A Place at the Table

Luke 14:1, 7-14

August 28, 2022

 

            I am very fortunate to have good relationships, good friendships really, with my older sister and brother. And I’m not just saying that because one or both could be watching this right now. I’m saying that because they were both older than I was, we didn’t experience the sibling rivalry and arguing that other siblings do. My kids, who are much closer in age, fought like the proverbial cats and dogs when they were younger. But that wasn’t true in my case. There was older sibling to younger sibling teasing, some taking of my hands and playing the “Stop Hitting Yourself” game, which was always my favorite. But we really didn’t argue. Until …

            When I was about 15, Jill came back home for about six months to work and save money before she and my brother-in-law got married. She would have been around 26, and as I mentioned I was 15 and a very 15 15-year-old, and I was not about to be bossed around by my big sister. So, even though we’d never squabbled or argued before, now we were.

            One argument that I remember centered around the family table. Mom made dinner. We were sitting down to eat, and I went to sit in the spot that I had been sitting in for a long time. Jill came in to sit down, and said, “That’s my seat.”

            And I said, “No, it’s mine.”

            And she said something to the effect of, “Amy, that’s my seat. It’s always been my seat.”

            And I responded with something like, “No, Jill. It’s my seat. It’s been my seat for a long time now.”

            And then she said, well you can imagine the rest. I don’t remember how the argument ended. I don’t know if I gave in and sat in another chair or if she did, or if one of our parents took that spot and made everybody move. It doesn’t really matter. It was a silly argument as you can tell. But I suspect there was a lot more going on underneath the silliness. Jill was home again, and this was how home was supposed to be, plus who was this teenager who had taken the place of her little sister? And to my thinking, Jill had been away from home a long time, and things change, like that was now my seat.

            I’ve often tried to imagine the scene Jesus would have been watching in this story Luke tells. All we read from our text is that Jesus was watching how the guests chose the places of honor at the table. Does that mean they were jostling and pushing and elbowing each other out of the way? Or does it mean something more like one guest saying to another guest,

            “Oh, would you look at the strange bird over there?”

            And when the other guest looks, they jump into the desired seat and say,

            “My seat now, Chuckles. You snooze, you lose.”

            This was a meal at the home of a religious leader, which would mean that person had significant status in that society, so it’s hard for me to imagine that etiquette would have allowed guests to push each other out of chairs. But because this was a meal in the home of someone with societal status, to have a seat of honor was a big deal, so maybe they did push each other around to get to the best seats.

            Clearly, there was a hierarchy to the seating arrangement. There were seats of honor and there were seats of, if not shame, then much less honor. It seems as if the lunchroom rules that dictated my Junior High experience – in which some kids had the status to sit at the cool table and some, most, kids didn’t – did not begin with my Junior High. They have been in place for a long, long time. And it was this hierarchy, these rules that Jesus observed at this meal.

            “When Jesus noticed how the guests chose the places of honor, he told them a parable. When you are invited to a wedding banquet, do not sit down at the place of honor, in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited by your host; and the host who invited both of you may come and say to you, ‘Give this person your place, and then in disgrace you would start to take the lowest place. But when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, ‘Friend, move up higher’; then you will be honored in the presence of all who sit at the table with you.”

This doesn’t read like other parables we’ve heard, does it? But something in the guests behavior must have compelled Jesus to speak about what he witnessed at this dinner in a way that would make the guests both recognize themselves in it, but not stop listening because of that recognition. Therefore, Jesus tells a parable that at first glance may seem as though he is promoting a kind of lunchroom mentality and table hierarchy. There are places of honor, there are special seats, and there is indeed a cool table, but don’t expect that you belong there. In that context, where you sat at a banquet signified not just how cozy you were with the host, but your status in society. It was, indeed, a hierarchy. There were some on top, some in the middle and many at the bottom. As I said before, at first Jesus seems to be supporting this hierarchy by encouraging people to take a lesser seat. Or was he pointing out to them that at another table, the true table, the table within God’s kin-dom, those who sought to put themselves at the top of the food chain or at the top rung of the social ladder, were the ones who would be humbled. Their social hierarchies won’t work at God’s table.

“For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” 

Let’s also remember, that the very first verse of this chapter tells us that Jesus was being watched by the Pharisees. I do not want to paint the Pharisees with such a broad stroke that we assume they were all watching Jesus with malicious intent. Some of them might have been, true, but others may have been watching him just to see what he would do next, what he would say next. After all, everything this man did and said was counter to their culture, radical to their way of thinking. He healed on the Sabbath.  He forgave people of their sins. He spoke and taught with an authority no one had ever witnessed before. What would he do next?  So, they watched him intently. Jesus knew he was being watched, so perhaps he thought this was a valuable teaching moment. He could make a point about the hierarchy surrounding the table fellowship and those who were invited and those who were not. And he could make another razor-sharp point as well.     

There was one more aspect of this honor/shame culture. There was an agenda behind every invitation. You didn’t invite people to a dinner for the heck of it. You invited someone who could do something for you, just as you might be invited for the same reason. You invited someone who just by being in your home raised your place in the social realm. It was about give and take. I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine. There was an agenda. I imagine that agenda was so ingrained in people that no one thought much about it. But Jesus made them think about it. 

“When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid.  But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind.”

Don’t invite someone who will repay you. Invite those who can do nothing for you. Invite those that would be despised at any other banquet in town. Invite those who have no way to return the favor and when you do you will be blessed. You may not be repaid now, but you will be in time. You will be repaid at “the resurrection of the righteous.” 

A place of honor here doesn’t count in the kin-dom of God, and it is God’s kin-dom, God’s great table that Jesus is trying to make them see and understand. And I don’t believe that Jesus is just pointing to some kin-dom far, far away, in that sweet by and by. Jesus is talking about the kin-dom that is in their midst in the here and in the now. Don’t you get it, he seems to be saying. It’s not about status. It’s not about the seat of honor you may think you deserve or earned. It’s about how you treat other people. It’s about seeing other people not through the lens of status, position, class or social rank, but as children of God. It seems to me that when Jesus warns the guests about assuming the seats of honor at the table, the distinguished guests he was referring to were not the people in power at the time, but the poor, the crippled, the lame and the blind. 

Today marks the 59^th anniversary of the March on Washington and Martin Luther King, Jr’s “I Have a Dream” speech. I’ve watched that speech and listened to that speech and read that speech countless times. But each time I hear it I am struck anew at the depth of his message. It was a speech about Civil Rights, but it was more than that. It was a speech about the injustice of segregation and the mockery it made of the so-called American Dream, but it was also more than that. It was about a vision of the beloved community. It was a dream of every single person, regardless of color, class or creed being welcomed at a table where we all belong, a table that was not made for some and not others, a table that was not made by one group who then grudgingly had to allow room for other groups to find a seat. Dr. King’s vision of a beloved community, of a community where everyone had a place at the table held up a mirror for the country. Gazing into it we saw how far away we were from that beloved community, that banquet table of grace. Dr. King reminded us that when some of us aren’t free to come to the table, none of us are truly free. 

The parables Jesus told are a mirror. They were a mirror for those he spoke to directly.  They are a mirror for us as well. I don’t see it as mirror in which those of us on top are necessarily shamed or scorned, but we see in the reflection that often the things we think are important – places of honor, status, etc. – don’t matter in the kin-dom of God. They don’t matter at God’s table. When we can see that, really see that, when we can recognize that the superficial and external don’t matter, we come one step closer to that beloved community. We see that the table we all long to have a place at, is not our table but God’s. It is the table where finally, all of us, all of God’s children, have a place.

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

Amen.

           

           

Set Free

 

Luke 13:10-17

August 21, 2022

 

            I anticipate pain. As odd as that sounds I do. I anticipate pain. The way that anticipation manifests itself is that I always keep some form of pain relief nearby. At home we have aspirin, acetaminophen, ibuprofen, and various and sundry other means of pain relief. I have roll-on analgesics in the bathroom. There are pain meds in my nightstand. I have some naproxen sodium in my desk in my office. I’m pretty sure there is something in my purse; and I have a small sample pack of pain relievers tucked into the console of my car. Like I said, I anticipate pain.

            That’s because the pain I deal with the most is headache pain. I get migraines. I’ve been fortunate in this last year or so to have to deal with them less because my doctor put me on a really good medicine, but I still have breakthroughs. Ironically, when I was trying to write this sermon, I was dealing with the beginnings of a migraine. At my migraine’s worst, I’ve wound up in urgent care and the ER because the pain got so bad. My migraines feel like there’s a knife stabbing me repeatedly over one eye. Adding to the pain in my head is pain in my neck and shoulders. Declaring it’s not fun is an understatement. Most of the time a migraine for me has meant relentless pain for about three days. Three days where I manage to function, but just barely. Three days that while I’m experiencing that painm, feel like an eternity.

            If three days of a migraine feels like an eternity, I can’t begin to imagine how 18 years must have felt. That’s how long the woman in this passage from Luke’s gospel had been bent over, unable to stand up straight. The scripture doesn’t tell us specifically that the woman was in pain, but surely staying stooped over, crippled, unable to straighten even a little bit, must have been painful. Whatever the physical illness may have been that bound this woman, it was one that kept her stooped and bent over for close to two decades. 18 years of pain.

            Yet, this crippling disease did not keep this woman from coming to the synagogue on the Sabbath. There is nothing in the text to indicate that she came there looking for healing on that day. I believe she came because she wanted to worship, nothing more. She does not seek Jesus out. She does not beg him to heal her. There are no concerned friends or family members who intercede with Jesus on her behalf. Perhaps she had heard of him and the healings he had been performing, but if we go strictly by the text, we only read that Jesus sees her, not the other way around. Jesus is teaching when he sees this woman, so stooped I suspect it hurt just to look at her. Jesus calls her over and proclaims that she is set free from her ailment. He lays his hands on her and immediately she stands up straight. Her back, crooked and bent for 18 years, is now straight.  

            This is what we know. She came to the synagogue and Jesus saw her. Being as bent over as she was, I doubt that she could have seen him. But Jesus saw her. Jesus called out to her, and he healed her. And when she finally stands tall once more, what is her response? She praises God. Immediately on being healed, she praises God.

But the praise is interrupted by the leader of the synagogue. He is outraged. He is indignant that Jesus has cured this woman on the Sabbath. The Law was clear – healing on the Sabbath could only happen in critical, emergency situations. What was critical about this woman’s situation?  She was bent over for 18 years! What difference would one more day make?  The leader might have been furious with Jesus, but he does not confront him directly. He turns to the crowd, venting his ire on them. He chastises the worshippers who were gathered there.

            “There are six other days of the week. Come to be healed on those days, not on the Sabbath.”

            You don’t mess with the Sabbath. The Law was clear, specific as to what could happen on the Sabbath and what could not. A non-urgent healing that could have happened on any other day did not qualify for a Sabbath healing. There’s no doubt that Jesus knew this. Yet Jesus did in that moment what he had done before. He saw a person in need, and he chose to help, Sabbath or no Sabbath.   

            When the Synagogue leader expresses his disapproval to the crowds over what has just happened, Jesus does not hesitate in his reply.  

            “You hypocrites!  Does not each of you on the Sabbath untie his ox or his donkey from the manger, and lead it away to give it water? And ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham who Satan bound for eighteen long years, be set free from this bondage on the Sabbath day?” 

            If you’re willing to unbind your animals on the Sabbath, then why not set this woman free as well? Isn’t this the right response to her suffering, whether it happens on the Sabbath or any other day of the week? Karoline Lewis from WorkingPreacher.Org suggested that a sermon title for this passage should be, “If Not Now, When?” I had already picked my title when I heard this, but next time I preach on this passage, that is the title I’m using.

            If not now, when? As so often happened, at Jesus’ words all his opponents, his naysayers, were put to shame. This was not the first time Jesus butted heads with the religious professionals over what should and shouldn’t happen on the Sabbath. He hadn’t hesitated to heal on the Sabbath in other instances. His disciples had been seen gathering food on the Sabbath. I guess some folks might make the case that Jesus didn’t care too much about the Law. Jesus stated that with his coming, the Law had been fulfilled. Yet I’m not convinced that this is about Jesus not caring about the Law. I think Jesus did care; he cared deeply. But Jesus cared about the intent of the Law, just as he cared about the intent of Sabbath. 

            When I was growing up the Sabbath was a day when a lot of things were not supposed to happen. I’m old enough to remember Blue Laws – civic laws that restricted stores and other places of business from being open on Sundays. My parents lived under much stricter restrictions about Sabbath than I did. And the rules their parents had for the Sabbath were even stricter. And so it went for each generation. 

When I was a little girl, and read the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder, I remember reading her description of the Sabbath when she was a little girl and thinking,

“Boy! Am I glad I don’t have it so hard!”

Our understanding of the Sabbath was much like this Synagogue leader’s. There were strict rules about what could and could not be done. But what was the intent of the Sabbath? It was a day to rest. God rested after creating the world. When the Hebrews were enslaved in Egypt, they were slaves. If the master expected them to work seven days a week, 24 hours a day, they did. There was no such thing as downtime, weekends, leisure, or rest and relaxation. When God gave them the Sabbath it was a gift. It was a gift of time. It was a gift of rest. The restrictions about what could and could not be done were not meant as punishment, but about keeping away the distractions that kept that rest from happening. The Sabbath was a day given by God to enjoy God and all the good things of and from God. If not now, when?  

            Jesus understood that intent. He also knew that the religious leaders and the people they led no longer did. Just as he modeled what it meant to be in relationship with God and one another on every other day of the week, he also modeled that relationship, that community on the Sabbath. God intended the Sabbath day for rest, for renewal, for relationship. But how can it be a day of rest for a woman who has suffered for so long? How can their relationship with God and with one another be well and whole when one of them is so obviously broken? 

            When Jesus healed the woman, he didn’t set aside the Law. Instead he saw past the codification of the Law that had blinded the people to what God really wanted. He saw the woman with compassion, and with justice. Wasn’t this woman a captive? Wasn’t she bound by a spirit that held her down, literally, for 18 years? When Jesus healed her, he set her free. He released her just as he promised he would release all those held captive. It seems to me that not only did he straighten her back Jesus gave her new sight as well. 

            If you were to constantly live in a stooped position, what would be in your line of vision?  The hard ground. The feet of other people. Looking up at the world around you would have been nearly impossible. When Jesus straightened her back, he also gave her new sight. She could now see the world in a way that had been closed off to her for 18 years. No wonder she praised God! Not only was she set free, but she was also able to see again. She could see the fullness of God’s creation once more. Jesus set her free from pain and for life!

I think he gave the crowd new eyes as well. I wonder if that’s the crux of this passage.  It’s not just about what should or shouldn’t be done on the Sabbath day. It’s about being set free to see God and the Sabbath and one another with new eyes. 

            Jesus did not set the people free from God’s Law. He set them free from a skewed belief that compassion was restricted to only certain days of the week. He set them free from restrictions that hindered their relationship with God and one another. He set them free from the idea that the Sabbath was just a day of do’s and don’ts, rather than a gift from God. Jesus set them free and gave them new vision to see that God’s love was more than just a nice idea, but a reality he lived fully. On that Sabbath day he set them free.

            How do we need to be set free? What is that binds us? What keeps our backs stooped and our eyes seeing only the ground beneath our feet? What binds our hearts and minds? How do we need to be set free? Is our time together in this place a means of liberation, or is it another way to keep our eyes closed? Do we feel the liberating Spirit of God moving in our midst, or are we bound to the narrow legalism that the religious leaders of Jesus’ time and our time conveyed? Are we set free in this place to love God and to love one another?

            Whatever it is that binds you, binds me, I pray for freedom. May Jesus set us free this day and every day. May Jesus straighten our backs, realign our vision, and set us free to praise God. If not now, then when?

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

            Amen.

 

Ask. Search. Knock.

Luke 11:1-13

July 24, 2022

            The tornadoes that hit Oklahoma in 2013 were fearsome and formidable, and they were an event that marked our time living in that state. The second tornado, an E5, laid waste to Moore, Oklahoma, wiping out a large section of it, including an elementary school where both students and teachers lost their lives. It was devastating, and even though Oklahomans are relatively resigned to bad storms – you can’t live in tornado alley and not be – this tragic loss of life shook people to their core.

Shortly after the tornadoes hit, I was at an ecumenical Bible study where a man spoke up and said that he heard that on the day of the storm at one of the elementary schools in Moore, when everyone was taking shelter, all the children began to sing “Jesus Loves Me.”  As the storm raged more fiercely, they sang more loudly. And wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, their school remained unharmed. Every child and teacher returned home to their loved ones that night. His implication was that at the other elementary school, the one where lives were lost, clearly this did not happen and just look at the result.

            He said this as though it was absolute proof that if you are just persistent enough, God will answer your prayers. If you just sing “Jesus Loves Me” loudly enough, God will change the course of the storm so that it doesn’t touch down on one elementary school, but instead hits the one where supposedly they weren’t singing. His assessment meant the tornados were no longer a terrible occurrence of nature, but a new sort of Passover. The children and teachers who prayed persistently, who sang and prayed loudly were saved, while those who didn’t weren’t. I was so shocked and appalled at this that I couldn’t find the words to respond. And it brought me back once again to what happens when we pray and what doesn’t happen when we pray.

            Preacher and writer, Debi Thomas, wrote that when she comes to this particular text in Luke’s gospel, she approaches it warily and with great trepidation. She wrote that it was a text full of landmines. And over the centuries, interpretation of this passage has resulted in what she called an understanding of God as a cosmic gumball machine. Your prayers are the coins, just put them in and see what color of gumball you get. I appreciate this analogy, but I think of this kind of interpretation more like a grocery list.

            In these days of Covid I have come to greatly appreciate curbside pickup at Kroger. I go to the app on my phone, put the items that we need in my cart, choose a time for pickup, check-out, and when its time, I go to the store and have my groceries brought to my car. There can be hiccups, sure, but for the most part it has been a great way to shop, especially when life is crazy and I don’t have an hour to walk up and down the aisles. So, when I think of the kind of understanding of prayer that Debi Thomas wrote of or what the man in the Bible study alluded to, this is what comes to mind. I give God my grocery list of needs and wants, and God fills my cart. And if there’s something that I can’t get, then God either makes a substitution or refunds my money for that item. But if my analogy holds any truth, and I don’t think it does, then there have been an awful lot of items that I’ve wanted that have been out of stock. So, what does this passage in Luke hold for us when it comes to prayer?

            At the beginning of our text, Jesus is noted as praying in a certain place. I’m not sure the geography of this place matters so much as the fact that Jesus set aside both a time and place to pray. When he was finished one of the disciples asked him to teach them to pray as John taught his disciples. As I understand it, at that time teachers and disciples were also known by their prayers. John’s disciples must have had a unique prayer that only he could have taught them. That prayer would have marked them as his disciples. So, Jesus’ disciples want that same distinction. If Jesus teaches them a specific prayer, then there would be no mistaking them for anyone else but his disciples. 

Jesus responded by teaching them these words,

“Father, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come. Give us each day our daily bread.  And forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us. And do not bring us to the time of trial.”

Although it’s not exactly the same, this provides the basis for Lord’s Prayer which we will pray together in just a few minutes. A version of this prayer is also found in the gospel of Matthew. But Matthew’s context is very different from Luke’s. In Matthew’s gospel the prayer is taught as part of the Sermon on the Mount. Jesus is warning his disciples not to make a show of their religious piety.

“Don’t be like the hypocrites who love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners so everyone can see them and see how pious and righteous they are. Instead pray in secret. And when you pray, don’t worry about heaping up empty phrases, just pray these words.” 

            Luke’s context is different. As I said, Jesus has been praying “in a certain place.” His disciples want to be taught as John taught. They want something distinctive. Jesus, teach us to pray.

Luke’s gospel emphasizes the point that Jesus spent a great deal of time in prayer. It was prayer that kept him close to God. It was prayer that kept him on the path he knew he had to be on. Jesus prayed. Even as the disciples may have wanted to be known as his disciples by the prayer he taught them, they may have also wanted to experience the closeness and intimacy and deep connection that Jesus found in his prayers. I suspect that the disciples could see how prayer affected Jesus, how it kept him grounded and faithful and staying true to his call and his ministry. I would not be surprised if the disciples also wanted to experience that. They must have wanted to be in that close of a relationship with God as Jesus was. Jesus, teach us to pray. 

One other interesting point to note is that this story of Jesus teaching the disciples to pray follows on the heels of two stories about discipleship, the Good Samaritan and Martha and Mary.  To grasp the fullness of discipleship, you must both do and be – see a neighbor in need and help that neighbor in that moment and recognize that there is a moment to sit at Jesus’ feet and learn and be in that moment as well. It seems to me that the foundation of both the doing and the being is in prayer. You’ve taught us about doing, Jesus, and you’ve taught us about being. Now, teach us to pray.

Jesus did just that. He taught them the specific words we find our passage. But after the prayer, he also told them this small story about being persistent in prayer. If you have need of bread, go to your friend’s house, even if its late at night and keep knocking until you finally annoy the friend enough that he answers the door and gives you what you need. Here’s a landmine that Thomas spoke of. Does being persistent in prayer mean that we have to annoy God? Does that mean that the times when I have prayed and prayed and prayed – not for some materialistic desire but for someone I love to be healed or for people to be helped – and what I’ve prayed for has not happened, then I just haven’t knocked long enough or hard enough? That’s often the response we hear about prayers that seemingly go unanswered. You haven’t been persistent enough. Or another answer we hear is that God just said, “No.” Neither of these responses or explanations help. They don’t help me anyway.

When a parent prays for a child to be healed from a terrible disease or even just to come home safely from school, and that doesn’t happen, was that God saying, “No?” Because why would God say no to the safety of a child? To the health of a child? To the health and safety of communities? Or for an end to a terrible and unjust war?

Quite frankly, these responses – either you don’t pray persistently enough, or God just said, “No” – don’t help. So, what is Jesus telling the disciples? Maybe, it’s not about how a prayer is answered or not, maybe that has nothing to do with any of it. Maybe it’s just about praying, about being in that relationship with God. Does prayer effect change? Yes! But it most often effects change in the one who is praying. Maybe Jesus found his courage to continue because he prayed. Maybe Jesus found his strength to stand up to the powers and principalities because he made sure to spend time in prayer. Maybe that relationship with God that he had in prayer shone on his face, in his eyes, in his words, in his actions.

And let’s look at what Jesus actually promises will happen with persistent prayer. There is only one promise made, and that comes at the end of this passage.

“How much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”

Jesus does not promise that persistent prayer will bring about cures for diseases or interventions in the eye of a storm. Jesus promises that  those who pray persistently will receive the Holy Spirit.

Those who pray persistently, those who ask, search, and knock will receive the Holy Spirit. And what happens when the Holy Spirit comes? What happens when the Holy Spirit descends and moves and blows where it will? People who were afraid gather their courage. People who thought they were weak discover their strength. People who thought they could not make a difference, see the steps they need to take to help a world in need.

And our world is in need. And our world needs prayer, persistent, relentless prayer. And what does that prayer do? How does that prayer help? It helps the ones who are praying. It effects change in the ones who refuse to stop asking, stop searching, and stop knocking. We pray, not so that God will supernaturally intervene, a giant hand reaching down from the clouds. We pray so that our faith will deepen and grow. We pray so that we will find within ourselves the courage to help and challenge and change. We pray because prayer changes us. Jesus has taught us to pray, so let us pray and pray and pray.

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

Amen.

 

Distracted

Luke 10:38-42

July 17, 2022

 

Chef Ina Garten, also known as the Barefoot Contessa on the Food Network, once told a story about the first dinner party she ever hosted. She was still a relatively young bride, a novice cook, and she thought that it would be a good idea to make all of her guests individual omelets.

            As she described it, that good idea turned out to be a terrible one. Omelets aren’t a hard dish to prepare, but they take a few minutes, even for the most experienced of cooks. Ina realized too late that making one for everyone at the party meant that she was trapped in the kitchen for most of the evening. That was the worst part about it, she said. Ina never got to spend any time with her guests. Instead, she stood in front of the stove all night, while her husband visited with their friends. At that moment, the Barefoot Contessa made a solemn vow. From that point on whenever she entertained, she would make sure she could prepare things ahead. She would never again ignore her guests while she worked in the kitchen all night long. Ina said she would make sure that she could prepare most of her meal in advance, and then she’d have maximum time with her friends. I’m not sure her show is even on the Food Network anymore, but if you have ever had a chance to watch it, you know that she has been true to the vow she made. Every recipe she offers, every entertaining idea she gives, is about what can be done well before the guests arrive. When the guests arrive for the meal, she is there with them, present and in the moment.

            I doubt Ina Garten would have described herself as a Martha or as Mary. But at her first dinner party, she was doing what we might call a “Martha”. She was in the kitchen, cooking, working, distracted by making the omelets for her guests, and unable to enjoy herself, her friends, or the food she was working so hard to prepare.

            I will confess to you that I struggle with this passage from Luke. I struggle with what seems to be the very derogatory tone in Jesus’ voice when he speaks to Martha. And if that derogatory and dismissive tone was not in Jesus’ voice, then it has been added over the years by interpreters and preachers of all sorts. You know the tone I’m speaking of, the one an adult might use when speaking to a naughty child.

            “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”

            Martha wasn’t a child. And she wasn’t breaking any rules either. In fact, she was doing what was expected of her by her culture, by the society she lived in, by the men who had gathered at her home expecting a meal. Martha was doing exactly what she had been taught to do her entire life, exactly what she was told was her duty to do. Hospitality was paramount and being hospitable took work. Martha was doing the work of hospitality.

            But Mary was not. In any other situation, Mary would have been seen as shirking her duty. And I can imagine – actually, I think I know – how Martha felt. I can feel the tension and stress rising in her. I can feel her growing frustration and anger. I can hear her slamming utensils and cookware around as she worked. And I can see her catching glimpses of her sister, sitting at the feet of Jesus, and not helping.

            I struggle with this passage because Martha too often gets a bad rap, and Mary gets all the praise. Many years ago a very wise woman said to me that if all the Marthas of the church sat down, the church would fall down shortly thereafter. And nine years ago, when I was attending the CREDO conference for ministers, one of our faculty members preached on this passage at our worship service. She stood before the communion table and commented that all of us gathered there were used to standing before the communion table, calling people to gather for the sacrament, calling people to remember Jesus as they partake of the bread and the cup. But then she said, the next time you stand before this table, you also need to remember the person or persons that prepared it, set it, and made it ready. That person was probably a Martha.

            Debi Thomas wrote in a commentary about this passage that she was frustrated with Jesus not about encouraging Martha to do what was really necessary, but in not pushing the disciples gathered to step up and help so Martha could do what was really necessary. As Thomas wrote, Martha’s anxiety did not come from a vacuum. Her anxiety and worry go back to all the expectations laid on her, the expectations that I spoke of earlier. Thomas said that she would have been thrilled to read that Jesus told Peter to go chop the vegetables, and for James to knead the bread, and for Andrew and Bartholomew to set the table. After all, Jesus was already going against the tradition by allowing Mary – a woman ­– to sit at his feet as a disciple would. What would the next 2,000 years have looked like, asks Thomas, if Jesus had pushed the men to do something so counter-cultural as well?

            But that didn’t happen, or if it did, it has been redacted from this story, so we must deal with what we have before us. And what we have before us is Jesus telling Martha, not as a parent to a child, but maybe as a teacher to a disciple, that she has missed the point. She is worried and distracted by many things, but the only thing necessary in that moment was being with Jesus, sitting at his feet, and learning from him. That was the only thing necessary.

            According to scholarship, the root of the word for worry is “strangle” or “to be seized by the throat.” The root of the word, distracted, is “a separation or a tearing apart of something that is meant to be whole.” Literally, Martha is being strangled by her responsibilities and her distraction is a fracturing or a fragmenting of who is supposed to be, who she is called to be.

            Does that resonate with you as much as it does with me? I know that sometimes my worry and my anxiety make me feel like I can’t breathe. I can’t make my body take a deep and restorative breath. I am too worried, I am too anxious, too strangled by my fears and anxieties and expectations to fill my body with the oxygen it requires. And in turn, my worries and anxieties, much less my responsibilities render me so distracted that I don’t feel whole. I just feel like bits and pieces of my self are being flung hither and yon.

            Strangled and torn apart. Worried and distracted. Martha was being strangled by her worries and torn apart by her distractions. She needed only one thing, and that was to be with Jesus. She needed only one thing, and that was to be single-minded in her pursuit to sit at Jesus’ feet and learn from him.

            When I was a student intern in a church in Virginia, I was invited by the men’s bible study and fellowship group to give a presentation about my trip to the Middle East. They had a monthly dinner, and each month they would invite a special guest to speak. I was that guest. I worked hard on my presentation. I had a whole slide show put together. I brought souvenirs from my trip. I was excited to be their guest and to share stories of my travels.

            And when it came time for the meal, I got up and started to help with bringing food out to the tables, and making sure folks had what they wanted to drink, extra napkins if they needed them, etc. The pastor, Greg, who was my supervisor during that year, came over to me and said,
            “Go sit down. You were not invited here to serve or to work. You were invited here as a special guest. It is the men’s responsibility to serve you. Not the other way around.”

            Feeling like I needed to help was ingrained in me, but on that night, it was making me worried and distracted. I had lost my focus. But I did what Greg said to do. I sat down. I allowed myself to be served, and when it came time for the presentation, I was on it. We had a wonderful evening, and I left grateful for the opportunity and grateful for Greg’s reminder not to be distracted by many things, but to be true to my purpose for the evening.

            It seems to me that Jesus was not reprimanded Martha but reminding her. Martha needed to be reminded of what her purpose was in that moment. Yes, hospitality was important. Her work was of great value, something that we still forget, but there was only one thing necessary and that was being with Jesus. There was only one thing that would release the grip of worry on her throat and make her whole, and that was to be with Jesus. That was her single purpose at that moment. That was what was necessary.

            What distracts us? What keeps us torn apart? What worries keep us strangled and gasping for breath? What keeps us from the feet of Jesus? Because it is at his feet that is the foundation for everything else we do. It is sitting at the feet of Jesus that gives us the strength and the courage and the hope to stand up again and do the work that we are called to do. Sitting at his feet is what makes us whole.

            Thanks be to God for the Marthas in our lives and for the Marys. Thanks be to God that all of us are necessary and all of us are loved.

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

            Amen.

Your Neighbor as Yourself

Luke 10:25-37

July 10, 2022

            “Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there.”

            Does anyone else remember that State Farm jingle? I’m not sure if its ever used anymore. I suspect it has been replaced by, “Jake from State Farm.” But for a long, long time that was the one thing I associated with State Farm Insurance Company. If you hummed the first few noes of that jingle, I could finish them without giving it a second thought.

State Farm wanted people to know that they were good neighbors. They weren’t just a necessary part of life, or a company you had to deal with when things went wrong. They were like a good neighbor. From what the advertising implied, being a good neighbor was being there for someone when they needed them. It meant being there when the times got tough. They were the hand reaching out to help you up when you’d been knocked down. State Farm was a good neighbor, because they were there no matter how bad things got, in fact they were there especially when things got that bad. They were a good neighbor.

“Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there.”

            Neighbor seems to be the key word for our passage this week. Just like State Farm’s jingle, the story of the Good Samaritan is one that I know by heart. All you would have to say is, “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho …” and I could probably fill in with the words “and fell into the hands of robbers.” I bet many of us could do that. After all, if you’re like me, you have heard this story from the time you were a little kid. In Sunday School, if it wasn’t being read to us or diagrammed out on a felt board, we were acting it out.

            And even if you didn’t grow up hearing this story on repeat, the idea of the Good Samaritan is everywhere in our culture. If someone helps someone else out unexpectedly, that person is hailed as a Good Samaritan. There are Good Samaritan laws that protect someone from being held liable if they try to help someone in distress out and it goes wrong. When I lived in Iowa there were two skilled nursing centers that used the name Good Samaritan. Even if someone had never heard any other story about Jesus, there is a good chance that they have heard this one.

            And that’s the challenge. This is such a well-known parable, it is so familiar to us, and we think we know it backwards and forwards, that it is possible, just possible, it’s lost its shock value for us. In fact, we might even question using the term, “shock value,” because this is such a lovely parable. It should make us all feel good, warm, fuzzy, not shocked.

            But as scholar Amy-Jill Levine points out in her book about Jesus’ parables, his “Short Stories,” the parables were told not to make those listening feel contented and happy. They were told to shock them. They were told to ‘afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted.” Jesus’ parables were meant to have a punch, an unexpected twist. They were meant to afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted.

            The problem is though is that we are listening from a distance. These stories of Jesus have been told for centuries, and we are far removed by time and space from the first audience who heard them. And, in the repeated telling, they have become domesticated. They have become nice little tales instead of parables that shake us up and knock us out.

            So, what in this story is shocking? A lawyer asks Jesus a question.

            “Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

            As I understand it, being a lawyer at that time was not just about understanding civic law.  A lawyer would have been well-versed in religious law, the Law. The distinctions between the two were not made as we make them. So, the lawyer would have known the Law. He would have known the commandments. He would have known the details of Leviticus and Numbers. Clearly, the lawyer did because Jesus turned the question on him.

            “What is written in the law? What do you read there?”

            And the lawyer was able to readily answer, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.”

            And Jesus responds with, good answer! You know this. You got this. Go, and do likewise and you will live. But the lawyer wants to justify himself. I know that the text tells us that the lawyer wanted to test Jesus, but I’m not sure that this is one of those times when the person asking Jesus the question is trying to trick Jesus. I’m not convinced that the lawyer was trying to trap Jesus as the Pharisees and the other religious authorities so often tried to. I think he genuinely wanted to know what Jesus had to say, not as a trick but to get some clarity on the exact details of the law. Maybe that means he wanted to push Jesus to give him more specifics, not on what the law says, but on exactly who is his neighbor. And that is what he asks.

            “And who is my neighbor?”

            Jesus responds with a story, a parable, about a man going down on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho. This man is attacked, robbed, beaten, stripped of even his clothes, and left for dead. Two religious Israelites pass by. The first, a priest, sees the man and sees the state he is in, but he moves to the other side of the road and keeps going. The second, a Levite, does the same thing. But then a Samaritan a SA MAR I TAN, comes down the road. The Samaritan sees the man who has been beaten, robbed, and left for dead, and he does not cross the road to get away from him. He crosses the road to go to near to him. The Samaritan sees the man’s wounds, and he pours wine on them to disinfect them, and he pours oil on them to keep them soft. He bandages the man. He picks him up and puts him on his own animal and he takes him to an inn so that he can more fully care for him. When the Samaritan has to leave the next day, he gives the innkeeper money from his own pocket, and asks the innkeeper to take care of the man. When he returns, he will repay the innkeeper however much more the innkeeper had to pay for the beaten man’s care.

            Jesus finishes the story by saying, “Now, who was the neighbor?”

And the lawyer responds, “The one who showed him mercy.”

Jesus says nothing else, but “Go, and do likewise.”

            Lets put this in terms that we can relate to. When we talk about the Good Samaritan, we think of the word “good,” as part of his title. Instead of Dr. Samaritan, its Good Samaritan. But the word “good” is descriptive. And Jesus does not call him “good” at all, does he? The good is implied. He was a good Samaritan, not because that was part of his name, but because of what he did, how he lived, how he treated the man who was beaten and left for dead. But here’s the kicker, the lawyer who asked this question of Jesus and the people listening to Jesus would not have applied the adjective “good” before a Samaritan. Good would have been the furthest thing from their minds. The Samaritans were enemies. They were not good.

            Take a minute and think about the group of people you can’t stand. Be honest with yourself. There probably is at least one section of society that bugs you, angers you, makes you fume. If you’re a Republican, maybe it’s the Democrats. If you’re a Democrat, maybe it’s the Republicans. Maybe its people of another country or another religion. Whatever that group may be, whoever they may be, insert their name in the place of Samaritan. Make sure you add the word, “good” in front of it too.

            How do you feel?

            How does it feel to consider one of these “others” as good? How does it feel to think about one of these “others” doing what the Samaritan did? Especially when two folks from your side of things crossed the road to stay away from the man left dead?!

            In the past, I have tried to minimize what the priest and the Levite did and didn’t do. They would have been ritually unclean if they had gone near the man, if they had touched him. It would have made them unable to fulfill their religious responsibilities. But they were going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, not the other way around. They were going away from the temple. It’s most likely that their religious duties were already fulfilled. And as Levine points out, the Law made it clear that helping someone in great need was more important than staying ritually clean. The priest and the Levite messed up. They failed. It doesn’t mean that they were horrible people. It means that they were human, and they failed. We all have and it’s a good possibility that we all will again. But the Samaritan did not fail. The Samaritan went near to the man. The Samaritan helped the man without thought for himself, for his own safety, for his own needs. The Samaritan did what was good because he showed the man mercy.

            It seems to me that what the lawyer really wanted to Jesus to make clear for him was not just what being a neighbor meant, but what the boundaries are on who is our neighbor. Okay, look Jesus, for real, who is my neighbor? Where do I get to draw the line? Who do I get to leave out of this equation?

            But Jesus made it clear that the boundaries we put into place on who is our neighbor and who isn’t are artificial. They have no real meaning. The person who is our neighbor is the person in need. The person who is our neighbor is the person who requires mercy. The person who is our neighbor is the person to whom we are called to draw near. It does not require political or ideological agreement on our part. It requires us to recognize who is being harmed and to realize that that person or persons are our neighbors. That might just mean that other sentient creatures are our neighbors. That might just mean that the creation itself is our neighbor, that the whole of God’s world is filled with our neighbors. Are we prepared to show them mercy? Are we ready to love our neighbors as ourselves? The lawyer realized that the neighbor was the one who showed mercy. Go, and do likewise, and we too will live.

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

            Amen.

Count the Cost

Luke 9:51-62

June 26, 2022
 
            A hen and a pig were out for a walk one day, when they pass by a church. They see a flyer posted on the church’s bulletin board asking people to help feed the poor and hungry.
            The hen looked at the pig and said, “I know how we can help feed the poor and hungry. We can give them bacon and eggs.”
            The pig replied, “I have just one problem with that plan. From you it requires only a contribution. But from me it asks for a total commitment.”
            It’s an old joke and a funny one, but it brings up a crucial fact about discipleship – discipleship is total commitment. That’s what this whole Christianity, following Christ life is all about, isn’t it? Total commitment. Even to the point of giving up our lives for the sake of following Jesus.
            But are we really ready to do that? Are we really ready to take that step, set off down that path, and be willing to give up everything, even our lives, to follow Jesus?
            That’s the question that Jesus has for the three would-be followers in our passage from Luke. The time for the cross has drawn near so Jesus has set his face toward Jerusalem. Jerusalem, the place where his last days would be lived out, where he would stand up to the powers and principalities, not with violence or bloodshed but with love and the power that comes from being the suffering servant.
            Jesus has set his face. In other words, he’s going to Jerusalem, no matter what. There’s no looking back, no looking in any other direction. This is not the road most people would choose willingly, but Jesus knows that this road will make all the difference.
            So, our scene is set, and Jesus is on his way. In the first part of the narrative Luke tells us that Jesus sends messengers ahead of him. They stop in a Samaritan village but are not welcomed there because Jesus is heading to Jerusalem. The enmity between Jews and Samaritans was deep and wide, so I suspect that just the idea that Jesus was going to Jerusalem, the center of Judaism, was enough reason for the Samaritans to refuse him welcome. When James and John witness this they are outraged and ask Jesus if he wants them to rain down fire on the village. But Jesus rebukes them because they have missed the point – again.
            They continue on the way to Jerusalem. And as they do, the first of the would-be disciples approaches them and declares to Jesus,
            “I will follow you wherever you go.”
            Seeing as how Jesus’ disciples often made the decision to follow him in an instant, it is surprising that Jesus doesn’t immediately take this person up on his offer But Jesus replies in an unexpected way,
            “Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.”
            Then Jesus calls to another person, “Follow me.” This person tells Jesus that he must first go and bury his father. Jesus’ response continues to surprise.
            “Let the dead bury their own dead, but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.”
            Jesus approaches still another person who tells him that he will gladly follow him, but first let him say goodbye to the loved ones back home. For the third time, Jesus responds with the unexpected,
            “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.
            Strange answers all three. They are a crucial part of the challenge of this passage. These people were not making radical or frivolous requests of Jesus. They were willing to follow, so why did Jesus answer so oddly, so harshly?
            Think about the first wannabe follower. He wants to follow. He is eager to follow. He seeks discipleship with Jesus voluntarily. But Jesus issues him a stern warning. Even animals have a place to call home, but the Son of Man doesn’t. And the implication of this is that anyone who follows Jesus will suffer the same consequences. So, are you ready? Are you really ready to follow Jesus, to be without security, without home? Are you ready to face the trials and tribulations that will inevitably be encountered on the road of discipleship? Have you counted the cost?
            The next prospective disciples are also willing to follow Jesus, BUT. One must go to bury his father before he can set off on the road with Jesus. There is great debate over how this should be interpreted. Does it mean the obvious? That the man’s father has died, and he must go and bury him? Burial was serious business. The burying of one’s parents was an act of respect, honor, and duty according to Jewish custom. It was part of the requirement of the commandment to honor your mother and father. This man was duty bound to bury his father.
            However, this could also mean that the man’s father is old, and the son must stay with him and care for him until he dies. Again, this was expected of any child.
            The other man also has family members to attend to. He will gladly follow Jesus but first he wants to say goodbye to the folks back home.
            To our ears none of this seems flippant or frivolous. The requests of Jesus were not out of the ordinary. Yet Jesus answers the would-be followers’ requests in a way we don’t foresee. Jesus tells the one man to let the dead bury the dead. Some commentators believe that Jesus means that the spiritually dead should bury the physical dead. But one of my New Testament professors made us spend practically an entire semester exegeting this passage and the word for dead in both cases means dead – physically in the flesh dead. Let the dead bury the dead. Following Jesus trumps even that time-honored responsibility.
            And Jesus’ response to the third wannabe disciple implies a reference to Elijah and Elisha in First Kings. Elisha is plowing a field and promises to follow Elijah, but first he must go and kiss his parents goodbye. But Jesus denies even this simple appeal. If you’re looking backward when you’re trying to plow, the furrow will be crooked. And to look back, even to family and friends, instead of forward to the cross is to be unfit for the kingdom of God. Unfit and unready.
            Have you counted the cost?
            The Biblical scholars I’ve read agree that Jesus’ responses are harsh. They are harsh. It would be easy to try and explain this away by saying that Jesus was using hyperbole, deliberate exaggeration to make his point. But that doesn’t do justice to Jesus’ words. His words reflect his urgency. His face is set toward Jerusalem. He is going, and he know what lies ahead. He has told the disciples, twice, what it means for him to be the Son of God. Jesus will suffer. Jesus will die. Jesus will be raised again. Jesus knows what’s coming, so there is no time for waffling or entering into a casual kind of discipleship.
            Jesus tells them all, if you want to be my disciple, there’s a cost. You need to count the cost before you follow me. Discipleship comes with a price. That cost might require you to leave a home, a duty, and leaving behind friends and family. The road of discipleship does not come without trade-offs. Before you follow me, before you take one step on this road, you have to count the cost.
            As un-Jesus like as this may seem, Jesus makes them and us face the hard truth about discipleship. Discipleship means that following Jesus is the first priority. Everything else – family, responsibility, security – comes after. This isn’t easy news to hear. And it isn’t easy to do. Have we counted the cost?
            When I have preached this passage in the past, I have not always been able to name what it is about Jesus’ responses that most frightens me. Yet, it would seem to be obvious. The cost of following Jesus means that we must leave behind the people and places and things that we love. That should be enough reason for fear. But something I read recently makes me realize that there is something more underlying all this leaving. The real thing that makes me afraid of the implications of this passage is that to follow Jesus is to give up control.
            I’m sure I have expressed this in the past, and I guarantee I will say it again in the future. Letting go of my belief that I have control is terrifying. I may be able to intellectually acknowledge that there is very little I actually have control over, but at a gut level I fight against this truth with great kicking and screaming. I want to be in control – over my life, my future, my destiny. I make plans and I expect that they will play out. But it seems to me that what Jesus is telling all of them – the disciples already following and those who are still thinking about it – is this, if you want to throw your lot in with mine, give up the idea that you are in control. The plans you have made for your life, let them go. The course you may have set for yourself or the path you thought you were choosing, let all that go.
Following me won’t be easy or neat. You can’t leave a trail of breadcrumbs, so you can find your way back to where you were before. Following me means that you may be led into chaos and suffering. Following me may require something of you that you may think is impossible. Following me means that you are going to have to let go of control and embrace trust. Following me means that you have to not only trust that you are becoming the person you need to be in the place where you need to be, but that you are not alone in the process. Following me means that you have to trust that I am right there with you. Following me means trusting me.
That is the real cost. Following Jesus means that we let go of all that we think we want or need, all that we seek to control. Following is trusting. Following means trusting that Jesus is with us through everything, through it all. Following Jesus means trusting that our decision to say, “yes” to his call is worth the cost. We must trust that following makes all the difference.
Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”
Amen.

The Sound of Silence -- Juneteenth

 Kings 19:1-15a

June 19, 2022 

            This past week I was in Louisville at the Presbyterian Seminary, finishing up the second week of my fourth and last seminar for my Doctor of Ministry degree. There is still at least another year and a half of work, research, and writing left to do before I can even think about the graduating, but to finish this fourth seminar felt like a big step. In retrospect, I can see how much further I got on my project during these last two weeks. But I can only say that because I’m done with the two weeks. I could not say that during these past two weeks. No, in the throes of these last fourteen days, my attitude toward everything I was doing was very, very different.  

            The first week when I attended the class from home, I felt overwhelmed and wasn’t sure I’d be able to get through all the work that needed to be done. But I kept thinking that it would be better once I was actually on campus. Then the second week, I went to Louisville, and it didn’t feel any better. Forget these two weeks! I was convinced that I would not be able to get through the work for the entire degree. Talking to Brent at night, I would tell him,

            “I have made a huge mistake.”

            “Why did I ever think I could do a DMin?”

            “Why did I ever say the word, DMin?”

            “I’m going to quit.”

            “I want to go home.”

            And when I wasn’t sharing my fears with Brent, I was lying awake at night, wondering what the heck I had gotten myself into. There were tears. And I don’t think I had one good night’s sleep the entire time I was gone. But the last day of class, my professors assured me that my work on my proposal had come a long way from the first day of the seminar.

            Hearing that helped. And I’m so grateful for Dr. C. and Dr. F. because they kept me going forward. But what helped me even more was hearing that my colleagues in our cohort were feeling the same way. Apparently, it wasn’t just me asking, “Why? Why?!” And it wasn’t just me shedding tears of frustration and wanting to quit, give up, go home, and forget that we’d ever even thought about getting a DMin at all. That made me feel better, not because I wanted my misery to have some company, but because I discovered that I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t the only one feeling discouraged and confused. Even though I may have felt completely alone in those moments, I know that I wasn’t. And that helps. It helps because it reminds me that we are all in it together. Knowing that doesn’t make the work that lies ahead any less daunting. It doesn’t make it any easier. But it makes it bearable, because I know I have three other women who are with me. No matter how discouraged about this work that I have been, and no matter how discouraged I will be in the days and months to come – and I’m sure I will be – I am not alone. These three other women are with me on this path, and I am with them.

            Elijah was not alone either, but he felt like he was. We haven’t spent any time in the chapters before this one, so we may not have a good sense of how Elijah was doing in living out his prophetic call from God. Well, from what I can tell, he was doing great! In the verses before our chapter begins, he predicted that a drought would come to an end, and it did! Before that he triumphed over the priests of Baal. Major victory for God and for Elijah. Elijah’s ministry was on fire. One commentator that I read likened Elijah to a pastor whose ministry is in the fast lane. If Elijah were a minister today, the commentator speculated, he would be that pastor whose church is growing by leaps and bounds. The pastor’s congregation is thriving. The church’s programs are busting out at the seams. Other pastors want to be this pastor. If Elijah were a pastor today, he would have inspired other ministers to preface their comments with, “Well, I’m no Elijah but …”

            But for all that Elijah was able to accomplish in the time before our passage, in the verses we read today we find him running scared. Jezebel, Ahab’s wife, has sent word to Elijah that she is going to do to him what he did to the prophets of Baal. With this threat and the fear of being struck down in his heart, Elijah runs away. Suddenly Elijah isn’t quite as confident as he was before. He travels about a day into the wilderness and finds a solitary broom tree. He sits down underneath it and asks God to let him die.

            “It is enough; now O Lord, take away my life, for I am no better than my ancestors.”

            Then Elijah lays down under this tree and falls asleep. An angel wakes him and tells him to get up an eat, otherwise the journey will be too much for him. Elijah looks and sees that there is food and water waiting for him. He eats and drinks, and with the strength that the food gives him, he goes forty days and forty nights to Mount Horeb, the mountain of the Lord. There was a cave there, and he went into the cave and spent the night there.

            The Lord comes to him while he waits in the cave. The Lord speaks to him, wanting to know what Elijah is up to. Elijah answers,

            “I have been very zealous for the Lord, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life to take it away.”

            In other words, “Look God, I have been eager to do your work and your will. I have been diligent. I have never forsaken you or your call in my life. But instead of things going right, they are going wrong. I am all alone in this because the other Israelites are trying to kill me. “

            I am alone, God. I am alone, and if you cared about me at all you would let me die.

            That may be an extreme sentiment, but I suspect that more of us have felt forsaken, discouraged, and alone than we would care to admit. Elijah had been trucking along at a nice speed, but then he was derailed by a hateful threat and the work that he had been doing came crashing to a halt. Now, he didn’t know what to do next. He was all alone.

            Except … he wasn’t. God was there with him in that cave on Mount Horeb. God refused to leave him alone, and considering the state that Elijah was in, he may not have thought that a good thing. But the Lord refused to leave Elijah alone or let him off the hook.

            “Go out, and stand on the mountain before the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.”

            And a terrible wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains into two and pulverizing large rocks into tiny pieces. But God was not in that great wind. And after the wind passed, there was an earthquake. Everything on land and maybe even in the sky shook and rolled with the force of that quake. Then after the earthquake came a fire. Its heat blazed across the shaken and tossed mountaintop. But after the fire came the sound of sheer silence. When Elijah heard the sound of silence, he wrapped his head in his mantle and went and stood at the entrance of the cave. Out of the silence, the Lord spoke to him.

            “What are you doing here, Elijah?”

            Elijah gave him the same response as before. I’ve been zealous for you, Lord. The Israelites have forsaken your covenant. They have thrown down your altars. They have killed your prophets with the sword. Now, they want to kill me too.

            If Elijah hoped that God would say, “Oh, I understand why you ran away into the wilderness. I get why we had to have this conversation up here. It’s okay, buddy, you take a few days to get yourself together. Maybe take a week. Go somewhere sunny, with a beach! And when you return, I’ll start you back on desk work. Okay?” then he was sorely disappointed.

            God did not respond to Elijah’s complaint. God just said, “Go.” If that seems callous on God’s part, let’s look back at the story. God made sure Elijah had food and water. God made sure Elijah made it through the wilderness for forty days and nights. God could have roared at Elijah in the great wind or shaken him in the earthquake. God could have singed him in the fire, but it was in the sound of silence that God spoke to him once more. It was in the sound of silence that God said, “Go.” And God didn’t tell Elijah to go and sacrifice himself. God didn’t command Elijah to voluntarily put his head on a silver platter. God just said, “Go.” Go because there is still work to be done. Go because I call you to be faithful in spite of the hardships that others place on you. Go, because I never promised you that this would be easy, but I do promise you that in the long run it will be worth it. Go, because sometimes all you can do is keep on keeping up, but I promise I am with you.

            All of us are called, in different ways, to different ministries, but we are all called. And I think that along with each and every call comes discouragement. Discouragement that it seems with all we do and all we try nothing is changing. And in these times, giving up and walking away seems like the wisest decision to make. When we are discouraged, it is easy to forget that God has been providing for us all along. God has fed us, nourished us for the journey. God has sent messengers along the way to remind us that we are not alone. And when we think we cannot go another step, God says, “Go.” And we do. We put one foot in front of the other, and we go. We move forward. We keep on keeping on. And we trust that we are not alone. We trust that there are people on either side to help us walk when we cannot. We trust that we are not alone, that God is with us. So, let’s go. The work is before us, and God says, “Go.” Thanks be to God.

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

            Amen.