The Kingdom Is ...

Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52                                                                                                                      July 26, 2020 

            One of my sweetest memories of my kids when they were little, and there are many, is when they would bring me bouquets of dandelions. They did not yet understand that these were weeds; something most people thought was a nuisance. No one had enlightened them on the human-made difference between a flower and a pest. All they saw was a pretty yellow flower that no adult minded them picking, and one that they were sure their mom would love. And she did.

            I would admire them as if they were two dozen roses, then put these tokens of my children’s affection in water and let them adorn the kitchen counter till they finally wilted away. That process never took very long.

            But as dutifully as I adored this precious gift of dandelions from my babies, I worked just as dutifully to get them out of my yard – the dandelions, not my children. How many hours have I spent pulling dandelions and creeping Charlie and other various and sundry weeds from yards and around the flowers that I do my best to coax into bloom? More than I can tell you. I’m not the best gardener, but I love it. I look forward to the day when I can try my hand at raised beds, and other flowers and other vegetables than the cherry tomatoes currently growing on our deck. And I know that when I am tending to these flowers and vegetables of my imagination, that I will once again spend time pulling weeds. And I will pull them with great determination.

            Which is why this first parable from this list of parables in our gospel text this morning always throws me for a loop. While we may enjoy mustard on our hot dogs, a mustard seed was not something that a farmer would deliberately or intentionally plant amongst his or her crops. The mustard plant was an invasive weed. It would spread and grow, robbing the crop that was deliberately planted of nutrients and eventually life.

            The mustard seed was an invasive, destructive weed, yet Jesus compares the kingdom of heaven to this weed. The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed? This seems especially strange considering Jesus’s words of separating the wheat from the chaff, and in letting the weeds grow among the good seed. He did not always speak in praise of weeds, but in this parable, the kingdom is the weed. The second parable Jesus told may not seem quite as confusing on the surface, but when you dig deeper it is just as troubling.

            The kingdom of heaven is a like a woman who adds yeast to three measures of flour. Why is this troubling? We think yeast is good. During this pandemic and the lockdowns all around the country, yeast became a precious resource. People were suddenly baking bread in great quantities, and when you did venture out to the grocery store, it could be challenging to find any yeast. But in the biblical context, yeast was not necessarily seen as a good thing. More often it was a contaminant. David Lose wrote that in the scriptures, a reference to yeast was often a reference to the pernicious nature of sin.

            While our translation of this reads that the woman added the yeast into the flour, a more literal translation states that she “hid” the yeast. She hid the yeast – a contaminant – in a large measure of flour, and the whole thing became leavened. The kingdom of heaven, according to Jesus, is like this yeast. It is hidden in the flour until it grows and grows and leavens the whole mix. Let’s just all say a collective, ‘Huh?”

            Often the interpretations of these parables go with the small to the large. The kingdom of heaven is like the tiny mustard seed. But even though it may start out infinitesimally small, it grows and grows and becomes a great tree. That great tree will attract birds of every kind, who will come and nest in its branches.

            The kingdom of heaven in is like yeast added to a great quantity of flour. It will grow and bloom and leaven the whole thing, and as my colleague in our Zoom lecitionary group said,

            “When that happens, you have to bake bread. You can’t ignore it.”

            While the small to the large is fine, and that idea will come out in other gospel texts, it is hard not to see that Jesus’ parables about the kingdom are not only about small to large. If the kingdom of heaven is like a weed that will grow and spread and take over, then there will be those who will try to uproot it, pull it out, push back against it? Right?

            If the kingdom of heaven is like yeast that is hidden in flour, then there are those who will see the whole mix as being spoiled, as something that was not meant to be leavened in the first place.

            It seems to me that in these first two parables, Jesus may be giving his disciples and anyone who wants to follow him a warning: the kingdom of heaven won’t seem like a kingdom to some. But it will have deep roots, and it will leaven all of the flour. It may start off small, but it will grow to such a massive size, that it will not be able to be toppled. It may start off hidden, but it will leaven all the flour. It will not be ignored.

            However, Jesus does not end the parable telling with only these two. The kingdom of heaven may start off small and grow large. But it will also be something that you will willingly give up everything you have, everything you own, to be a part of. It will be like a treasure hidden in a field. The one who finds the treasure will not just take it but will buy the whole field too. The kingdom of heaven is like a merchant who seeks out fine pearls, and when he finds one pearl that is so surpassing in beauty and value and worth, he will sell all the other pearls he owns just to have it. And the kingdom of heaven will be like a fishing net that caught an abundance of fish of every kind. Yes, there will be some fish that are bad, but there will be an abundance of fish that are kept.

            The kingdom of heaven is …

            What do we do with all these parables? Are we disturbed by them? Do we find hope in them? Do we celebrate them? Do they give us pause? Yes. Yes to all of the above, and probably many more choices I have yet to think of.  I wonder if Jesus is offering so many parables about the kingdom, not to overwhelm those who hear him, but to show that the kingdom of heaven is beyond the full scope of their imagination. But that does not mean that they cannot or should not try to imagine it, even if it is a limited vision at best.

            The kingdom of heaven does not fit neatly into any one parable, any one description, so Jesus offers several descriptions. Which one resonates with you? Which one captures your imagination? And while you’re at it, as Karoline Lewis challenged, which picture of the kingdom does your imagination conceive?

            When you think of the kingdom, what do you envision? Spend some time this week thinking about this question. Let your imagination loose. When you think of the kingdom, what do you imagine?

            Is it a wonderful feast set on a table that has space for everyone? Is it a garden where everyone can work the soil, tend to their crops and harvest in peace? Is it a world free of hunger and violence and strife? Is it a world where children can live free of anxiety and fear and suffering? Is it a world where dandelions are no longer weeds, but just one more flower among many?

            When you think of the kingdom of heaven, what do you see? What do you hope for? What do you imagine? Whatever the answer you may give to that question, the good news is that the kingdom of heaven is in our midst. It is growing. It is spreading and blooming and becoming lush and welcoming to birds of all kinds. And in a world that seems as far from the kingdom as ever, that is good news indeed. The kingdom is. Thanks be to God.  Alleluia. Amen.  

Thin Places

Genesis 28:10-19a                                                                                                                                 July 19, 2020

 

            In spite of the best and most concerted efforts of my parents, my preacher and my Sunday School teachers, my earliest and strongest association with the words “Jacob’s Ladder” were not from the Bible story that we read in Genesis, but with the string trick of the same name that I demonstrated in the Children’s sermon. I loved trying to figure out string tricks when I was a kid, and I would practice them for hours. My family will confirm that I spent a long time yesterday relearning and practicing this same trick. Growing up, I spent more than a few hours in church as well, but the string trick that resulted in Jacob’s Ladder made more of an impression on me as a child than the story about the actual Jacob and his ladder did. At least initially.

Another association that I have with this story before us is the hymn of the same name.

“We are climbing Jacob’s ladder. We are climbing Jacob’s ladder. We are climbing Jacob’s ladder. Soldiers of the cross.”

Perhaps we children were encouraged to sing this with gusto in Sunday School or Vacation Bible School – perhaps we even marched to it, good soldiers of the cross that we were – but this hymn did not begin as a children’s song, but as a spiritual. It was first sung by enslaved Africans working in the fields. The enslaved peoples of this country were not allowed to talk while they worked, but they could sing. Singing and chanting established a rhythm for their work. And Jacob’s Ladder was one that they sang.

Just as the story of the Exodus, of Moses leading his people out of slavery in Egypt to freedom in the Promised Land, was a narrative that resonated with these people bound in slavery’s chains, I imagine the idea of climbing a ladder to heaven was also a story that gave them some measure of hope. Soldiers of the cross, they would follow Jesus and climb that ladder from slavery to freedom with God. 

            To hear a powerful and poignant version of Jacob’s Ladder, go to YouTube and check out Bernice Regan Johnson’s rendition of this. It was featured in the Ken Burns’ documentary, The Civil War. But as plaintive as the spiritual is and as fun as the string trick is, neither one fully connects to or convey what is happening in this story about Jacob and his dream of a ladder reaching up to heaven.

            Jacob is on the run. He has swindled his twin, but still older, brother, Esau, out of his birthright and his father’s blessing, and to claim that Esau is furious is an understatement. Esau is plotting revenge. He declares that their old man cannot live forever, and once Isaac is finally laid to rest, Jacob will be too. Esau will not stop until he sees his twin dead. Reports of Esau’s threats get back to their mother, Rebekah. Just as she intervened and helped Jacob usurp the blessing meant for Esau, she again steps in on behalf of her youngest son. She tells Isaac that the Hittite women all around them are driving her to distraction. She does not want Jacob to marry one of them, so she wants him to go to the land of her brother, Laban. Let him find a wife there. Isaac agrees and Jacob flees his home and his family, following his mother’s instructions to find her brother and his people.

            This is the Jacob we meet in our story today; a man on the run, fleeing from the wrath of his brother. Night has fallen so Jacob stops in the place where he happened to be. Whatever provisions he brought with him, a pillow or head rest was not among them. To make do, he takes a rock, puts it under his head, falls asleep, and dreams a strange dream: a dream about a ladder.

            This would not have been a ladder we would recognize. It would have been more like a staircase. Large structures with staircases going up them could be found in that ancient land. Babylon and other cultures believed that they marked the dwelling places of the gods. These were thin places, where the separation between the divine and the human was tenuous. These staircases were called ziggurats, and it was most likely a ziggurat that appeared in Jacob’s dream. 

            Angels, messengers of God, were ascending and descending the staircase, from heaven to earth and back again. But instead of some holy message or divine directive being given to Jacob by the angels, the Lord appears. In our reading, the Lord stands beside Jacob. But in the Hebrew, what is translated as “stood beside him” could also be translated as “stood above him.” As I read this, I wonder if both translations are true. The Lord, so big, so wondrous, so mighty, so above Jacob, was also the Lord who stood right next to him. 

            The Lord speaks to Jacob in the words of covenant.

“I am the Lord, the God of Abraham your father and the God of Isaac; the land on which you lie I will give to you and your offspring; and your offspring shall be like the dust of the earth, and you shall spread abroad to the west and to the east and to the north and to the south, and all families of the earth shall be blessed in you and your offspring. Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and I will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I promised you.” 

            Just as the Lord promised Abraham that his descendants would be like sand and stars, both elements so numerous they are uncountable, God also promises Jacob that his offspring will be like the dust of the earth. Commentators note that when we read the word dust, we should think more along the lines of topsoil. Topsoil is rich and fertile, full of the necessary nutrients required for plants and crops to grow. Jacob’s offspring will be like topsoil; they will be prolific and spread across the world. Through them God’s blessing for the world and all the families within it, shall be realized. 

            It’s not surprising that when Jacob wakes up, he exclaims,

“Surely the Lord is in this place – and I did not know it!” 

He recognizes that this random spot where he chose to bed down for the night is actually the house of God and the gateway to heaven, Jacob takes the rock he used for a pillow and refashions it into an altar. He anoints it with oil and uses it as a marker of the place where the sacred and secular met. 

            Although the lectionary stops at the beginning of verse 19, we really should read through verse 22. Not only did Jacob recognize God’s presence in that place and consecrated it accordingly, he also adds his part to the covenant God has made.

“If God will be with me, and will keep me in this way that I go, and will give me bread to eat and clothing to wear, so that I come again to my father’s house in peace, then the Lord shall be my God, and this stone, which I have set up for a pillar, shall be God’s house; and of all that you give me I will surely give one-tenth to you.”

              Perhaps the lectionary leaves off these last words of Jacob because it sounds as though he’s making some counteroffer, a bargain with God. But I think that it could also be read as Jacob’s legitimate response to God’s covenant. The covenant you have made with my ancestors, you have made with me. As you remain faithful, I too will be faithful. 

            It would be easy to end here. It would be easy to close with the importance of recognizing that God finds us in unlikely places and works through the most unlikely of people. Jacob the grasper, the scoundrel, becomes Israel. He becomes not only a father, but a father of a nation.  God’s promise continues. It may seem to tread on shaky ground at times, but it continues. The promise is fulfilled in Jesus, and with each movement of the Spirit, God’s blessing can be found in every corner of the world. And it all can be traced back to that scoundrel Jacob. Alleluia.  Amen.

            Except … I am tired of scoundrels. I am sick to the death of them. Our world is so full of heartbreak and unnecessary suffering. The suffering inflicted because of this pandemic begs us to take care of one another, to look out for one another, but still we are divided. Violence due to hatred, fear, bigotry keeps rearing its ugly head. Much of this can be traced back to scoundrels – whether individuals or collections of them. I am sick of scoundrels who see humans as disposable and expendable. I am just sick and tired of scoundrels. So it is hard to read this passage about Jacob, that scoundrel, and not feel some anger at God working through … him.  

            I am grateful and overwhelmed at the reality that God’s grace works whether I deserve it or not, because I realize that most of the time I don’t. But at the same time, I cannot seem to get on the Jacob veneration bandwagon. He may be a spiritual forefather, but he was also a scoundrel and I am sick to death of scoundrels. 

            Yet even as I say that, the truth is that God did work through him, scoundrel that he was. Jacob did encounter God in a thin place, not because he chose it, but because God did. I cannot help but remember those moments, fleeting though they were, when I have encountered God’s presence, when I have felt God with me, when I have known and believed to my very soul that God, so mighty, so big, was standing right there beside me. I remember those times and those places, those thin places, when the line between heaven and earth was blurred, and for a glimpse of a second, I could see God at work in the world. 

            Perhaps that is what this passage is asking of us. It’s not asking us to venerate Jacob or excuse or accommodate the scoundrels of the world, even the ones that reside in our own selves.  It is asking us to have faith that God really is indeed present in our midst. And it is not just asking us to believe that God is present generally, but that God is present specifically. It’s asking us to trust that there are more thin places than we can possibly know. It is asking us to have faith that God is more persistent in grace, love and mercy than any evil or chaos a scoundrel can create. Perhaps this passage is asking us to have faith that the thinnest places in the world, the places where the line between God and us is most porous, is where there is heartbreak. Perhaps the thinnest places are the hospital rooms, the violent homes, the forgotten places, the lonely places, the places where most us think surely God cannot be here. But surely God is. Surely God is here, and surely God is out there – in a world full of suffering, the thin places must be everywhere. Surely God is there. Surely God is here.

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

Sibling Rivalry

Genesis 25:19-34                                                                                                                                   July 12, 2020

 

            Social media is full of silly quizzes. I don’t take the bait on most of them, but there was one I ran across and had to take. It was called, “How Southern Are You?” Some of the questions to determine your Southern-ness were, and I paraphrase,

“What’s a pig-picking and what do you do at one?”

“What is the real meaning of the phrase, ‘bless your heart’?”

But my favorite question of all was this one,

“How do you, Southerners, deal with the quirky, odd, more eclectic, and eccentric members of your family?” 

The possible answers listed options such as institutionalize them or pretend they’re not related to you.  But if you are a true Southerner, the correct answer was that the quirkiest of family members should sit in the nicest seats in the living room, or in a prominent spot on the front porch. And after those quirky family members have taken their rightful place, then the neighbors should be invited over for a barbecue. In other words, the true Southerner – or at least the true Southern stereotype – does not try to hide away the most dysfunctional family members. Quirkiness and eccentricity are a source of pride, not shame. We put the more flamboyant members of our family right out on the front porch for the whole world to see. 

            Well, fellow Southerners in our Southern church, welcome to Genesis: the front porch of the Bible. Our spiritual patriarchs and matriarchs were nothing if not quirky, eccentric and, yes, bless their hearts, dysfunctional. If we really read them carefully, the stories of our spiritual ancestors in our faith should give us pause. Perhaps they should make us question what we mean when we refer to the “family values” that are supposedly based on scripture. From Abraham and Sarah on, this is one big, dysfunctional family.

Over the last weeks, we have heard again the story of Abraham and Sarah, and their long-awaited son, Isaac. We have also read about Ishmael, Abraham’s son with Sarah’s maidservant, Hagar. It was bad enough that Sarah told Abraham to get rid of Hagar and Ishmael, and he did; but just a few weeks ago we revisited the story of God telling Abraham to take Isaac and sacrifice him. As I said when I preached on that story a few weeks ago, the sacrifice of Isaac is known in the rabbinic tradition as The Akedah or the binding of Isaac. As another clergy person wrote, the rabbis of this tradition see this crucial moment in the life and faith of Abraham and Isaac as a shadow that follows the family line from that point onward. 

            We recognize this shadow when Sarah’s death follows the story of Isaac’s binding. One commentator speculated that perhaps Sarah just gave up after her God and her husband seemingly schemed to sacrifice her only son. This shadow looms large over the story of Isaac and Rebekah. Isaac was 40 when he married Rebekah, but he was 60 before Rebekah conceived.  Just as Sarah and Abraham endured decades of barrenness so too did Rebekah and Isaac. But just as God’s promise of a child and descendants came to fruition in the life of Sarah and Abraham, that promise continued when Rebekah and Isaac’s prayers for a child, were answered.  They were answered with not just one son, but two. But the shadow does not recede.

            So begins our story this morning. Rebekah is pregnant, but it is a difficult pregnancy. The text tells us that the babies “struggled inside her.” She is so uncomfortable that she wants to know why she cannot just die instead. Rebekah goes to the Lord to ask for an explanation or some understanding of what is happening within her, and she receives an annunciation. It is not just that two babies are fighting for space insider her, there are two nations jostling for room. 

            “Two nations are in your womb, and two peoples born of you shall be divided; the one shall be stronger than the other, the elder shall serve the younger.”  

            Even in utero the ongoing story of dysfunction continues. Esau and Jacob are born; Esau, born first, and Jacob born second. They may be twins, but Esau is considered the oldest and therefore has the rights of the first-born son. Esau’s name in Hebrew is a play on the word for “hairy.” He is indeed covered in an abundance of red hair. Jacob’s name in Hebrew is a play on the words for “heel and supplant.” Another fitting moniker, because was born grasping his brother’s heel.   

            To add to the dysfunctional fun, Isaac and Rebekah commit what many believe to be a parental sin. They play favorites. Isaac loves game, and Esau is a skillful hunter able to give his father the food he loves best. Jacob is quieter. Rebekah loves Jacob. Jacob stays among the tents, learning to cook, and it was his ability to cook that furthered the divide between the brothers.

Jacob is making a stew of “red stuff,” probably beans and grains. Esau comes in from the field and he is, as he puts it, “famished.” He asks Jacob to give him some of the stew. Jacob seizes the opportunity just as he seized his brother’s heel.

“Sure, Esau, I’ll give you some stew. But first you give me your birthright.”

Esau does not want to think about birthrights. He is hungry, famished, so he gives up his birthright for a bowl of beans. 

            There are many directions that we can take at this point, many questions about this story that we can pursue. The first might be just how dumb was Esau? Perhaps dumb is not the right word, but I think “doof” fits. Really, Esau?  You couldn’t have walked a few feet farther and gotten food from somebody else? I imagine that other food was available. Yet you sold your birthright, you sold out your family heritage, because you had to have food at that moment?  Didn’t you think about the consequences? Clearly not.

            A second thought is why was Jacob so mean? Is this just the younger brother motif? I mean, Jacob, this is your brother for Pete’s sake! Just give him some food. Is one serving of stew too much to ask? It makes me think of every bad family sitcom, usually made in the 1980’s, where one sibling needs a favor from another and has to promise to give up allowance or do chores or some other menial task in order to get the favor at all. But this goes far beyond a favor and losing allowance. This is about the rights of the firstborn son, which was everything in that time and context. It was about leadership in the family and inheritance rights. Yet sibling rivalry can be a dangerous thing, and in this dysfunctional moment, in this dysfunctional family, Jacob saw a chance to outwit his older brother. Esau, thinking only about his immediate gratification, falls right into the trap. 

            Unfortunately, the lectionary skips the next part of Jacob and Esau’s story. Not only does Jacob take his brother’s birthright. He also tricks Isaac out of the blessing meant for Esau. Jacob wrangles for Esau’s birthright on his own. But when he tricks his father, disguised as Esau, it is done with the help of his mother. Rebekah again plays favorites.

            You would think that with all this dysfunction, this scheming and usurping and backstabbing that God would step in and restore Esau back to his rightful status as the firstborn. Shouldn’t the story of God’s people continue through Esau? That is what we would expect, but God rarely does what we expect. The covenant began to take shape through the second born, Isaac, and God continues the covenant through Jacob, Jacob the grasper, the trickster, the scoundrel. The one who should be least likely to carry the promise of God is the one who is chosen. 

            Yet, even though Esau is not the one chosen to continue the covenant of God, he is still the father of a nation. He is blessed with descendants and wealth. And Jacob is not the only trickster that we will meet. The trickster is tricked by his father-in-law, Laban, into marrying the oldest daughter Leah before he can marry his beloved, Rachel, the younger daughter.

But it still smacks of unfairness that the one least likely to be an instrument of God’s promise and God’s grace is the one chosen. Yet isn’t that the way of grace? Throughout scripture, we read that God chooses the unlikely, the underdog, the flawed and the dysfunctional to bring God’s promise to fruition. Yet, in our own lives and in our own churches, we act as though the opposite is true. We tie God’s grace to piety. If we are just good enough, just pious enough, just righteous enough, then we will be close to God. Except I’ll be honest, I rarely feel good enough or righteous enough. However if these stories in Genesis – and the stories in the books that follow – teach us anything it is that goodness and grace are not cause and effect. To paraphrase Paul, this doesn’t mean that we should intentionally seek to be scoundrels so that God’s grace is heightened. But it does mean that God’s grace is not dependent on our goodness.  And that is good news. It is good news because our flaws, our failings, our quirks and our dysfunctions do not deter God. If anything, God works through them. God works through us, dysfunctional, broken, flawed beings that we are. 

I did not preach on the story of the sower and seeds from the gospel lesson today, but one point that I have also intuited from that passage is this: the sower did not neatly plant seeds in tidy rows. The sower flung seeds, everywhere, into all kinds of soil. The sower flung seeds, seemingly without thought for how many seeds were being hurled, where they might land, and what might actually become of them. The sower flung seeds extravagantly. And extravagant is the word I associate with God’s grace. God shows us extravagant grace, even though we don’t deserve it, we cannot earn it, we will never be righteous enough to win it, and if we could it would not be grace. No, God’s grace is extravagant because God’s love is extravagant. God works through our flaws, our dysfunction, our mistakes, and our unlikeliness because God loves us extravagantly. Despite our failings and our weaknesses, God loves us. We are beloved in God’s eyes. And through unlikely and quirky people, God’s promises are still coming to fruition. God’s extravagant grace covers us, in spite of ourselves. Let all of God’s quirky, eccentric, flawed, and dysfunctional children say, “Alleluia!”  Amen.

Burdens

Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

July 5, 2020

Next Saturday my family and I were supposed to be in Minnesota. July 11 was the date we set to have a celebration of my dad’s life with extended family and friends. Afterward, we were supposed to inter his ashes at Fort Snelling in St. Paul, with military honors for his service during the Korean War. 

Our reason for planning this celebration next week, even though we had a small service right after he died last fall, was because our family is pretty spread out geographically. Having a celebration of life this summer would give everyone a chance to plan and be there. The person in our family who is the farthest away is my sister, Jill, in Athens, Greece. She could not get home last fall for the first service, so this celebration of life would be her chance to be there. Jill had her ticket. She should have arrived a week ago. We had made all the plans we thought we needed to make. But we will not be gathering in Minnesota next Saturday, because what we had not planned for was a pandemic. Jill’s flight to the States was cancelled, just as so many flights from Europe to the States have been cancelled. Even if it would not have been, we were afraid for her traveling. She has Multiple Sclerosis, and long flights on at least two planes and having to negotiate multiple airports could be deadly for her. And if she had gotten here, would she have been able to go back, considering the European Union has now restricted flights from the United States? 

We have postponed my dad’s service indefinitely. Maybe we will be able to have it next spring; maybe next summer, who knows? We’ll just have to wait and see.  

I know that in the bigger picture of problems and losses caused by the pandemic, our having to postpone this service is not a tragedy. I know that in comparison with what so many other families are going through, the losses people have experienced – loss of loved ones, loss of job, loss of health – this loss, my family’s loss, is just a small drop in the bucket of grief felt the world over. But it is a loss for us, and it adds to the burden of grief we already feel.

The burden of grief. I’ll be honest, I’m not sure that I would have described grief as a burden before, but when I read again these familiar verses from Matthew’s gospel, that was the burden that came to mind. I saw grief as one of the many burdens to which Jesus referred. 

We often want to take these last verses, 28 through 30, and focus on them solely. They offer comfort and rest and a gentleness that is soothing to troubled soul. But they are set in a larger context, and it is helpful to wrap our minds around what is happening. 

At the beginning of this chapter, Jesus receives a message from John the Baptizer in prison: “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” 

I will not try to parse out why John asks Jesus this question, which I have always found confusing, considering who John was and to whom he pointed. But the question does not seem to upset or throw Jesus off. After sending the messengers back with his answer, that the proof of his identity can be seen in the blind receiving their sight, etc. Jesus goes on to praise John. No one born of women has arisen greater than John the Baptist. However, right after his praise of John, Jesus points his fingers at the crowds around him. These are the first verses in our part of the story.

This generation, he said, is like children sitting in the marketplace, complaining, whining. We played the lute for you and you did not dance. We wailed and you did not mourn. You complained that John was ascetic. He did not eat. He did not drink, and you claimed he had a demon. The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and you say, look he’s a drunkard! Look, he eats with sinners. There was no pleasing you! There was no making you happy! 

        “Yet wisdom is vindicated by her deeds.” 

That last sentence seems to make no sense, as though it was just added onto the end randomly, unless you look at the verses that are left out of our reading. Jesus turns his ire on the cities where most of his great deeds were done. Yet even where Jesus showed himself to be the Son of Man, the Son of God, those cities, those peoples still did not repent. They did not believe. There was wisdom, but there was no understanding. 

And then we come to the rest of our story. And I admit that I cringe somewhat when I read verses 25 through 27. The things of God have been hidden from the wise and the intelligent, and instead revealed to infants. Who are these infants? Later, Jesus will welcome children despite the objections of his disciples and others. Later, he will claim that the kingdom of heaven belongs to the little ones such as those children. Infants will know the truth, but the wise and intelligent cannot see it. They just don’t get it. And when I read these words, I cringe, because faith seeking knowledge was not just the motto of my seminary, it is the way I try to live my life. I value intellect. I value knowledge. I believe God has given us brains and minds in order for us to use them, and I think verses like this have been taken out of context and used to justify doing the opposite. So I read them and I cringe, because I feel they are speaking to me. 

But I also know something else. I know that faith is not a mind only enterprise. Faith is not an either or between heart and mind, but a both and. Faith encompasses our whole selves. Jesus called those who would hear to believe with their whole selves, heart, body and mind.  

And here’s the thing about our whole selves – they get weighted down, weary and burdened. Grief and loss and worry and anxiety and fear and hopelessness and despair are all burdens. Who has lost sleep because their minds will not turn off, hashing and rehashing whatever troubles or stresses or difficulties are present? I have. Who has felt the burdensome weight of physical illness, whether in yourself or in someone you love? I have. Who has felt the exhaustion of carrying grief or anger or depression? I have. 

These burdens may seem minor in comparison with the burdens of poverty and oppression, and truly those are wearisome burdens indeed. But while living means carrying burdens, these last months seem especially burdensome. I know that the burdens I carry are much less than the burdens others carry. I have not lost sight of that, but that has not prevented the weariness I feel from settling down on me like a blanket. I suspect that some of you feel the same way. 

That is why these words of Jesus feel and are so comforting. But notice that Jesus does not offer to take away our burdens. Jesus does not promise to wave his hand and make them disappear. He just says, “Come to me.” 

“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” 

No, Jesus does not offer to take away our burdens; in fact, he offers to add a yoke to our necks. At first, this might seem like an offer that I could easily refuse. I’m already burdened and weighed down and weary, and you want to put a yoke on my neck?! I don’t think so, Jesus. 

But what about this yoke? I know that a yoke is used for two animals. It binds them together so that heavier loads are easier to pull. But something I did not know, although I’m sure those of you who grew up on farms did, is that when a farmer is training an animal to pull heavy loads, he or she will pair up a young, untrained ox with an older, trained one. Being yoked together the trained ox teach the untrained one. 

The yoke Jesus offers is not to add weight, and it is not just about sharing the load, it is to teach. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me. When the weight of our burdens tempts us to pull away, to walk away, to give up, the yoke that Jesus offers not only takes some of the weight off our shoulders but brings us closer to him. It brings us closer to him, so that we can learn, so that our faith can grow in our minds and in our hearts.  

We need to take on that yoke, because we are carrying heavy burdens, and we are weary. And we need to share our yoke with those who are even more burdened and wearier than we are. Because I don’t think it’s just about Jesus and me, but it is about Jesus and us. It is about us, you and me, and the people beyond these doors, sharing our burdens together. Our faith is not something to be privatized. We all carry heavy burdens. We all grow weary. The question is, can we find a way to yoke not only to Jesus to learn and to grow, but to yoke together, one to another? Can we find a way to share one another’s burdens, to give one another rest, to learn from Jesus and to learn from each other? Can we do this, so one day we can lay these burdens down for good? 

Amen and amen.

When the Spirit Comes -- Pentecost Sunday

Acts 2:1-21                                                                                                                                                     May 31, 2020

             MRS. VON WINBUSH. J.B. WILLIAM. JEFF. KENETHA. ERICKA. SHELIA. WALTER, III. WALTER, IV. PAMELA. JADE. JARED. DONNA. RONNIE. MIA. DARRYL. JAMES. EMILY. MIA. CHRISTY. DORENDA. SHERRIE. SHAWNTAE. BRADLEY. GREG. DAVY. WILLIE. PAULA …

            The other night Brent and I watched one of my favorite movies: Chocolat. It is about a woman who makes wonderful chocolate and also Johnny Depp. Johnny isn’t the story, but he plays a wonderful part in it, and that’s really all you need to know. It is a wonderful story, but even if it weren’t, … well chocolate and Johnny Depp.

            The movie takes place in a small, French village in 1959. As the movie begins, you see the villagers in the town’s church. The congregants are singing, not very enthusiastically, a hymn that invokes the Holy Spirit. It was 1959 so they still referred to the Spirit as the Holy Ghost.

            “Come Holy Ghost and be our guest.”

            And as they are singing, a wind begins to blow. It swirls around the outside of the church, and it blows inside the church through the cracks in the stone walls. The wind is strong and getting stronger. The singing falters. Candles flicker. The young priest looks nervous. The people look around at this wind that has suddenly and unexpectedly joined their congregation. Then with a mighty and even violent gust, the front doors of the church blow open. Everyone stops, startled, astonished, even a little afraid. Except for one man, the Conte de Rayneaux, the town mayor.

            He stands up with a fierce expression of determination on his face. He strides to the doors, and even though it takes some great effort, he closes them. He prevents the wind from gaining any further entrance. That rushing wind is not welcome in his church.

            When the Spirit comes the doors we would rather keep closed get blown wide open.

            When the Spirit comes. Sermon titles are not always my strong suit. I generally must pick my title long before I write my sermon, and I feel like the title commits me to a particular direction in the sermon. I don’t just write my sermons; I labor over them. Sometimes in the laboring, my sermon takes a vastly different turn from where I thought it would, and the title I have chosen seems out of whack. But it’s my title, so I have to work it in somehow. But this week, I was so looking forward to this day, to this sermon, because it is Pentecost. When the Spirit comes!

As I said in my weekly letter, I love Pentecost! I do. I love this day. I love thinking about the power of the Spirit blowing through that upper room. I mean, just think about the mind-boggling changes that were wrought when the Spirit came upon the disciples. They were doing much like we have been doing the last few months: sitting shut away, praying, waiting, hoping.

            Then from heaven there came this roaring, rushing sound. A violent wind, a battering tempest rushed through the room where they were, and it filled them with the Holy Spirit. That filling was visible. Tongues of fire and flame licked above their heads. There was no room for wondering or doubt. They had the Holy Spirit, folks. It blazed above their heads.

            And the Spirit did not stop. The disciples began to speak. There were a lot of folks gathered in Jerusalem for the Feast that came fifty days after Passover. There were folks from all over the diaspora. People who spoke every known language at that time. And these disciples, these followers of that crucified guy Jesus, these people who knew no language but their own, stood up and began to speak in every language represented there.

            And the people gathered were dumbfounded, bewildered, amazed, astonished.

            “What?! What is going on here?! Aren’t these men Galileans? But we hear them speaking to us in our own language! Parthians, Medes, Elamites, Mesopotamians, Judea, Cappodocia, Pontus, Asians, Phrygians, Pamphylians, Egyptians, even parts of Libya. Even Romans are hearing in their language! What is going on here?”

            Everyone was amazed and perplexed. Some folks thought they were drunk. Which is pretty funny actually, because when has great quantities of alcohol ever really helped people when it comes to speaking? But people were trying to find a reason, they were searching, grasping for an explanation. I guess drunk seemed plausible because what else could this be?

            It’s understandable that the people gathered were confused. But the Spirit was not finished. When the Spirit came Peter, PETER, stood up and began to speak. Peter! Impulsive, rash, you are the Messiah, but stop talking about what it means to be the Messiah, no Lord I’ll never deny you, but then he did three times Peter stood up and addressed the crowd. He didn’t just address them or give a little talk. He preached. He interpreted the scripture to them.

            When the Spirit comes, people find the courage to preach. When the Spirit comes, ordinary folks who have been afraid and uncertain are filled with the power to share the good news. When the Spirit comes, unexpected people find the courage to speak the truth.

            When the Spirit comes, ordinary people find the courage to speak the truth of the gospel.

            When the Spirit comes. Maybe you would not look at me this morning and think that I am just some ordinary person who decided to stand up and preach. I am the preacher, the one educated and ordained specifically to do just this Yet I am incredibly ordinary, and even after almost 25 years of doing this, I am still the most unlikely person to be in this place and in this position. So even though I stand up here every week, I have been doing a lot of praying these last few days, more than usual, for the power of the Spirit to give me particular courage on this day. Because when the Spirit came to the disciples on that Pentecost, they did not just stand up and recite the Mesopotamian alphabet song. Peter did not just stand up and denounce the charges that they were drunk. He preached the truth. They preached the truth.

            We’ve been talking a lot as a session, as a congregation about what it will look like when we come back together in this building. I have talked to folks on the phone and gone back and forth in emails about how they feel about the restrictions that may be put in place in order for us to worship in one place. I know that the restrictions that have been sent out are not popular. I know that to some they may even feel punitive. But I also know that part of the frustration that people are feeling, that we all are feeling, is that we just want to be together again. We want to worship together again. We want to see one another outside of a computer screen. We want to hear each other’s voices and hug one another. We want to be a gathered community once more.

            And one of the things that I have tried to say and preach, and that the session has tried to convey is that these walls do not make us a community. We are not a community because of this building. And it has been the building that has been closed, not the church. The church is still wide open. The brick and mortar of this place do not define us, nor do they make us a community.

            It is the Spirit that makes us a community. That was the ultimate outcome of the coming of the Holy Spirit, that rush of a violent wind. It formed and forged a new community. The Holy Spirit, the breath of God, the Advocate that Jesus promised, came and a new community was created. The church was created. And it didn’t happen in just one place, it happened in so many places, with so many people; unlikely people, unexpected people, previously unwelcome people.

            When the Spirit came, a new community was formed and a new way of being and doing and living was made clear and necessary in its wake. The Spirit has made of us a community, but we are not isolated unto ourselves. The community the Spirit is trying to create is so much larger and reaches far beyond the physical boundaries of this place. The community of the Spirit is large, and in that community our siblings, our brothers and sisters are hurting and angry and dying in the street. Yes, I know there is rioting and looting and violence, but as Dr. King said, “rioting is the language of the unheard.” Our siblings have gone unheard for far too long. And none of us are without blood on our hands because this country was built on violence and with violence.

There is injustice and inequality and hatred and racism, and it is not just out there, it is in us. We are all affected by it, we are all infected by it. None of us are without stain. We are all drowning. Our community can never be whole, can never be complete, can be fully at peace until we address it, until we stand up, and trust that the power of the Holy Spirit is still filling us, still moving us, still sending us and calling us to say, “Enough.”

            When the Holy Spirit comes, we are filled with the power and the righteous anger to say, “Enough,” to say, “No more.”

            No more. No more. No more.

            But it cannot be just us saying it, we have to do something about it. We have to act on the no more.

            At the top of the first page of this sermon, I wrote in bold letters the names of many of my friends, people I have known and know, people who love me, have inspired me, have challenged me. I wrote their names because I don’t want them to be another George Floyd or Breonna Taylor and Ahmaud Aubery. I wrote their names because I owe them my no more.

            So to my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Von Winbush and my sisters and friends, Ericka and Pamela and Shelia, and to my brothers, Jeff and Ronnie and Walter, and to so many others I say no more. I cannot sit by and know that you are in danger simply because of the amount of melanin in your skin. I cannot be fully at home in any community until we are all in community together.

            It is time for all of us to say no more. Because when the Spirit comes, we finally have to speak the truth of the gospel, the truth of the good news. And one truth of the good news is that when some of us are suffering, all of us are suffering. When will we finally say, “No more?” No more.

            Amen and amen.

I Am

I Am

the

Problem

He called

for

Help,

Water,

Mother

I Can’t Breathe

Dead

I Am

Privilege

She was

Home

Peaceful

Sleeping

Invaded

Dead

I Am

Racism

He was

Running

Athlete

Hunted

Dead

I Am

Violence

He informed

I’m armed

Legally

Child in Car

Dead

 I Am

Denial

She was

Pulled over

Traffic stop

Arrested

No reason

Dead

I Am

Broken

How many tears

of how many

Mothers

Fathers

Sisters

Brothers

Children

Friends

Must fall

before

Justice

and

Righteousness

Walk Together

Again

 O God

You Are

the

Great I Am

You

Became Body

to

Save Us

Body and Soul

You Are

Peace

May we

Share

Your Peace

through

Our Words

and

Our Deeds

You Are

Light

May we

Shine

Your Light

Inward

Outward

Exposing

Our Lies

Our Hatred

Our Fear

You Are
Love

May We

Embody

Your Love

so

All Bodies

Walk

Free

because

We Are

Broken

©Amy Busse Stoker