At the Table

 

Matthew 15:10-28

August 16, 2020

 

            A favorite movie of mine from the 1980’s was War Games starring a young Matthew Broderick. In the movie, Broderick played an underachieving high-school genius and computer geek hacker before any of us understood what a computer geek or a hacker was. We certainly had no idea how important and central computers and technology were going to be in our lives when that movie premiered.

            Broderick’s character, David Lightman, could barely be bothered to keep up with his actual studies, but he would spend hours in front of his computer. He was able to hack into the computers at school and change his grades. He was able to hack into an airline’s reservations hub and make reservations for a flight to Paris. And while searching for a way into a software company, and their new roster of games, David inadvertently connects with a military computer and engages its list of war games. With the advice of some other computer genius/geek/hackers, he figure out the backdoor password to the military’s computer and starts a war simulation gave. Without fully realizing just what he was doing, David almost causes an international incident between the United States and what most of us knew as the Soviet Union.

            While David and his girlfriend, Jennifer, thought they were just playing games, the computer, Joshua, thought that the attacks were actually being launched. To make a long story short, and without giving away too much of the ending, the computer – also known as Joshua – had to learn what the real outcome of nuclear would be before it started an actual nuclear war. Spoiler alert: Joshua the computer does indeed learn and stops the launch of a full-out nuclear wat at the last, most dramatic moment. The computer’s last words of the movie are:

 “A strange game. The only winning move is not to play. How about a nice game of chess?”

            The computer, Joshua, in this movie learned. It learned that any nuclear war scenario that was set before it would end in a draw. An undercurrent of the movie was if the computer could learn this, could the world superpowers learn it as well?

            This movie came out in the latter days of the Cold War with the Soviet Union. It spoke to the greatest fear of my childhood, and probably to the greatest fear of my older siblings’ generation as well: nuclear war. I didn’t have the hide-under your-desk-in-case-of-a-nuclear-attack drills that my older siblings had, but it was an omnipresent reality of my childhood. A few years ago, when tensions between North Korea and the U.S. were running high and seemingly escalating, I thought about War Games. I wondered if we had learned much from the long chill of the Cold War. Have we learned that the best result of any full-scale nuclear confrontation would be a draw? In the movie, the great risk was hoping that a computer, artificial intelligence, could learn. In true Hollywood fashion, Joshua did learn. And it seemed as though the humans around it did as well. Whether artificial intelligence has the capability to learn is one thing, but we know that humans can learn. My question today is, did Jesus learn?

            This is a hard question for many of us because it smacks up against our understanding of who Jesus was. But we claim in our confessions, in our theological understanding of Jesus’ nature that he was both fully human and fully divine. Well, if Jesus was fully human, does that mean that there were things he needed to learn?

            Our passage starts with an explanation from Jesus about what really defiles. All we hear are his words to the crowds, but they were spoken after a confrontation with some Pharisees and scribes. The religious folks were upset that Jesus’ disciples did not perform the ritual hand washing before they ate. We wash our hands before we eat for the sake of hygiene, and since the pandemic started, every 20 minutes or so just because. Observant Jews performed hand washing and other ritual cleansing for the sake of purity laws. To not perform the ritual handwashing was to be unclean; to be unclean or defiled was to be separated from God.

            Jesus turned this argument back on his detractors. He called them hypocrites. He lifted up words from the prophet Isaiah.

            “This people honors me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me; in vain do they worship me, teaching human precepts as doctrines.”

            Now we catch up to our passage. Calling the crowds around him, Jesus told them about what really defiles. It is not what goes into your mouth. It is what comes out of your mouth. Because what comes out of your mouth comes from what is in your heart. That is where you find defilement or cleanliness. Is your heart defiled? Is it unclean? Or is to close to God?

            All of this is great. I am cheering Jesus on with every word. But then he left that crowd and that place, and he and the disciples traveled to the district of Tyre and Sidon. This was a Gentile region. There a Canaanite woman, a Gentile, approached him, shouting at him.

            “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.”

            We expect people to come shouting after Jesus, calling after him, touching the hem of his robe. But we don’t expect what happened next – nothing. Nothing happened. Jesus ignored the woman. He said nothing to her, just continued on as though she had not spoken or approached him at all. But she would not be ignored. The disciples could not shut her out. They urged Jesus to send her away. She was a bothersome woman who kept shouting at them, and she was getting more annoying by the minute.

            Jesus spoke then, but his answer, although directed at the woman, was actually spoken to his disciples.

            “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.”

            But this Canaanite woman, this mother of a sick child, was undeterred. She knelt before Jesus, which in the Greek context would have been seen as an act of worship, and said,

            “Lord, help me.”

            The Jesus we think we know would have relented at that moment. He would have shown her the same compassion he showed the crowds. He addressed her at last, but what he said hurts to hear. Jesus told the woman,

            “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

            If he had said that to me, I would have crawled away, utterly defeated. But this woman, this Canaanite woman, this Gentile woman, this mother with a sick child was undeterred. She did not slink away, crushed and broken. If Jesus’ words hurt her, we do not glean that information from the text. What she did next was powerful. She turned Jesus’ words back on him.

            “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.”

            It would have been a bold statement for anyone to make, but it was especially bold for a Gentile woman to say this to a Jewish rabbi. But she was a mother with a sick child, and she would not be turned away. Jesus hear her. Not only did he hear her, he rewarded her persistence. Her faith, Jesus declared, was great! Her desire was granted. The woman’s daughter was healed instantly.

            Sure, it is a happy ending. The woman got what she wanted. But why did Jesus respond the way he did? It seems especially ironic after his teaching about a person’s heart and what really defiles. If what is in our heart defiles us than what was in Jesus’ heart? Did Jesus’ heart hold racism? Sexism? The woman had to convince Jesus to help her daughter. What was in Jesus’ heart?

            There are many theories as to what Jesus was trying to do with his response to this woman. One is that his words would not have sounded as harsh to the original hearers as they do to our modern ears. Perhaps the saying about the children and the dogs was from an ancient proverb. It would not have been offensive to the people living at that time. Maybe Jesus was the word for dog affectionately, as if he were addressing a puppy. The Greek word for dog used here does make the distinction between a household animal and the wild, stray dogs that roamed during that tie. The problem with this theory is that the Aramaic Jesus spoke did not contain this distinction.

            There is the possibility that this was Jesus’ way of testing the woman’s faith. If she passed the test, then her request would be granted. He tested. She passed. But when did Jesus test people before he healed them or their loved ones? I cannot think of another example. He did not make the crowds pass a test before he fed them. He might have turned on their heads the tests that the religious leaders used to try and trap him, but he did not test the people who came to him for help.

            Another possibility is that this story must be taken just as it is, harshness and all. Jesus was a Jewish man of his day. He lived in a particular context and that context included chauvinism toward women and outsiders, others. One commentator I read wrote,

            “His limited perspective is in part corrected by the clever retort of a desperately bold woman, who convinces him that Gentiles must also share in God’s bounty.”

            Does that mean that Jesus learned? Does that mean that this woman pushed him to see with a new perspective? Does that mean that her persistence, her undeterred pleading with Jesus to allow her even a small presence at the table, changed his mind, opened his mind, and taught him something?

            Yes, I know the idea, the possibility of Jesus needing to learn makes us uncomfortable. Yes, I realize this runs headlong into what we have been taught to believe and understand about Jesus. We equate him with perfection. But what does it mean to be perfect? And what does it mean that Jesus was fully human? As one commentator put it, Jesus endured all of the tests and trials that humans do, but he did not sin. Maybe not sinning does not mean that Jesus did not have something to learn. Maybe not sinning means that Jesus actually learned.

            When confronted, he did not fall back on excuses or defensiveness to justify his position. Maybe he learned from this Canaanite woman, this Gentile, this other. Maybe he saw through her eyes and realized that he was wrong and immediately corrected course. Maybe not sinning was that he learned, heard her, and changed direction. He was open to her pleas, to what he could learn from her, and to what God was speaking through her.

            Did Jesus learn? It seems to me that if he did, then that is our good news. Because it means that we still have much to learn. It means that not only is God still speaking but may be speaking to us through the most unlikely of people; people who are undeterred in making us listen and who are persistent in calling us to see. Jesus learned, and if Jesus learned, so can we. May we be like this woman in our faithfulness. May we be persistent in learning, even in the lesson is hard and painful. May we be undeterred in being willing to change and correct our course when God sends us a new lesson. May we be willing to hear another voice, a different voice, at the table. May we be ever more like Jesus and learn.

            Thanks be to God.

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

25 Years

 This is an excerpt from my weekly letter to my congregation. I share some of my thoughts about the anniversary I celebrate today -- the 25th anniversary of my ordination as a Minister of Word and Sacrament in the Presbyterian Church (USA). Hopefully, it conveys, even in a small way, what being a pastor for this many years has meant to me. 

As I write this, I am thinking about two things at the same time. The first is that tomorrow, August 20, marks the 25^th anniversary of my ordination to the Ministry of Word and Sacrament. The second is that I just had some dental work done, and the right side of my face is numb.

 I know these two thoughts seem to have nothing to do with each other. The first evokes memories of a day that was filled to the brim with emotion: I was excited, nervous, joyful, scared, overwhelmed, and earnest. I remember thinking that I could not believe I had made it to that day. What a wild ride from my first tentative thoughts about maybe, possibly being called by God to ministry to my gut punch response when I walked onto my seminary’s campus for the first time – applying for a job – and realizing I had to be in that place, to my classes, to making lifelong friends, to my ordination exams to my ordination. I stayed with my parents in their hotel room that night, and I could not sleep. I kept playing out the day in my mind. I was ordained. I was beginning a new life as God’s servant. I could hardly imagine or foresee where this journey would lead.

 But as for my dental work, I really just want to drink my coffee without fear of dribbling it down my face. I want to feel like my mouth is back to its normal size and shape. I hope that I’ll be able to try a little yogurt in a few minutes. Soft food sounds good right now.

 So what’s the connection between the two, you ask? The numbness I feel from the dental work is necessary. But after 25 years of serving churches, moving from one congregation to the next, hearing the hopes and fears of parishioners, it would be easy and tempting to numb my heart. Not because I am choosing to be callus, but because I have born witness to so much joy and so much pain, a little numbness might keep my heart and my mind from being overloaded.

 In 25 years of ministry, I have baptized babies who have cried and fussed and slept while I sprinkled water on their foreheads and welcomed them into the body of Christ. I have also baptized a baby who only lived for minutes, and I am still not sure if the water I used was from the bowl provided by the nurse or my tears. I have stood with couples as they began their lives together, and I have grieved with couples whose marriages were ending. I have welcomed new members with joy, and repeated ancient words of hope and promise as members were sent with love back to God’s arms. I have been privileged to celebrate with a sick parishioner who has been made well, and equally as privileged to be in the sacred space when a final breath was breathed. I have lost count of the session meetings and Bible studies and special programs. I have put on my old waitressing shoes and served at dinners and lunches. I have served in five different presbyteries, and double, maybe triple, that for committees. I have planted seeds with youth groups that I hope and pray took root. I have set down my own roots in places and with people; and I have dug up those same roots and moved on.

 In 25 years of ministry, I have prayed to God, rejoiced in God, and argued with God. There were many times I wanted nothing more than to walk away. Let someone else be the minister; I am working at Starbucks. But something, someone, always brought me back.

 You see, it would be easy to wish for numbness when it comes to ministry. One secret of being a pastor that you can only discover by living it is that it has the power to break your heart wide open – again and again. But that is also the beauty of ministry. It is the beauty of living. If we love, we also risk a broken heart. But life and ministry are nothing without love. So as eagerly as I await the numbness around my mouth to dissipate, I also push back at the numbness that would protect me in my call.

 I pray that you will push back against numbing yourselves as well. It is easy and understandable to wish for numbness because the world hurts. It hurts to see how divided we are, how broken we are, how we hurt one another. It would be easy to numb ourselves against all of that hurt. But when we talked about what the Church is in our visioning committee, some folks commented that for them Church is the place to feel safe, to recharge, to get a spiritual lift. I agree with all of that, but I want to add this. I believe Church and worship is also where we fight back against our desire to numb ourselves from the world’s pain. In worship our empathy, as well as our spirits, is renewed and restored.

Unexpected Transformation

Genesis 32:22-31

August 2, 2020

 

Does anyone remember the Pink Panther movies with Peter Sellers? I was just a kid when they hit the big screen, but I was aware of the character of the Pink Panther, because I watched the cartoon of the same name on Saturday mornings. Peter Sellers starred as Inspector Clouseau, who was a bumbling but very funny detective. While I was more attuned to the Pink Panther of Saturday mornings, and even though I have not seen one of the movies in years, I do remember one particular aspect about each film. Clouseau had a manservant named Cato. Cato was a master of martial arts, and it was his job to attack Clouseau at unexpected times. This was meant to keep the inspector vigilant and, on his toes, when dealing with criminals. Cato would ambush Clouseau anyplace, any time, even at home. But if the telephone rang or someone came to the door, he would immediately return to his role as the devoted valet. 

The Pink Panther movies were funny and silly. The relationship between Cato and Clouseau was meant as a comedic device. It was meant to make people laugh. But the story we have before us in Genesis is anything but funny. But the reason I start with a comedy movie is that the Cato’s unexpected ambushes on Clouseau make me think about the ambush that happens to Jacob. Maybe ambush is too strong of a word, but it does read like one. It feels like one.

Jacob, our trickster, our grasper, our scoundrel, has done well for himself. He met his match in his father-in-law, Laban, who tricked him into marrying first his oldest daughter, Leah, then the true desire of Jacob’s heart, Rachel. Jacob has had children with both women, and their maidservants. There are eleven offspring at this point. But Jacob has made the decision to leave his father-in-law’s home and try to make peace with his brother Esau. While this sounds as though Jacob has mellowed some, the old trickster still had some tricks up his sleeves.

When he and Laban agreed to part company, Laban told him he could take some of the livestock that bore certain physical traits. Jacob engaged in what might be understood as an example of the earliest genetic engineering and manipulated quite a few animals that would go with him. Rachel must have learned from her husband, because before they left her father, she stole some of her father’s household gods.

Laban, realizing they were gone, took after them. Jacob did not know any of this, so he encouraged Laban and his men to search the tents. But Rachel had hid them in such a clever and such a sneaky way, that she proved herself to be just as cunning as Jacob.

But now we come to our part in the story. Through messengers, Jacob has let Esau know that they were coming. The messengers have reported back that Esau is advancing toward them with 400 of his men. Jacob fears the worst, so he divides his group into two, and works out a plan to make Esau think that he is better equipped for a fight than he truly was. And now, he has sent his wives and his children across the Jabbok, and he is alone. Without any pause in the narrative, without any hesitation or explanation, a man begins to wrestle Jacob in the darkness.

Like the ambushes Cato used to wage on Clouseau, this seems to come from nowhere. But while Cato and Clouseau were silliness embodied, this is deadly serious. The unknown person and Jacob wrestle until daybreak. They seem to be an even match, because neither one can overcome the other. Finally, as the light of the new morning begins to creep out from its bedclothes, the man realized that he could not beat Jacob. So he strikes Jacob on his hip socket. Jacob’s hip is immediately dislocated, and I would suspect the pain would have been excruciating. But Jacob was not named for his grasping tendencies for nothing.

The man demands to be let go because the day is breaking. But Jacob won’t release him until he receives a blessing. The man asks Jacob his name.

The man asks Jacob his name.

This was not a moment of introduction. In the near Eastern culture, names were not just designations or identifications. To know someone’s name was to have a power over that person. It was as if knowing someone’s name was to hold that person’s soul, that person’s innermost being, in your grip. What is your name was not just a getting to know you kind of question. To know Jacob’s name was to make Jacob vulnerable. But Jacob responds. He tells this man, this man whom he has wrestled and struggled and grasped.

“Jacob.”

The man says,

“You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with humans and have prevailed.”

The man gave Jacob a new name but would not respond in kind when Jacob asked him what his name was. But the man blessed Jacob, and the wrestling match was over. Jacob did the same as when he had the dream of the angels and the ladder, he named the place where he stood. He named it Peniel, which in Hebrew translates to seeing God face to face but not losing his life in the process.

This is a great story. It captures your imagination. It captures mine anyway. I often like to think about biblical stories through the lens of a screenplay or a novel. If I were to write this story in my own words, what would I say? How would I frame it? How would I tell the story up to this point and where would I take it once this part of the story is complete? But beyond being a compelling narrative, what else? What does it mean for us today? What significance does it hold for our lives beyond this morning in worship?

I know that I cannot answer this question for all of us, I can only answer it for me. When I read this story of Jacob wrestling with this man, with God, through the dark night, I feel as though it is the story of my own faith, my own struggles with God. It embodies my own long dark nights of the soul, when I wrestled with God, when I wrestled with my faith, when I wrestled and strove against what I thought God wanted of me and what I wanted for myself.

I have a confession to make. I am so envious of the people who seem to live their faith as easily as they breathe. That has never been me. When I was a kid, I questioned what I was told to believe about God. As an adult I do the same. For four plus years I co-lead a Bible Study with another pastor, whom I am grateful to call friend. But he and the other folks in the group – also people I am grateful to call friends – just seemed to get it all so much easier than I do. What they read in the Bible they seemed to accept more gracefully and willingly that I do. It’s not that I don’t take scripture seriously. I do. But I wrestle with it. I question I push back. I argue. For me faith has been a struggle, a wrestling match with God.

Sometimes in those Bible studies, and in many other circumstances as well, I would sit and listen and think, “I wish I could approach this like you all do. I wish it came easier for me. I wish I could just accept and move on.”

But I can’t seem to do that, and I’ve come to believe that maybe I am not supposed to. Maybe this is just who I am, and God who knows me just as I am, calls me to be a disciple, to follow, to lead, to preach, to pray, to work to be faithful just as I am. Maybe that is why the old hymn of the same name touches a chord in my heart. Maybe this is why the story of Jacob both draws me in, frustrates me, and even angers me; because I know I am more like Jacob than I care to admit. His life with God was not an easy one. He struggled. He grasped. He wrestled. But he was blessed. He was unexpectedly transformed, not only through the changing of his name, but because he walked away from this wrestling match with a life-long limp.

We so often think of transformations as beautiful, don’t we?  When Jesus took some of the disciples to the top of the mountain, he was transfigured into glory. His face, his whole appearance, even his clothing, went from ordinary to magnificent. That’s how we want to see transformation as well. We are transformed from our ordinariness into something more wonderful, more beautiful. In truth, we want to believe that transformation changes us from ordinary, flawed, frail to perfection. But when it comes to faith, when it comes to discipleship, to following Jesus, to trusting God, to hoping in the Holy Spirit, transformation does not erase who we were. Transformation transforms who we are, and it might even leave us with a limp. Even in resurrection Jesus still bore the scars of the nails.

But what really matters is that its worth it. The wrestling, the struggling, the limping. It’s worth it. Because the unexpected transformation that comes from God is not about making us perfect, it is about making us more who God created and called/calls us to be. Our transformation may come in unexpected ways, but it is worth it. That is the good news of the gospel. It is worth it.

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

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.