bush he loved? No. No Pippin. When the kids came home from school, they went looking for him. Across the little side street from our house, there was an overgrown wooded area where there used to be a neighborhood pool. Phoebe and Zach walked down that path and they heard this pitiful crying. Pippin had been scared up into a tree by some dogs, and he was meowing and crying. We tried to coax him down. It didn’t work. We put food out for him, and that didn’t bring him down.

I put out a plea for ideas on social media. I got plenty of suggestions, but none of them helped. In fact, some people teased me about it, thinking I was foolish for worrying. A cat can go up a tree, and a cat can come down a tree. I called the fire department. They basically said the same thing. He’ll come down when he’s ready.

But you need to understand, Pippin was in that tree for close to 36 hours. He was there from the time I let him out that morning, that whole night, and into the next day. I kept waking up during the night thinking I heard him at the door, and then I would call him again, not caring if I woke the neighbors, hoping he had finally figured out how to come down.

The next afternoon, a friend and her husband came over to help us. They put a ladder against the tree, which was covered in overgrown brambles. She climbed up the ladder, almost falling a couple of times and scaring us half to death. But she managed to reach Pippin and got our very hungry and very scared cat out of the tree. We all rejoiced. The cat was lost, but then he was found. P.S. Pippin was not an outside cat after that.

            Jesus understood the joy at finding what was lost. He told three parables about being lost and found. As so often happened when Jesus came calling, tax collectors and sinners were coming to be near to Jesus and to listen to him. The Pharisees and the scribes who were also near Jesus weren't happy about that. They were grumbling and grousing.

            "This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them."

            Jesus responded to their grumbling with three parables. We only read one of them this morning, but here’s a quick recap. The first was about a lost sheep. There were 100 sheep, but one had wandered away and was lost. The shepherd left the other 99, not in the safety of the fold but in the wilderness, to go looking for the one. When the shepherd found the lost sheep, he laid it across his shoulders and rejoiced. When he had gotten the sheep safely home, he called together his friends and his neighbors, and they rejoiced with him.

            Jesus rounded off this first parable by saying,

            Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.”

            The second thing to be lost was a thing: a coin. A woman had ten coins, but she lost one. We might not fret over one coin, but we are not this woman. She did not shrug her shoulders and say, "Oh well. It's just a coin." No, she lit the lamp and swept the house. She searched every corner until she found the coin. Then she called together her friends and neighbors and said,

"Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost."

Again, Jesus told those listening, "Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents."

            The third parable, our parable, was about a father and two sons. The younger son went to his father and asked him for his share of the inheritance. Now. Why should I wait till you're dead, Dad? I’d like my money now, please. So, the father divided his property between his two sons and gave the youngest his share. The minute the money was his, the son took off. He went to a far country and proceeded to have a very, very good time.

But as so often happens, the money ran out. And when the money ran out, the good times ran out as well. Now what would the younger son do? He had wasted his fortune. A terrible famine had taken over the land. The only means he had to survive was to become a hired hand, feeding pigs in the fields. I suspect that like Jesus and those around him, the father and sons were observant Jews, so not only had this younger son wasted his fortune and his life to that point on dissolute living, now he was forced to feed animals that were considered unclean. This was a comeuppance indeed.

This younger son was so hungry and desperate that even the pig food looked good. And then something happened. He came to himself. Maybe that means he realized what a fool he’d been, how he had squandered his money, his talent, his happiness. Maybe he woke up from something like a dream and saw the full reality of his life. Maybe, like someone struggling with an addiction, he had reached rock bottom and knew it. Whatever realization took hold of him, he came to himself. And he thought about the hired hands that worked for his father who plenty of bread and more to eat. And this younger son decided to go home. But he knew what a mess he had made of everything. He figured that he might not be welcome. So, he rehearsed what he would say to his dad when he saw him.

            "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands."

            Ready with these words of contrition and remorse, the son got up and went home. But he never got to give the full speech he had prepared. While he was still far off, his father saw him. His father ran to him. His father pulled him into his arms and hugged him.

The son started to give the speech he had practiced. But his father didn't seem to hear his words. He just called to his slaves to bring out the best robe and put a ring on his son's finger. Put sandals on his feet. Kill the fatted calf. Let us eat and celebrate! My son was dead, but he is alive! My son was lost, but he is found.

            If Jesus had stuck with the formula of the first two parables, this would have been the ending. But this third parable takes a different and unexpected twist. Because remember, this was a father with two sons. The younger was home again, no longer dead but alive; no longer lost but found. But there was an elder brother. The elder brother came in from working in the fields, and he heard the music and dancing. He asked a slave what was going on, why the celebration? When the slave told him, the older brother was furious. He refused to go inside and join the party His father came out to him and begged him to come inside. But the son answered his father's pleas with bitterness.

            "Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!"

            But his father would not be deterred.

"Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found."

            By all accounts, the eldest son has a valid point. The youngest son was selfish, a bad son, and not a nice person in general. And the father was foolish. When his youngest son came demanding his inheritance, which was as good as saying, "Drop dead, Dad,” the father gave it to him anyway. When the youngest son wasted everything, and returned, tail between his legs, he should have been greeted with anger and disappointment. The father should have at least demanded that the son pay back all that he owed him. But that foolish father threw a party instead. Well of course the older son was angry. What reward did he receive for being the good kid? What parties were thrown in his honor because he did what was expected of him? Had I been sitting with the others around Jesus, Pharisees and tax collectors, scribes, and sinners, I imagine I would have shaken my head at this father with two sons.

            But remember how Jesus ended the first two parables? When a sheep was found, they all rejoiced. When a coin was reclaimed, they all rejoiced. But when this son, this father's child, was found, there was only anger and bitterness. The eldest son could hear the music and celebration, but he wouldn't, he couldn’t join the party.

            Jesus didn't tell parables as bedtime stories. He didn't tell parables to make those listening feel happy and warm. He told them to make a point. He told parables to surprise and shock and even dismay. This third parable is really about as shocking as they come. But we have heard it so many times that its shock value has become dulled. We've domesticated it to a nice story about a father forgiving a son.

            Yet how foolish was that father? He not only welcomed back this wasteful son with open arms, but he also gave him the means to be wasteful in the first place! He was as foolish as a shepherd who leaves 99 sheep in the wilderness to look for the lost one. He was as foolish as a woman who had nine coins accounted for but went through the entire house looking for the lost one. He was as foolish as a God who becomes human to gather up his lost people. He was as foolish as a savior who was willing to die on a cross.

            That's the thing about grace. It's not only unfair, but it also seems downright foolish. Yet how grateful we are for such foolishness when we are on the receiving end of grace. What I've learned in my life is that the line between the younger son and the eldest is a fine one. I have been that prodigal, astounded at being welcomed home with open arms. I have been that youngest son, celebrating and rejoicing at the grace and forgiveness that's been given me. I have been lost and I have been found. But I have also been that older brother, angry and insulted that foolish grace is shown to someone else so undeserving of it. In fact, I think I've been the eldest brother more often than I've been the prodigal.

            Here's the thing. The father welcomed his lost son home with open arms, whether it was foolish or not. It was his choice. The eldest son also had a choice. He could forgive his younger brother. He could forgive his father's foolishness. He could join the party. The only thing keeping him out of the celebration was him.

            Of the three parables, this one is left unresolved. We don't know what choice the older brother made. We don't know what happened next. It seems to me that that was the point. Jesus told this parable and left it unresolved and unfinished because it was up to his listeners to finish it for themselves. What choice would the Pharisees and the scribes and all the other so-called righteous people make? What choice will we make? Will we show others the foolish grace shown us? Or will we refuse to forgive the wrongs done to us? Will we hold onto the bitterness and anger we feel? We can hear the music, we know there is dancing, but will we join the party?

            Let all of God's children say, "Amen."

 

 

One More Year -- Third Sunday in Lent

Luke 13:1-9

March 20, 2022

 

            A 13-year-old was driving a truck with an adult in the passenger seat. One of the truck’s tires was a spare. It failed, and when it did, it pulled into the oncoming lane of the interstate, and went headlong into a transit van carrying members of a New Mexico University golf team. The 13-year-old driver and the man in the truck with him were both killed. Six of the student golfers were killed, along with their coach. In total nine people were killed in a horrific, tragic accident.

            Who sinned?

Was it the adult in the truck letting a 13-year-old drive, when he was too young to be driving? Was it the person who put the spare tire on the truck? Was it the manufacturer of the tire?

Who sinned?

In Lviv, Ukraine, 109 strollers have been placed around the main square of the city, as a first monument to the at least 109 children who have been killed since the invasion by Russia happened.

Who sinned?

Putin? The Russian soldiers who have done the killing? The higher ups in the army who are giving orders to fire on civilians. The parents of the children for not getting them out of the country to safety when the threats of invasion were first being discussed? The very worldly mindset that makes leaders believe that power because of money, politics, whatever, gives someone impunity to do whatever?

Who sinned?

These are two examples of very recent, very tragic moments of loss, of death, of destruction. And they leave me feeling sick and hopeless and despairing at the state of our world. And just reflecting on these two examples – two examples out of many from which I could have chosen – makes me wonder if the people who asked Jesus their question about Pilate’s killing of the Galileans had those folks feeling the same way that I do. And that’s why they asked. Because when tragedy strikes, when something so appalling and terrible happens, we want to know why. We want to know who to blame. We want to make sense out of the senseless. So, even though I may not ask outright, “Who sinned?” There is a part of me that would like that question answered. Who sinned?

And if it was about sin, was it the will of God that these sins should be answered in this way? Because if it was sin, and this was God’s punishment for sin, then maybe they – and we – can understand why Pilate did such a horrific thing, and why the tower in Siloam fell as it did. Because again this all must come down to punishment for sin.

And the trouble with this passage is that Jesus seems to both refute their question about who sinned, and affirm it at the same time when he responds,

“No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”

So, Jesus, does that mean that they sinned, and God punished them or not?

And he doesn’t seem to really help his case when he goes on to tell a parable about a fig tree.

A man who owned a vineyard had a fig tree planted there. But the fig tree was barren. It produced no fruit. So, he told the gardener to cut it down. Why should this barren tree be taking up good soil that could be used for another tree that would produce fruit? Chop it down and let’s move on. But the gardener had a different plan. He asked the owner to give him one more year. Just one more year, and he would put manure around it, and nurture it, and if after a year the fig tree still did not produce fruit, then the owner could cut it down and be done with it.

David Lose wrote in a weekly preaching article several years ago that when it comes to this passage there should be a warning label. Approach with caution. And I admit than when I read through the passages for this week, my first thought was

“Maybe I should just preach from Isaiah.”

But warning label aside, here we are. In the verses before these Jesus has been speaking to the people around him about their inability to read the signs of the kingdom. They can look at the sky and figure out the weather that is coming but they don’t know how to interpret the signs of the times. In the previous verses, Jesus is already on the topic of judgment when he is told about the tragedy of the Galileans. Jesus’ response is to also mention the tragedy of the tower of Siloam that fell and killed eighteen people. And as I said earlier, it would seem that his response to these two tragedies lends itself to thinking that this was God’s punishment and judgment for sin.

Repent or perish as they did. But is Jesus talking about a personal morality or is he really trying to get them to understand sin as a state of being? Because the word repent isn’t just about confessing a litany of transgressions. It means to turn around, to reorient our lives to God and God’s purposes. To repent is to step into the wholeness of God, the fullness of God. So, was Jesus saying that folks better watch their step, or they’ll suffer the same fate? Or was Jesus saying that sin and its suffering is not something that God wants or wills, but it is a state of being that we are all intentionally or unintentionally complicit in? This state of sin is the opposite to and the antithesis of the kingdom of God.

Then what about this parable? I think that traditionally this has been interpreted allegorically. God is the owner of the vineyard, who is ready to cut down the barren fig tree without a second thought. And Jesus is the gardener, who bargains for one more year. And we sinful humans are the fig tree. Jesus stands between us and God’s wrath.

While I guess this is a workable interpretation, I can’t seem to go with that. I wonder if, like the owner, we are both the fig tree and the owner. I wonder if we are ready to give up on each other when we’ve sinned and fallen away and messed up. And I wonder if God is the gardener, who is working through our barrenness, working through our fruitlessness, giving us another year, and then I suspect, another year after that. I wonder if the gardener is asking us to give each other one more year.

As one commentator put it, when we think about second chances – and this passage is connected with God’s second chance – we tend to think about the person getting the second chance and then doing the work of getting his or her act together. Right, that’s what second chances are. But if God is the gardener, what does that say about our second chance? The gardener doesn’t ask for another year to see if the tree bears fruit, and then walks away from the tree. The gardener asks for a second chance, so that he can work with the tree, nourish it, give it everything it needs to grow, to flourish, to be fruitful. Because if the tree is fruitful, it won’t be fruitful just for the sake of the tree, but for the sake of the garden, the vineyard. It will add to the life of all that is around it. It will become part of the wholeness of the vineyard.

So, if God is the gardener, what does this say about the second chance we are given? I don’t think we are expected to do it on our own. I don’t think this is a parable about pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps, and getting our act together, and making a second chance work. I think Jesus is telling a parable that speaks to the barrenness that we all experience in our lives. Barrenness, maybe literally, often figuratively. Have you ever felt barren? Have you ever felt that no matter what you did, you weren’t being fruitful, at home, at work, in your life of faith? Could you pull yourself out of this without help?

I think God in Jesus is the gardener. I think God is working through the barren places in our lives, working through the fruitlessness that we feel. And it is our repentance, our turning around and back to God, stepping into the wholeness and the fullness of life that God offers, that allows us to recognize this and become fruitful. And I also think that we are called to be the gardeners for one another. It’s not just about saying,

“Okay, here’s your second chance. Get your act together.”

It’s about saying, “Okay, here’s your second chance. How will we help you to grow, to flourish, to become whole?”

So, maybe this story is not just about God’s mercy to us, miserable sinners that we are. Maybe, it is also a call to be merciful to one another because God is merciful to us. Maybe it is a reminder to be gracious to one another because God is gracious to us. And maybe when we can do that, we can more fully embrace the abundance, the wholeness, the fullness of live and love that God wants for us all so that we will be able to truly and completely live.

Let all of God’s children say, “Amen.”