Who Is Really Righteous? -- Reformation Sunday

Luke 18:9-14

October 26, 2025

 

            The story goes that as a young man Martin Luther was traveling, and while he was on the road, he was caught in a terrible storm. It was a storm so terrifying and potentially deadly that he could do little more than wait and pray and hope that he survived it. But what he prayed, as best we can know over 500 years later, is that if God would get him through this storm, if God would preserve his life and let him come out on the other side of this maelstrom alive, he would dedicate the rest of his life to serving God.

God kept his end of the bargain. Luther lived, and Luther then kept his end of the bargain as well. Luther became a monk, and he was called upon to teach and preach and preside over the Lord’s Table. Yet Luther felt completely unworthy of this call, especially when it came to serving the Eucharist, the Lord’s Supper. He was no longer caught in a physical storm of wind and rain, yet he faced an inner storm that raged just as wildly as the outer one. He tormented himself over his unworthiness. He tormented himself over his salvation, trying to do all that he could to earn it, but realizing that what he could do would never be enough. He knew 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.

Luther traveled to Rome, the great holy city, and saw firsthand how the indulgences that the church sold exploited the poor and the powerless. Indulgences were a promise, for lack of a better word, that a loved one would eventually be able to eventually leave purgatory and enter into heaven. It was believed that time in purgatory could be calculated, and that an indulgence reduced someone’s time in that strange limbo state. The sale of indulgences was a prolific fundraiser for the church. The common belief was that if someone was not worthy of heaven while alive, they went to purgatory after death. And in purgatory they waited. Buying an indulgence meant that you brought a loved one a little closer to leaving purgatory and entering God's heaven; the more indulgences you bought, the shorter the time in purgatory.

Luther was scandalized by this, horrified. And that, along with his own inner torment, sparked in him the desire to learn more. He began to study the book of Romans in great depth, and the more he studied, the more he read, he began to see that salvation was not something that could be earned. Salvation was not based in what we humans can or cannot do. It was based, is based, in what God does. Luther is credited with sparking the Protestant Reformation, although there were many reformers throughout Europe who were reaching the same conclusions as him. Luther never wanted to start a new church or a new expression of Christianity. He just wanted to reform the Church. But reform is all about change, and once change was started there was no holding it back. So the western church became what we understand as the Roman Catholic Church, and then there were a whole lot of Protestant denominations that formed and reformed and reformed some more. While every protestant today is a descendent of those protestants, those protesters, as Presbyterians we are of the Reformed tradition, meaning that we still hold to many of the original reformers’ understandings and influence in how we govern ourselves, order our worship, and order our life together.

Why am I giving you a history lesson instead of just talking about the parable from Luke’s gospel already? One, because this is Reformation Sunday – the Sunday in the church year when we remember our heritage specifically. Two, because I think that Jesus, in this parable, might have been trying to get his listeners to understand something that the reformers also tried to understand. It’s not about us. It’s about God.

The challenge of this parable is that it’s a trap. It is a trap. To our ears it seems crystal clear and straightforward. The Pharisee goes to pray and it’s all about him, and all about the good things he does, the moral way he lives his life. But he looks down his nose at the tax collector. The Pharisee thanks God that he is not like other people, especially the tax collector. But the tax collector goes to pray and cannot even lift his eyes toward heaven. He can only beat his breast and say, “God be merciful to me, a sinner!”

It's clear who the bad guy is, right? It’s the Pharisee. Didn’t I grow up hearing that the Pharisees were the bad guys? And the tax collector must be the good guy because he is humble before God. He doesn’t try to make himself look good in front of God. He just prays that God will be merciful to him, sinner that he is. So, thank goodness that we are not like that Pharisee. Thank goodness that we are like the tax collector. We are humble. We know how sinful we are. We are the good guys, unlike that Pharisee.

And there it is – the trap. The minute we try to take sides; the minute we give thanks that we are not like the Pharisee then we become the Pharisee. The Pharisee is the bad guy and we are not like him. Wait! Argh! There it is. The trap!

To those listening to Jesus, this would not have been as crystal clear as we think it is. I may have been taught that Pharisees were the bad guys because they so often opposed Jesus, but to those gathered around Jesus they would have been considered respected, valuable members of the community. They were leaders. They knew the Law and helped the people to live it out. Think about it, the virtues that the Pharisee lists in his prayer are virtues. He fasts twice a week, he tithes. He doesn’t steal from people or cheat people. He is an upstanding, upright citizen.

The tax collector on the other hand would not have been seen as an upright citizen. The tax collector would have been viewed as a traitor to his people. Tax collectors colluded with the Roman government. Tax collectors notoriously cheated and exploited their own people. Tax collectors not only worked within an oppressive, unjust system, they used that system to oppress their own. Tax collectors are not lumped into the general term of “sinners” are they? No, they have their own category. Jesus does not just share meals and keep company with sinners. Jesus eats meals and keeps company with sinners and tax collectors. Jesus’ original audience would not have seen the tax collector as the good guy. And what I infer from the tax collector’s prayer is that he doesn’t see himself as the good guy.

But Jesus turns the tables on their expectations once again by saying that it was the tax collector who went home justified rather than the Pharisee because all who exalt themselves will be humbled and all who humble themselves will be exalted. This is another example of the reversal that Jesus preaches time and time again.

Yet, Dr. Amy-Jill Levine, a renowned professor at Vanderbilt Divinity School, and both a Jewish and New Testament studies scholar, writes that the word that we translate as rather can also be translated as along with. It seems a small thing, but it changes the implication of Jesus’ words. If the tax collector is justified along with the Pharisee then they both receive God’s mercy and grace. It’s not one over the other, but both. But that might be even more infuriating, because that means that even people that we believe should not receive mercy, should not receive grace, get grace! So, who is really righteous?!

Maybe the point that Jesus is making is that the one who is really righteous is God. If the Pharisee makes a mistake in this parable, it’s that he takes credit for his righteousness. He is not like those others. He does this and he does that. He gets it right while others do not. His righteousness becomes self-righteousness because he thinks it is about him and because of him. But it seems to me that the point Jesus makes is that it is about God. It is God who shows mercy. God who offers grace.

It also seems to me that what the tax collector does right in this parable is that he admits how broken he truly is. Just by saying seven simple words, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner,” the tax collector acknowledges his sinfulness and his brokenness. He beats his breast. He can’t look toward heaven. He can’t even come close to the place where the Pharisee stands.

But shouldn’t receiving mercy effect change? Does the tax collector change? Does the Pharisee? Do either of them leave the temple and rethink how they approach God, how they treat others? We don’t know. What we do know is that regardless of their response, God is the one who shows mercy. God is the one who offers grace.

So, maybe it’s not about us trying to identify with one over the other, but recognizing that we are both/and. I am like that tax collector. I am sinful. I am broken, deeply broken, deeply flawed. I am a sinner. But I am also like that Pharisee. On this day especially, I must admit how many times I have prayed, “Thank you, God, that I am Presbyterian. Thank you, God, that I am not part of other denominations, denominations that tell me what to think and what not think, denominations that preach hellfire and brimstone. Thank you, God, that I am not like them. I am a Presbyterian.” Maybe I have not prayed that prayer so overtly, but I can’t deny thinking that way. I can’t deny my own self-righteousness. I am self-righteous. I am a sinner. I am a hot mess. Maybe you are too.

But through this parable, I think Jesus is making the point that it isn’t about us or what we do or don’t do to be righteous, or what we do and don’t do that makes us a sinner. Jesus is reminding all who will listen that it’s about God. It’s not about us or our merit. It’s about God. That’s what the reformers began to understand. And in some ways they got it right and in other ways they got it wrong. So, the motto, “Reformed and always reforming,” takes on deeper meaning. Because reform, change, is an ongoing process. We are reformed always reforming because we’re all hot messes, but God is not. It’s not about us. It’s about God. It’s about God’s mercy, God’s grace, God’s love. It’s not about us, it’s about God. God is the one who is really righteous, and that is good news indeed. Thanks be to God.

So let all of God’s children, even those of us who are hot messes, say “Alleluia.”

Amen.

 

 

Do Not Lose Heart

Luke 18:1-8

October 19, 2025

 

            I am not a big fan of the television show, Family Guy. If you don’t know about it, it’s a cartoon sitcom made for older teens and adults. I’m not a fan of it, but our son is, and I suspect that many of his friends would join him in that sentiment. I don’t know how to explain the show to you because, frankly, I don’t understand it myself. It’s about a family in Boston I think, but there’s this little outer space alien character who lives with them. I think the dog talks too. And there’s a character called Stewie who looks like a little kid and dresses like a little kid but has an adult face and voice and a British accent.

            But there is one scene with Stewie that speaks to me. His mom is lying on her bed looking depressed and exhausted and Stewie is trying to get her attention. This is how he accomplishes it.

            “Mom, mom, mom, mom, mommy, mommy, mommy, mama, mama, mama, mom, mom, mom, mom, mom, ma, ma, ma, mommy, mommy, mom, mom, mom.”

            She finally stops him by saying, “What?!!!

            I remember when my kids were little and I absolutely adored them, but they would follow me around demanding my attention, and even though I didn’t let them go on as long as this mother did, some days it felt like that’s all I heard. “Mom, mom, mom, mommy, mommy.”

            Kids are persistent. They can be like water on rock, just wearing down their parents drop by drop by incessant, persistent drop. I suspect the judge in this strange parable found only in Luke’s gospel, must have felt the same way as a parent with an insistent child. He was just being worn down by the widow’s unrelenting, persistent demand for justice.

            Our passage begins with these words, “Then Jesus told them a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart …” So, we know from the get-go that Jesus is going to tell those listening about prayer and praying always, praying steadfastly, praying faithfully. And that sounds great. Surely it will be a lovely story about a person or people making time to pray every day, and how their faithful prayers are answered, transforming them and transforming the world around them. But that’s not what we get. Instead Jesus tells them and us about a certain judge in a certain city and this judge neither feared God nor respected people. He was an unjust judge.

            In that same city there was a widow who required justice against someone opposing her, so she came to the judge asking for this justice to be granted. He refused this justice to her, so she just kept returning to him with the same demand. Grant me justice against my opponent. Jesus does not specify how often she came to the judge, but I imagine that it was a daily occurrence and that she was unrelenting.

            “Judge, judge, judge, judge, judge, judge, judge, judge, judge, judge, justice, justice, justice, justice, justice, judge, judge, judge.”

            This judge says to himself, even though I don’t fear God and I don’t respect people, I am going to give this widow the justice she wants because she won’t let up and she is wearing me out. Interestingly, 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.”

            Is this a literal black eye or a figurative one? Or both? Perhaps the judge wonders if this widow will get so tired of pleading with him to do his job that she’ll resort to giving him a black eye out of frustration, or that his reputation will receive a black eye because he won’t do what he is required to do.

            Jesus does not give specifics about what injustice has occurred in the widow’s life. We do not know the circumstances surrounding the opponent she refers to. We also do not know why the judge is unjust; why he has no fear of God or respect for anyone else. But we do know that because this is a widow, she is a person on the margins of that culture. Widows and orphans were included in the category of “the least of these.” The fact that this judge will not hear her complaint tells us that he truly did not fear God or respect people because he is completely comfortable disregarding the scriptural command to help the most vulnerable in his midst.

            The judge also possesses self-awareness. He describes himself as not fearing God or respecting people, which makes me think that he knew exactly what he was supposed to do, what he was called to do by the Law, but didn’t really care. But despite this, he finally grants the widow the justice she seeks. He does so grudgingly. He does not have a change of heart. He just wants her off his back. He just wants her to stop verbally punching and poking at him. He grants her the justice she seeks.

            Then Jesus makes this strange parable even stranger by hearkening back to the opening sentence; this is a parable about praying always and not losing heart. Jesus tells those listening that if this 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 people, grant justice to those who cry after God day and night? God 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 will grant justice quickly. Therefore, pray always and do not lost heart because God, unlike the judge, is just and hears your prayers.

            This all sounds great on the surface, but there are two problems that come to mind. The first is that even though Jesus says that God is not like the unjust judge, there is an implication that we should not hesitate to harangue and harass God with our prayers. God may not be an unjust judge, but like the widow we need to pray with dogged determination, with persistence, to be heard. That begs the question, why would God make it that hard, that challenging? Do we really have to pester God for God to respond to our prayers?

            The second question is that most if not all of us have probably prayed fervently and fiercely for someone or something, only to see our prayers go unanswered. We have prayed for justice only to see justice denied. We’ve prayed for violence and wars to cease only to see them escalate. We have prayed for people we love to live only to watch them die. Does this mean that God has refused our prayers or that our prayers aren’t faithful enough or both?

            In my lectionary group this week, a friend and colleague told a story about when he was home from college and attended a young adult Sunday school class in his home church. The class was taught by the pastor’s wife and she told them that faithful prayers were answered by God whereas unfaithful prayers were not. A young married couple in the class told her that they had prayed and prayed for their infant baby to live, but the baby had died. Did that mean they didn’t have enough faith for God to hear them and answer their prayers? The teacher said, “Yes. You do not have enough faith. God didn’t answer your prayers because you didn’t have enough faith.”

            My friend was offended when he heard this, and we were offended as well. What a terrible thing to say to anyone, much less grieving parents?! But that’s not the first time I’ve heard that response, from pastors as well as laity. I’ve heard that response, and I’ve heard equally unsatisfying responses to this dilemma about unanswered prayer. One response is that sometimes the answer to prayer is “No.” Another is that sometimes silence is the response, or maybe God has responded but the prayer has not listened. All of those may be true, but in the face of losing someone who should be too young to die, they seem woefully inadequate at best and cruel at worst.

            Another way to look at this is that prayer is not so much about getting your hopes and wishes fulfilled, as it is about building relationship with God. Prayer is not just a grocery list of desires, but a way of being in communion, in relationship with God, which in turn builds your relationship with others. I find this helpful, and certainly I need to be more persistent in building my relationship with God and other people.

            But essayist and theologian, Debie Thomas, offers another possibility, one that she admits might be a stretch. What if the unjust judge in this parable is not meant to be about God but about us? Thomas points out that time and time again scripture tells us that God not only hears the prayers and the cries of the least of these, but God is also in those prayers. God’s voice is their voice and their voice is God’s voice. Maybe the persistent prayer that Jesus refers to is not so much to wear God down but to wear us down. How am I the unjust judge? How do I not fear God and not respect people? How often are my heart and mind closed to the demands for justice by others, to the needs of others? Maybe praying persistently and not losing heart is more about what needs to be transformed within me more than about trying to capture God’s attention?

            How often have I heard the cries of the least of these and turned away? How often have I closed my eyes to injustice and inhumanity because I couldn’t take it? How often has my heart been hardened because of my own stubbornness, my own unwillingness to fear God or respect others? Perhaps praying persistently and not losing heart is not so much about not giving up but about keeping our hearts open, even if what we see and hear breaks them.

            It seems to me that Jesus is speaking to our need to be persistent in prayer, true, but also to God’s persistence in pursuing us; God’s persistence in loving us so that we can love God and love people. As a little girl in Sunday school, my favorite picture was of Jesus standing outside a door and knocking. That door, we were told, was the door to our hearts. Jesus was knocking asking to be let in. While I might debate the theology being taught to us, I can’t help but think that there is a grain of truth to it. The good news is that God persists in loving us. God persists in calling us. God persists in wanting our hearts and minds open to the cries of the least of these which means that our hearts and minds are open to God. So let’s do exactly what Jesus says to do: pray always and do not lose heart. Be persistent because God, our God, is persistent too. Thanks be to God.

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

            Amen.

Made Clean

Luke 17:11-17

October 12, 2025

 

            My mom was a stickler for manners. My dad was a polite person as well, but my most vivid memories about learning to “mind my manners,” came from my mother. Phone manners were a big deal. If she overheard me calling one of my friends and asking for that friend like this, “Is Marci there?” or “Can I talk to Marci?” she would stand behind me and firmly correct me saying, “May I speak to Marci please?” I would roll my eyes and repeat those words begrudgingly but in the end they stuck because my mom did this as many times as it took to make them stick.

            We also had to abide by table manners. Elbows were not welcome on the table. To this day, if I catch myself putting my elbows on the table while I’m eating, I take them off as quickly as possible hoping that my mom did not see it – even from Heaven. And while we were at the table, you didn’t just reach across the table to get the dish you wanted, you asked for it to be passed to you. Mom didn’t like us to use what she called a “boarding house reach.”

            There were manners connected to sharing. Woe be to me if I pulled out a piece of gum or candy in front of my friends and didn’t offer to share with them. If I didn’t have enough of something to share with everyone, then the gum or the candy needed to stay out-of-sight and out-of-mind.

            Then there were the basics. I was drilled in my use of the “magic words,” otherwise known as “please” and “thank you.” “Please” and “thank you” were not reserved for home use only. I was expected to use them with every person I met. If an adult spoke to me, I was expected to respond politely. If we were in a restaurant, I was expected to speak politely to our server or anyone else we encountered. If I failed to mind my manners – which I did – I heard about it. And if my mom or dad were not around to remind me about manners, another adult would not hesitate to speak in their stead.

            As a kid, I hated hearing the words, “mind your manners.” I remember vowing to myself that if I ever had children I would not do the same thing to them. Then I had two children and guess what? I did the same thing to them. My children were also drilled on phone etiquette and sharing manners and the use of the “magic words.” I didn’t do this to my children because I wanted them to be mindless automaton Stepford children. It’s just that when I became a mom I finally understood why my mom pushed manners so hard. It isn’t about being the etiquette police. Manners are not about conforming to social norms. But teaching my kids to speak respectfully also taught them about being respectful. Teaching them to say, “thank you” taught them about gratitude. I wanted them to know that manners gave them the power to make others feel included and welcomed, that they could turn an awkward moment into something joyful, and that two simple words – thank you – could be transformative.

            Thankfulness is the outward theme of this story from Luke’s gospel, although I suspect there is more at the heart of this passage than meets the eye. 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 people with leprosy or who are unclean for whatever reason, but the idea of giving thanks to Jesus for healing is unique to this passage. I doubt Jesus healed someone, and then prompted that person with “what are the magic words?” But in this story, we are told specifically that out of the ten who were healed, one of them turned around, returned to Jesus and gave thanks. And this one was a Samaritan.

            I’ll be honest, Jesus’ statement about this makes me uncomfortable.

            “Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?”

            Except this foreigner. As one commentator wrote, it seems that Jesus is speaking over the Samaritan, not to him. Jesus is speaking as though the Samaritan were just an object, a lamp or a bowl, rather than a living person, which feels awkward and distinctly unmannerly. But I think that Jesus is speaking to his disciples, pointing out to them that it was not the healed children of Israel who returned to him to give thanks, it was the Samaritan, the foreigner, the one who was specifically “other.”

            Jesus’ words may very well have made the disciples uncomfortable too, but not because his statement lacked manners. It would have made them uncomfortable because once again Jesus made it clear that no one was too “other” to be outside of God’s love and grace, no foreigner, no stranger, no enemy, not even a Samaritan. I’ve preached before about the enmity between Jews and Samaritans. The animosity between them was pronounced to say the least. The Samaritans were the “others” in the eyes of Israel, and I imagine that the reverse was true for the Samaritans.

            But leprosy seems to have been the great equalizer because these ten people were together, even though one of them was a Samaritan. Lepers were some of the leading outcasts of this culture. Not only was leprosy – and there were many kinds of leprosy – considered to be a physical ailment, but it was also thought to be a spiritual calamity as well. Like other illnesses, it was believed to be a spiritual punishment brought on by the disregarding of the Law by the leper’s parents or an infraction or sin on the part of the leper himself or herself.

            Lepers created their own colonies because they were forced to live outside of the main community. When clean people approached their “space,” lepers were required to call out “unclean, unclean!” This warned people to keep their distance. Yet charity from other people was their only means of survival, so despite their uncleanness, they would sit near major traffic ways and beg for alms.

            But even living as others and outside the larger community did not seem to have kept the news about Jesus from these ten. They have heard about him. They clearly have heard about his acts of healing. When they see him approach, they keep their distance but call to him.

            “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us.”

            Jesus sees them and tells them to present themselves to the priest. This was required by the Law. When someone was healed of leprosy, they had to show themselves to the priest. The priest would declare them clean and they could return to the larger community. When Jesus tells them to do this, they obediently turn and make their way. As they were going, they were made clean. But it was the Samaritan who sees that he has been made clean. He sees his skin healed and unblemished. He sees the transformation on his skin and I also think he realizes that a larger transformation has occurred as well. He sees, so he turns around and goes back to Jesus. He prostrates himself before Jesus. He, the Samaritan, thanks him.

            Did this happen because the Samaritan’s mother was a stickler for manners just like mine was? Was the Samaritan just more polite, or did he realize that his otherness had been overcome. The Samaritan, the foreigner, probably understood better than the others, that his otherness came from more than just the disease that ravaged his skin. He was a foreigner, a stranger, an other. But this Jesus, healed him. This Jesus made room for him. The lines that would have been drawn between them in other circumstances were not merely unimportant, but they were also erased completely. This man, this foreigner, this other, sees that he has been healed, and maybe he realizes that he has been seen as well. He has been seen as a child of God.

            Maybe that’s what Jesus was pointing out to the disciples and anyone else who witnessed this. Maybe that’s what Jesus wanted them to see and understand. This outsider, this foreigner, was more than just the labels he bore and more than the disease that plagued him. He was a child of God. But maybe it was his status as an “other,” as an outsider, a foreigner that helped him to see in ways that the “insiders” could not. Maybe it was because he was a foreigner that made him grasp the import of being healed, and so he turned around and he gave thanks.

            Once again, we are being reminded vividly that God’s kingdom is upside down. It is the reversal of all we think we know and understand. Every category we create, every label we bestow means nothing in the kingdom of God. We may not use the word “unclean” today, but if we’re brutally honest there are people we think of as being just that. They are unclean for their beliefs or unclean because of their status in society or unclean because of their politics or unclean just because they are different. And the truth that really gets to me is that there are people who think the same of me. In some people’s eyes, I am the other. I am the foreigner. I am the stranger. I am the outsider. We all make categories and rules to help us navigate a world that is chaotic more than it is calm. But the kingdom of God, the kingdom that Jesus proclaimed is now in our midst, does away with all of it. No category is left standing. No label is not overthrown. The kingdom of God turns everything upside down and on its head.

            And when we can see this, really see it, see our transformation and see the “others” in our world in the same way, we may just want to turn around, fall at the feet of Jesus, and give thanks. Thank you, Jesus, for healing us. Thank you, Jesus, for loving us. Thank you, Jesus, for turning our categories and our labels and our lines and our walls upside down. Thank you, Jesus, for making us clean. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you.

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

Increase Our Faith -- World Communion Sunday

Luke 17:5-10

October 5, 2025

 

            Spoiler alert: I’m about to mention the end of the movie The Wizard of Oz. Since the movie premiered in 1939, I am assuming that most of us here and most who may be watching from home know the movie and know its plot. If you don’t, I apologize for spoiling it for you, but as I said, it premiered in 1939.

            Dorothy finds herself in the strange land of Oz, trying to find her way back home to Kansas. She begins a tumultuous journey from Munchkin Land to see the wizard who resides in Oz, to ask for help in getting home. Without even meaning to, she defeats not one but two wicked witches. She befriends a scarecrow, a lion, and a tin man. She faces flying monkeys – which were the part of the movie that always terrified me when I was a kid. And finally she comes face-to-face with the one person she most wanted to see – the Wizard himself. Only it turns out that the Wizard isn’t so much a Wizard as he is an old man, who was also stranded in Oz, and made the best of it by pretending to be a great and powerful Wizard.  

            All Dorothy wants is to go home, and she hopes that the Wizard will be able to help her. Even though he isn’t really a Wizard, he still believes he can return her to her home and her loved ones, but that plan goes awry at the last minute, leaving Dorothy in despair of ever getting back to Kansas. But just when Dorothy and the rest of us think that all is lost, Glynda the Good Witch returns to help. Glynda tells Dorothy that she has had the power to go home all along. That power is found in the ruby slippers on Dorothy’s feet; ruby slippers that became Dorothy’s when her house landed on the Wicked Witch of the East. All Dorothy has to do is tap her heels together and repeat,

“There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.”

It works! Dorothy wakes up back in her bed, back in her house, surrounded by her family and friends. It is a happy ending, one that I accepted without question as a child. But as I grew older, I started to ask one question that may or may not be answerable. Why didn’t Glynda tell Dorothy that she had the power to go home from the very beginning? Why didn’t Glynda clue Dorothy in about the power of the ruby slippers from the get-go? Dorothy asked to go home, a straightforward request, and Glynda’s response seemed evasive at best.

I won’t claim that Jesus was being evasive in his reply to the disciples at the beginning of our passage from Luke’s gospel, but I will say that his response seems impatient and just plain strange.

The apostles said, “Increase our faith!” This is an imperative statement meaning that they are not just asking for more faith, they are demanding it. Increase our faith, Jesus! Now please! This demand may seem as though it comes from a place of entitlement and superiority, but I think it more likely comes from anxiety and fear. If we were to read the first four verses in this chapter, that anxiety would make sense. In chapter 16, Jesus was addressing the pharisees, but now his words are directed once more to those closest followers. He tells his disciples that they bear a tremendous responsibility for those who follow them. If someone stumbles and falls short because of the words, actions, and deeds of a disciple, it would be better for that disciple to have a millstone hung around their neck and thrown into the sea. Don’t cause a little one, a person young in faith, to mess up. And if one of you sins against another of you, you must call out the offender. But if that person repents, then you must forgive. And if the other sins and repents seven times a day; you must forgive seven times a day.

Once again Jesus is telling the disciples that none of this will be easy; that being a disciple, being faithful, is the hardest task they will ever undertake. And they respond, “Increase our faith!” Give us more faith, Jesus, so we can do this. Give us an extra dose of faith, so we have a chance of making this work.  

Instead Jesus says, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea and it would obey you.’”

The Greek word used for if implies not just a possibility but a reality. So, it’s more like Jesus is saying, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, and by the way you do, you already have this faith, you could say to the mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea …”” Just as Dorothy already had the power to get home, Jesus is telling the disciples that their faith is already sufficient to do what seems both absurd and impossible.

Had Jesus ended here, this would have still been a challenging passage, but its challenge might have felt more manageable. But verse six is not the end. Jesus then speaks about the relationship of a master and a slave. The use of the word “slave” grates on my 21^st century ears  and stings my conscience because of the brutal history of chattel slavery in our country. Rightly so. It would be wrong to interpret these words as Jesus justifying slavery, but it also must be acknowledged that the master/slave relationship was common in that time and place. The disciples would have recognized and understood it. So, Jesus tells them that when the slave does what’s expected of him, he doesn’t get praise or thanks. The slave is just doing what he’s supposed to do. The slave is just doing what’s required of him; the slave is merely doing his duty.

Jesus gives this an interesting twist because he implies that the disciples are the slaves of God. This makes God the slave master, which adds greatly to my discomfort. But even if we translated the word doulos as servant instead of slave, I would still be uncomfortable. Because at the end of the day, I don’t want to think about God being stingy with rewards. And I’m also honest, I would like some thanks and praise for serving. I suspect the disciples would too, especially because this serving is hard work. It’s scary work. It is imposing work. And if they are going to do it, they need as much faith as possible, and how about a “thank you” thrown in for good measure. It’s not like Jesus doesn’t speak of their greater reward at other points in the gospels. Why change that now?

But I wonder if Jesus is trying to get the disciples to understand that faith is not about quantity. Faith is not something that can be measured in amounts. You can’t just fill up your faith like you can gas in your car. When the disciples cry, “Increase our faith,” maybe they’re not just simply asking for more, but asking for it to be simpler, easier. Give us an extra jolt of faith, Lord, so this won’t be so hard for us. Give us an extra measure of faith, Jesus, so this won’t be so challenging, so intimidating, so frightening. Increase our faith, so this won’t demand quite so much of us.

But Jesus tells them, you have enough faith. You have plenty of faith already. You have the enough faith to tell a tree with the deepest of roots to pull itself up and jump into the sea. You have enough faith to do what is impossible right now. But faith is not measurable in a way that is quantifiable. Faith does not increase because you get a refill or an extra dose or a larger amount. Faith grows by the doing. Faith is not something you get, faith is something you do. Faith is serving. Faith is acting. Faith is doing. You serve God and you serve others because that is what grows faith. Faith is not something you get. Faith is something you do. You already have enough faith. You already have what you need. You just have to do it. Faith is not what you get. Faith is what you do.

Like the disciples, though, I would rather have it the other way around. I would rather have my faith topped up by some supernatural increase than do the hard work of faith. Because to do the work of faith requires more of me than I think or want to give Doing the work of faith requires me to love people who I don’t want to love and to forgive people I don’t want to forgive. Doing the work of faith requires me to resist “othering” people, to resist trying to categorize people under various labels, so they will be the others I don’t have to deal with. And that is hard work indeed, and everything in our culture suggests that I should do the opposite. A supercharge of faith would surely help me do all of this wouldn’t it? It would make it so much easier if my faith could just be increased. But faith is not something we get. Faith is something we do. If we want to increase our faith, we must do the work of faith. And we do it not for reward or praise or thanks, but just because.

In a few minutes we will come to the table and celebrate the Lord’s Supper. On this World Communion Sunday, we do this with Christians of every denomination, of every creed, of every color, of every gender around the globe. At this table we will be fed and nourished and strengthened. But sharing the bread and drinking the cup will not magically increase our faith. It is the act of coming to the table that will increase our faith. It is the act of breaking the bread and drinking the cup that increases our faith. This table is not about refueling but about gathering and doing and loving and sending. Faith is not something we get, faith is something we do. May we increase our by the daily work of faith, even when that work is hard or seems impossible. May we increase our faith by the daily work of faith, and daily may we share the mercy and grace and love of God with all God’s people. Thanks be to God.

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

Amen.