Where Is Your Heart?

Luke 12:22-40

August 10, 2025

 

            I was a huge fan of the show Downtown Abbey. And when I say, “huge”, I mean HUGE! But my love of British period dramas did not begin with this show. When I was a kid, I used to watch Masterpiece Theatre with my parents and the show that they loved was Upstairs, Downstairs. Both Downtown Abbey and Upstairs, Downstairs told the intricate stories of all the occupants of grand houses. Both series told the stories of the family who lived upstairs; families who often had more titles and land than money. And the series told the stories of the servants who were the heart of the house, who kept the grand house running and functioning.

            One thing that the servants downstairs knew instinctively was that they had to be ready at a moment’s notice to take care of the needs of the family. These houses had routines, certainly, and the meals and other aspects of daily life were well-structured, but even with that structure and routine, the servants had to be ready at a moment’s notice for any surprises that might pop up, for any change in schedule that might occur. The undercurrent of their jobs was to be prepared and ready for whatever may come.

            This sounds a little like what we read in verses 35 through 38 of our passage from Luke’s gospel this morning. Jesus exhorts those who are listening to

“Be dressed for action and have your lamps lit; be like those who are waiting for their master to return from the wedding banquet, so that they may open the door for him as soon as he comes and knocks.”

Every biblical commentator that I have read in preparation to preach this passage has said the same thing about the phrase, “Be dressed for action.” While this sounds like the servants, the slaves who are waiting for their master should be in their daily uniforms – like the servants, the butler, the housekeeper, the housemaids and footmen, were always dressed in specific uniforms that spoke to their rank and type of service – what it really means, what it more literally means is “gird your loins.” In other words suit up and step up. You have to be ready. None of this is going to be easy. And if you’re prepared and ready, good. That’s what you are supposed to be. But Jesus goes on to finish these verses by saying,

“But know that if the owner of the house had known at what hour the thief was coming, he would not have let his house be broken into. You also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour.”

When I read these words in preparation for today, I thought, “Oh great Apocalyptic imagery. Another reminder that God will come like a thief in the night and if we’re not ready, if we’re not hyper vigilant and toeing the line than we’ll be crushed like a bug under a boot.”

And I must admit that a tremor of dread ran through me, not just because I would have to find some way to preach these words, but because they make me afraid. Fear is my first response because these sound like scary, frightening words to me. They heighten the dread, that foreboding that many of us have about the coming of God into our lives. It’s not so much good news as it is that guy on the corner wearing a sandwich board shouting,

“Beware! The world is coming to an end.”

Zach used to try and get me to play his video games with him. These games were the kind where the characters were in a constant state of battle – generally battles that involved shooting zombies – trying to outwit the creatures of the dead walking toward them and stay alive. I am lousy at these kinds of games, one because I cannot figure out how to make my character walk straight much less shoot straight. I’m usually the guy that’s stuck either looking up at the sky or down at the ground, or I’m hitting the button that makes my character jump, so I’m just jumping randomly while looking at the sky or the ground. I am also terrible at these games because when I do face a zombie, I get panicked and I can’t think fast enough. The zombies get me before I even know what’s happening.

Whenever I read passages of scripture that are apocalyptic, even in a small way, I feel that same sort of panic rise in me. I’m not prepared. I’ll never be prepared. And if the Son of Man is supposed to come like a thief in the night, that must mean bad things. That must mean that God is the great punisher, the great destroyer, so I should be afraid. Because I know that I have not lived a perfect or blameless life. I know that I make mistakes all the time. I know that my heart is not where it should be. I put too much stock in earthly things and earthly comforts and earthly safety, which really isn’t safety at all, and it seems like a terrible irony that this passage begins with Jesus’ words about not worrying, not being afraid, because that is exactly what I’m doing. I’m worrying and I’m afraid and AAAAAAHHH!!!

It seems incongruous that Jesus words about not worrying are spoken in the same breath with these words about the coming of the Master, the coming of the Son of Man like a thief in the night. But maybe it isn’t so strange and dissonant as we might think on first reading.

If you go back to the beginning of this chapter, Jesus is speaking to crowds of thousands of people. And these thousands of people are probably not in the upper echelons of that society. These are most likely the people on the bottom rung of society’s ladder. They are the peasants and the laborers and those who struggle everyday just to get by. And from the beginning Jesus tells them not to be afraid, not to be afraid of the terrors of this world, not to be afraid of those who would seek to harm them, but to trust him. Jesus is speaking about the kingdom of God versus the kingdoms of this world. And really since Pentecost, that is what the lectionary is having us consider as well. What does it mean to be the church? What does it mean to live in the kingdoms of this world and yet trust that God’s kingdom is also in our midst? And so last Sunday, we read about the rich fool, who thought that as long as he had enough security in his life, who believed that if he had enough storehouses and enough put by that he would be well, that he would have plenty of time to eat, drink, and be merry. But death came for him that very night. What good did his storehouses and worldly security do then?

And then Jesus tells those who were still listening to not worry. Look at the lilies of the field and the ravens. The flowers are clothed more gloriously than even Solomon and the ravens are always fed even though they have no storehouses or barns. Don’t worry, Jesus tells them, about striving for these things because that is what the kingdoms of the world do. That is what the nations do. They strive after the worldly goods. But strive instead for the kingdom of God. Do not fear, little flock, because it is God’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom, the real kingdom, the true kingdom. So sell what you own and help others. Don’t make purses for treasure that can be stolen or destroyed. Seek the treasure that goes beyond anything humans can make. Focus your heart on what God gives, what the kingdom of God creates. Focus on that treasure, because whatever treasure you focus on, that is where your heart will be also.

And then just when I start to breathe again, and feel some comfort in these words, Jesus speaks the words that we began with this morning. Be ready for action. Gird your loins. Be prepared for when the master comes.

But before I have another panic attack, let’s look at what Jesus says about the master coming one more time. Does he say that when the master comes he will punish those who are not waiting, who are not ready? Not in these verses. What he does say is that when the master comes, he will invite the servants, the slaves, the lowly ones, the least ones, to sit at the table. The master will fasten his belt and have those who serve him sit at the table and eat. And he will serve them. He. Will. Serve. Them.

Those are extraordinary words. That is a complete and utter reversal of what we expect to happen. The servants are not called to be prepared so they can serve the master as soon as he walks through the door. They are to be prepared so the master can serve them, so they can sit at the table and be fed. That would not have happened in Downtown Abbey or Upstairs, Downstairs. But that is what will happen in the kingdom of God. That is what the church is called to emulate, to do, to be – a place where the least of these are as welcome at the table as those who rank higher in the kingdoms of this world. So, the question to us is, where are our hearts? Are they focused on the treasures that we create and build and hold fast? Or are our hearts focused on the treasures of God’s kingdom? The treasures of love and justice and peace?

I think the crux of this passage, the crux of this chapter, and really the heart of the entire gospel is that we are called to trust God more than we fear the world. We are called to trust in God’s promises more than we trust in what we can provide and build and store up. We are called to trust in the love and grace and peace of God embodied in Jesus more than we trust in even the best and wisest of leaders. We are called to trust God more than we fear. So maybe God coming like a thief in the night is not a reason for us to be afraid, but a reason for us to be hopeful, a reason for us to be glad.

I read a poem this week that I believe speaks to this expectant hope. This is Thief by Andrew King.

 

 

 

Break in, O holy thief.

Break into our guarded home.
Defeat the locks we fasten
against your love.

We brick the gates against justice.
We slam the doors to loving.
Our window drapes are heavy and pulled
to block the light of your peace.

O thief, break into our fortress.
Come while we doze in complacency.
Come while we sleep in our negligence.
Come while our eyes are closed to the world
that so needs us to change behaviour.

Break in.
Break in, and bring the poor in with you.
Break in, and bring the stranger.
Break in, and bring the challenges we fear,
the ones we would rather ignore.

Break in, O thief, break open these hearts
that should have invited you
long ago.

 

For where our treasure is, there our hearts will be also. Where are our hearts? Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

Amen.

 

Treasures

Luke 12:13-21

August 3, 2025

 

            Back in 2016 country artist, Brandy Clark, a favorite of ours, released the song, Broke, on her album, Big Day In a Small Town. If you haven’t heard this or any of her albums, I highly recommend them. The song, Broke, is what the title suggests, a song about being broke. The chorus is a classic. It goes: “We're broke, we're busted, our Chevy truck is rusted. We're high and dry, ain't enough apples for the apple pie. If we had a penny, we sure couldn't spare it; sitting on the porch drinking generic Coke. We're broke”

            Another line in the song confesses to the fact that because the folks described in the song are so very, very broke, they are secretly wishing that grandma would croak. That line always makes me think of movies where a rich patriarch or matriarch of a family dies, and all the other family members gather like sharks for the reading of the will. And you can see in their eyes and their mannerisms just how desperate and greedy they are for whatever riches might be in store for them. Perhaps they have also been secretly wishing that grandma would croak, so they can get their hands on some cash. And if grandma, or grandpa, doesn’t leave them what they expect, what they think they need or deserve, then all heck breaks loose. Family members turn on other family members. Children turn on parents, and siblings turn on siblings. It is a mess. It might be better to be broke.

            We don’t know the complete back story of the man who reaches out to Jesus from the crowd, but we do know that he wanted the rabbi to settle a dispute between him and his brother over an inheritance, so I think we could make some intelligent guesses as to what might have been going on. Clearly, these two brothers are in conflict over family wealth. The one brother decides to turn to a higher authority and comes out of the crowd and asks Jesus to settle the argument between them.  

            “Teacher, tell my brother to divide the family inheritance with me.”

            Moses might have agreed to do this, but Jesus will not be drawn into this kind of argument.

            “Friend, who set me to be a judge or arbitrator over you?”

            Be careful, Jesus tells him. Watch out for greed in all the ways it shows itself, whether it is over an inheritance or something else. Life is not about an abundance of possessions.

            If the story stopped right here we would have enough to talk about for a lifetime. This is a room filled with intelligent, thoughtful people, who combined bring lifetimes of experience and wisdom to the table. Every single one of us could preach an impromptu sermon on the dangers of materialism. We all know, at least intellectually, that in the end our possessions don’t mean as much as the people in our lives. We understand, whether we have experienced it or not, that possessions can be gone in the blink of the eye. Things wear out, break, and fall apart. Things can be stolen or lost or destroyed.

            Probably all of us know, as well, how hard it is not to be owned by our possessions. We may logically and intellectually realize that things we have don’t really matter, not in the long run. But we live in a world of things. We live in a culture that makes it seem that if we just own the right clothes, or goods, or toys, than we will be better people. We may not want to buy into the belief that our stuff gives us status, but we are all susceptible to it regardless.

            And even if I don’t believe that my stuff gives me status, I do hold onto things because of the memories that are attached to them. Things that my mom gave me, or my dad passed on to me, are treasures to me because they came from the people I love so dearly. I think I worry deep down that if I lose or let go of the thing I’ll lose the memory as well.

            But Jesus warns the people in this crowd then and those of us hearing these words now about greed and placing too much value on what we have and how much we have. As I said, if we stopped here, we would have enough to discuss and learn from for a lifetime. But Jesus doesn’t stop. Jesus goes on to tell a parable about a rich but foolish farmer. This farmer does not store up his grain as a stopgap for years when a plentiful harvest is just a memory. He focuses solely on himself. He is the only subject of his discourse. There is no discussion about sharing his harvest. He converses with his soul and assures his soul that he and it are okay. All is well. He has taken care of himself, so now he can relax, eat, drink, and be merry. But guess what? All is not well. That very night his life is demanded of him. And upon his death, what will happen to his stuff? What will happen to the treasure he has stored, to the things which he has prepared? Jesus ends by saying that is what happens to those “who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God.”

            I guess I could just tell you, me, all of us, not to be greedy. Share what we have, and don’t put too much stock in our stuff. It fits. It works. It is important to remember. But I think there is more going on here than just greed. I there is more at work than a farmer wanting to keep his harvest for himself. So, let’s retell this parable in a new way.

            An executive, a professional, a professor, a manager, a pastor – you fill in the blank – made a good living, and she said to herself, “I will not only add money to my 401(k), but I will also start an IRA and diversify my portfolio. I will invest my money wisely and I will hedge my bets against the future. I will create my own security and ensure my life will be okay. My future is set.

            It seems to me that there are different kinds of greed. There is the kind of greed that is based solely on the idea that whoever has the most toys wins. But there is also the greed that is driven not by wanting more, but by fearing there isn’t enough. When I read this parable about the farmer, I didn’t see him just wanting to keep everything for himself because he is greedy. I see him trying to keep his wealth because he’s scared. He is trying to create his own security. He

stores up out of anxiety. He wants to know, to be guaranteed, that he will be okay. So, he stores up, stockpiles, and socks away to ensure just that. The tragic twist is that he and his future collide that very night.

            I think Jesus was not only warning about greed, about wanting more and more and more, he was also warning about the anxiety that fuels that endless desire. When we read the verses following the ones we read today, we’ll hear Jesus reiterate this. Don’t worry, he says. Don’t be anxious. All the material treasures in the world won’t keep you safe. So, do not worry about the riches that can bind you. Instead be rich toward God.

            But what does it mean to be rich toward God? Does that mean upping the amount we put in the offering plate each week? Does it mean giving away more because I trust God more than I trust myself? The answer to both questions is a resounding “Yes!” But I think there is even more to this than only giving away. I also wonder if Jesus is trying to make us understand what treasure really is. Maybe Jesus wants all who will hear to understand that the true treasure and the most significant way we can be rich toward God is to be rich toward others.

            I’m not talking only about charity, although there are plenty of people doing the hard and often thankless work of kindness that could use financial help. Our offering today for Presbyterian Disaster Assistance speaks to that. But I am also talking about the relationships we foster and the community that we cultivate. This week in my lectionary group, one of my colleagues stated that he thinks that a sad aspect of the parable Jesus told is that the farmer put off eating, drinking, and being merry. The farmer mistakenly believed that he could do that when he had enough, but because we have no clue as to what tomorrow will bring, we should enjoy life now. We should enjoy the good gift of God’s creation now. We should relish the beauty that God gives us, the abundance that God provides now. Stop thinking and planning and worrying only about the future if it costs you the present.

            Honestly, some of the best meals I have ever enjoyed had nothing to do with the food on my plate. They were about the people I shared those meals with. They were about the stories we told and the laughter we shared and the memories we made. If there was one blessing from Covid, from being in lockdown is that my family had more intentional meals together. Our daughter Caroline would come every few weeks, as long as we were all healthy, and we would eat together. We would sit outside on our deck and Brent would play his guitar and we would enjoy being together, and I have no memory of what I made or what we cooked. The treasure, the riches, were not about what we ate or what we owned, but about who we were with.

            And that kind of treasure doesn’t just come from the people we know and love. That treasure can be found standing in a checkout line and being kind to the person in front of you or behind you, better yet being kind to the person checking you out, or the people sitting on the curb out front asking for help. Being rich toward God means being rich toward God’s children, all God’s children. Being rich toward God means recognizing that the treasure we really need is already ours. Look around; the real treasure is sitting next to you, behind you, in the pews on the other side of the aisle. The treasure is waiting beyond these doors. Be rich toward God, be rich toward God’s children, and then we will have the treasure we seek. Thanks be to God.

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

By the Well -- Sermon Series

John 4:1-26

July 27, 2025

 

            In her book, Bird by Bird¸ Anne Lamott writes about writing. She writes about the process of writing, the love of writing, the stages of writing, the self-loathing and hating everything that you put on page stage of writing. Bird by Bird is a book by a writer for writers or wanna-be writers. Her goal, I think, was to help other people experience the deep, visceral joy that can come with writing – if you just allow yourself to write.

            Bird by Bird was my first introduction to Anne Lamott, and I have been a devotee ever since. I haven’t read all her books, but I’ve read a fair few, and Bird by Bird is one that I turn to repeatedly when I need a dose of inspiration and courage to face a blank page.

            One thing from this book that has stuck with me is her chapter about perfectionism. Perfectionism, and I’m paraphrasing her, kills creativity. Trying to make each sentence perfect from the very beginning will only make you frustrated and stymied and will eventually drive you away from writing anything. She counsels her readers to write a terrible first draft. Just put everything down on paper. Don’t worry about whether it’s good, or if every plot line makes sense, just get it down. The first draft is all about getting it down on paper. Then in the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and maybe more, drafts, you perfect, you refine, you leave some things in, and you throw other bits away. The key is, she gently but firmly writes, is that you write that terrible first draft to get everything you are creating in any piece of writing onto the page. Don’t worry about it being perfect. Perfecting comes later. But trying to be perfect from the very beginning, trying to make everything just so, will only stop you from writing altogether. Perfectionism kills creativity.

            Sociologist and author, Brene Brown, also talks about the dangers of perfectionism. But she doesn’t limit it to writing, she describes how perfectionism kills our spirits, our souls. Trying to make ourselves perfect, our lives perfect, trying for the appearance of perfection, something that will never happen, not only kills our creativity, it makes life that much harder. Trying to be perfect is an illusion. And it drives us to depression, to self-medicating with food, drink, and other substances, and it keeps people from really seeing themselves honestly and vulnerably as well as seeing others through that same lens. Think about it, if we are constantly trying to be perfect and condemning ourselves for failing – which we do and will because perfection isn’t going to happen on this side of the veil – doesn’t that also translate to condemning and judging others for also failing to be perfect?

            Perfectionism is debilitating. It cripples our creativity and sets unrealistic and unhealthy expectations for ourselves and others. It prevents us from allowing ourselves to be vulnerable and it too often causes us to condemn vulnerability in other people.

            But then there is Jesus, who has the gift for seeing people as they truly are, their imperfections, their flaws, their foibles, their mistakes, and their misdeeds. Jesus sees the truth in other people and loves them anyway. If they need forgiveness and they want it, he forgives them. If they need to speak their name, he asks them to share it. If they need to know that they are loved just because they are a child of God, he makes that truth clear. If a person encountering Jesus needs hope or healing, he offers it. Jesus sees people as they truly are. He sees their heart, their hurt, their hope or lack thereof, and allows them to show themselves as they are to others, to the world.

            So we come to this story from John’s gospel about a Samaritan woman meeting Jesus by the well of Jacob, and Jesus seeing her as she is. I want us, if it is possible, to try and empty our minds of all the preconceived ideas we have about this story. Try, if you are able, to forget the ways that it has been interpreted or misinterpreted in the past. Because it has. Repeatedly. Both traditional interpretation and scholarship have speculated that the woman came to the well alone at the heat of the day and by herself because she was an outcast among her people. In fact, she is an outcast among outcasts. We learn from Jesus in later verses as to why she might be an outcast, but if we look at this text with open minds, with no preconceived notions, all we know about her so far is that she is a woman, a Samaritan, and that she came to draw her water from the well at noon.

            When she gets to the well, she is not alone. Jesus is there. We, the readers, know who Jesus is, but to this woman he is a stranger. But this stranger is thirsty – after all he is clearly traveling, and he must be hot and dusty and parched. So, Jesus, this stranger, asks her to give him a drink. We can assume that the Samaritan woman did just that, but she doesn’t do it without asking a question.

            “How is that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?”

            Jews and Samaritans were bitter enemies. That point was made clear in the story of holy ground that we read last week from Luke’s gospel about the Samaritan who helps a stranger on the road to Jericho. Although, Jews and the Samaritans were enemies, they shared a common ancestor in Jacob. And this well where Jesus was sitting and where the woman came to draw water was Jacob’s well. But religious, social, and cultural differences kept Jews and Samaritans apart for centuries.

            Jesus, when he spoke to this woman, when he asked her to give him water, and the fact that he was in Samaria at all, was crossing boundaries and lines that were not supposed to be crossed. He was a man alone speaking to a woman alone. He was a Jew speaking to a Samaritan. And the woman clearly understands all of this, which is why she asks the question of him.

            “How is that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?”

            Jesus responds in typical Johannine fashion.

            “If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.”

            The woman takes his words literally at first. You don’t have a bucket. How would you give me living water? Where would you get this water? Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob was? He gave this well to us.             But Jesus responds to her with a deeper meaning to his words. Everyone who drinks from this well will be thirsty again. But those who drink from the living water that I offer will never be thirsty. The water that I offer becomes a gushing spring of eternal life in those who drink it.

            The woman is still hearing him literally. Sir, please give me some of this water, so I don’t have to keep returning to this well; so I don’t have to keep carrying these heavy buckets back and forth. And then we come to the moment in the story when our preconceived notions about the woman kick in. Jesus tells her to go and call her husband and bring him back with her. But the woman tells him that she has no husband. And Jesus says to her,

            “You are right in saying, ‘I have no husband’; for you have had five husbands, and the one you have now is not your husband. What you have said is true!”

            And it is this one statement by Jesus, this one moment that has influenced interpretation of this story for centuries. This woman has had five husbands, and she is currently living with a man who is not her husband. That must mean that she is a fallen woman! That must mean that she is a terrible sinner and an outcast among outcasts. But does Jesus condemn her? Does he criticize? Or does he just state this as the facts of her life?

            In truth, this woman like any other woman in that time and context would have had no control over her marital status. It’s highly unlikely that she had any choice in her marriages. Husbands could divorce wives at the drop of a hat, but the reverse was not true. It’s quite possible that she was married to five brothers in secession, each one dying and passing her to the next brother – which was the law. There is nothing in the text to suggest that the man she was currently living with was there for anything other than protection. There’s a reason why widows and orphans are emphasized in scripture as needing special care. They were the most vulnerable in society. A woman needed a man, in some fashion, for protection.

            All we really know at this moment is that Jesus shows the woman that he knows her. He knows her life. He knows her story. And he lets her know that he knows without shame or criticism. Again, there is nothing in the text to suggest that he was shaming her.  As preacher and teacher, Fred Craddock, wrote,

            “All we know is that Jesus, as is his custom in John, reveals special knowledge of the individuals he encounters and alerts them that in meeting him they may encounter the transcendent.”

            Jesus did not shame this woman; he just spoke to her vulnerability. He spoke to her vulnerability, her lack of perfection, by first being vulnerable himself. He was alone and thirsty and in need. To get water, he had to ask for her help – a Jewish man asked for help from a Samaritan woman. That was vulnerable. And then without shame or criticism, Jesus lets this woman know that he sees her, really and truly sees her. He sees her past, he sees her present, and he sees who she truly is at heart. He sees her as the beloved child of God that she is. He sees her.

            Jesus sees this woman, and he tells her about living water that will quench the thirst in her soul. He tells her that worship will no longer be limited to a geographical place, and that salvation is coming through the Jewish people but ultimately all true worshippers will worship God in spirit and in truth. The woman confesses that she believes the Messiah is coming, and Jesus tells her, “I’m here.”

            Our reading today ends at this moment, but what the woman does next is remarkable and not often given the credit that she deserves. She leaves her water jar by the well, the jar of water that could only quench a physical thirst. She runs back to the city and tells everyone that they should come and see. Come and see this man who saw me. Can he be the Messiah? Which was her way of saying that he most definitely is the Messiah.

            This woman, with whom Jesus has the longest conversation recorded in John’s gospel, is also the first evangelist. She does what a true evangelist does, she tells people about her experience with God through Jesus. That’s what evangelism is, really. It’s proclaiming the good news not through intimidation or scare tactics but just telling others that you bumped into God and now everything is different because it turns out the ground you were standing on was holy, and you didn’t even know it.

            In this sermon series, we’ve considered that holy ground is where we discover our call. Holy ground is where we wrestle and struggle with God. Holy ground is ground where we show mercy or receive mercy from someone else, and holy ground is where we are seen. Holy ground is where we are seen for all that we are, good, bad, and otherwise. Holy ground is where we can let go of our need to appear perfect. Holy ground is where we are most vulnerable and loved unconditionally anyway. Holy ground is any place where we encounter God through unexpected intuition or unexpected people. Holy ground is the ground where God meets us just as we are, right we are, and calls us to see ourselves, each other, and the world through the eyes of love. And the more we can see through the eyes of love, the more we can see others – all others – as God sees, then the more we understand that every inch of ground, every foot, every meter, every acre, every topography, every place, everywhere is holy, and that makes all the difference. Thanks be to God.

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

            Amen.

           

           

 

Have Mercy -- July Sermon Series

Luke 10:25-37

July 20, 2025

           

            When I was in seminary, I was sitting with outside with some friends and classmates on a warm spring evening. We were talking about our next day of classes and someone remarked that  they needed to go and study because we had a test in Survey of the Bible the next day. I was going to do the same thing because I was also in that class, and I knew I needed to study. My friend, Ellen, was part of this group and when she heard that we had a quiz the next day, she said,  

“The test is tomorrow?! I thought it was next week.”

We assured her that it was indeed the next day. And with that assurance she was gone – back to her room to study in a panic. I went back to my apartment to do the same thing, regretting that I had taken any down time at all to sit with friends when I should have been home studying for the quiz the next day.

When I had chosen my classes for that semester, I was assured by other classmates that “Survey of the Bible” was a good choice for me because I had not really read the entire bible before, cover to cover. I’d read lots of portions of the bible, but I had never managed to read the whole thing straight. I remember trying many times when I was a kid, but the only bibles I had access to at that time were the King James Version, and I would always get bogged down in the “begats” in Genesis.

So, I was told that “Survey of the Bible” would be a great resource for me. It would teach me the arc of the whole of scripture, and yes, Elizabeth Achtemeier was a strict professor and her tests were hard, but she was fair and brilliant, and I would learn so much.

All the above is true. That class was a tremendous resource for me. I learned so much about scripture, and I was able to see the connections of the whole cannon in a way that I had not seen before. Dr. Achtemeier was brilliant and fair, but to say that her quizzes were hard was a profound example of understatement. Each quiz in that class was like having all my teeth removed without Novocain by a buffalo. And they relentlessly came every week for an entire semester. They were awful. You have no idea how similar the psalms are, or Paul’s letters are when you’re trying to identify them by chapter and verse. I dreaded those quizzes, but miraculously I scraped by with a passing grade. And I hoped and prayed that the adage attributed to Walker Percy, “You can make all A’s and still flunk life,” would be true in reverse in that I could barely pass this class and yet not flunk ministry in the long run.

Whenever I read about Jesus being tested by one of the religious elites, I remember the stomach churning trepidation I felt for those quizzes in “Survey of the Bible.” And I wonder if he also dreaded them or just got annoyed by their frequency; as in, “Oh brother, here comes another test. Do they every get tired of this? When are they going to realize they’re not going to get me, not this way anyway.”

That’s how our passage starts this morning, with another test. This story from Luke’s gospel  is so well-known and so familiar that it makes it hard to preach, because we all think that we already know it. It’s not just well known in churches and biblical circles; it’s well known in the culture. Nursing homes and rehab facilities are named after this good Samaritan. There are Good Samaritan laws to protect people who help strangers after accidents from unnecessary litigation. This story is so well-known that surely nothing about the Good Samaritan can surprise us anymore. But let’s dig in and see what we find.

As I said, it begins with a test. A lawyer, who would have been a professional of the Law of Moses, stood up to test Jesus. Jesus’ fame has been growing. Along with the original 12 disciples, he has just sent 70 followers out to spread the good news and to heal and preach in his name. On their return to him, they tell him that in his name even demons have submitted to them. Clearly, Jesus’ ministry is causing both a clamoring of joy from the growing crowds surrounding him and consternation among the religious professionals who view him as a threat. This lawyer is one of the latter.

He stands up to test Jesus, asking him what he must do to inherit eternal life. It is clear that the lawyer thinks he already knows the answer, but he wants to see what Jesus will say, looking to catch him blaspheming. But Jesus knows what he’s up to, and he turns the question back on the lawyer. What is written in the law? The lawyer quotes the Shema from Deuteronomy.

“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.”

Jesus responds that the lawyer has given the right answer. Just do this, follow these commands, and he will live. But the lawyer, knowing that he has not gotten to Jesus, pushes back, trying to justify himself, trying to save face.

“Okay, Jesus, but who is my neighbor?”

Another question. Another test. But Jesus does not answer the question. Instead, he tells a story about a man going down from Jerusalem to Jericho on a road known for its lurking danger. The danger proves real, and the man is robbed and beaten almost to death. His attackers leave him by the side of the road to die. Three people passed by. One was a priest, who sees the man and crosses to the other side of the road to avoid him. The second is a Levite, and he does the same thing. The third is a Samaritan.

Let’s pause for a moment and let me point out two things: Jesus never calls the Samaritan good. He just refers to him by his ethnic and cultural designation. He is a Samaritan. But just hearing that it was a Samaritan would have riled up the people around Jesus. They would have had many associations with that, and I doubt that any of them were good. The Samaritans were enemies of the Jews. The Jews were enemies of the Samaritans. No Jew would have considered the possibility of a Samaritan being good, and probably vice versa. But the Samaritan does not follow the lead of the first two men and cross to the other side of the road. The Samaritan was moved with pity and compassion for this man left to die. The Samaritan does not walk away from the man; he goes to him. He pours oil and wine on his wounds and bandages them. He puts the man on his own animal and brings him to an inn and cares for him there. The next day, when he must leave again, he gives the innkeeper money to continue taking care of the injured man, and he promises to give him whatever more he spends when he returns. Jesus ends the story here, but now he asks the crucial question, the test question that the lawyer probably dreaded as much as I dreaded my bible quizzes.

“Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fill into the hands of the robbers?”

“The one who showed him mercy.” “Go and do likewise.”

Jesus doesn’t answer the lawyer’s question, not really, not directly. He does not fall into the trap the lawyer set of trying to define neighbor because it seems to me that what the lawyer really wanted was for Jesus to define boundaries. Tell me who is my neighbor, Jesus, and more importantly who is not. Tell me who I must treat as neighbor and who I do not. Show me the boundary lines of neighborliness that I am allowed not to cross. But Jesus turns all of this on its head, as he always did, and essentially said, there are no boundaries. You are a good Jew, and in this story two good Jews, two religious professionals saw the man and kept on going. Others have tried to defend the Priest and the Levites’ actions by saying that the Law prohibited them from touching a potentially dead body and becoming unclean themselves. But Dr. Amy Jill-Levine, a renowned Jewish studies and New Testament scholar, debunks this saying that the Law always allowed people to come to the aid of a hurt person without risk of defilement. The Priest and the Levite could have helped. They chose not to. They messed up, just as anyone of any culture or place or time can mess up. They chose not to be a neighbor to the man on the side of the road. But to the shock of everyone listening, especially to the shock of that lawyer, a Samaritan stops and helps. A Samaritan cares for the injured man. A Samaritan binds up his wounds and puts him on his own animal and takes him to an inn and continues to care for him, continues to show mercy. Because of the Samaritan that road, that dangerous, treacherous road became holy ground. Because that’s where mercy was shown.

If you can make all A’s and still flunk life, then that lawyer was facing the distinct possibility of flunking life. He knew the law, but he couldn’t pass the test of mercy. And Jesus would not be caught in his trap of defining boundaries around neighbor. He would not be tripped up by a quiz that wanted him to say specifically who is a neighbor and who is not. He would not give the lawyer the benefit of thinking that he could leave some for dead and not others. Have mercy was his response. You want to know who is a neighbor. It is the one who has mercy, who shows mercy, who lives mercy. Have mercy. To be a neighbor is to have mercy. To recognize a neighbor is to recognize the one who has mercy, even if it’s the one you least expect. Dr. King said, and I paraphrase, that the Priest and the Levite both thought about what would happen to them if they acted, but the Samaritan thought about what would happen to the man if he didn’t act.

Have mercy. That’s the test. Maybe you dread it. Maybe you feel unprepared and ill-equipped. But that’s the test and to have mercy is the way you avoid flunking life. Have mercy. Recognize that the whole world is filled with neighbors and we are called to have mercy on them all. Have mercy just as God has mercy on us. And when you have mercy, when you show mercy, when you live mercy, you will be on holy ground.

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

Amen.

 

Face to Face -- July Sermon Series

Genesis 32:22-32

July 13, 2025

            The Pink Panther movies were popular when I was a kid. Peter Sellers starred as Inspector Clouseau, who was a bumbling but very funny detective. While I was more attuned to the Saturday morning Pink Panther cartoon, I do remember one aspect of 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. What was funny is that Cato would ambush him 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. 

            When I read this story about Jacob wrestling this mysterious man by the river Jabbok, the ongoing Cato/Clouseau ambush attack came to my mind. It's not that I find humor in this story from Genesis. It's not a funny story. But reading about the struggle between Jacob and this man, I can't help but get the sense that this was an ambush of sorts. I doubt the man presented himself to Jacob and said, "Hey Jacob, wanna wrestle?" And I don’t think it was a friendly match between buddies. It was a slugfest. 

            It is nighttime and Jacob has sent his family, his wives and children, ahead of him. He is left alone, and in the dark a man wrestles with him. I cannot imagine how exhausting it would have been to wrestle back and forth like this for hours. And it must have been hours, because it is just before daybreak that this man realizes that Jacob won’t be overcome, so he touches his hip and dislocates that joint between hip and thigh.

As the sky around them begins to change from dark to light, the man demands release. But Jacob won’t let him go. Jacob was given the name, Jacob, because it means grasper, and he was born grasping, clinging and clutching his older brother's heel. Jacob, the grasper, refuses to let the man go. He wants a blessing. Jacob has stood his ground after all. The mysterious man who attacked him in the dark of night could not best Jacob. The man demands release and Jacob demands a blessing. The man asks Jacob his name. When Jacob replies, "Jacob," the man gives him a new name; Israel. The name Israel, according to the text, means one who has striven against God and humans and prevailed. 

This is the story that we are wrestling with today. It is a strange and a somewhat disturbing story. However, I think to understand a little better what's happening in this text, we have to know more about the larger context that surrounds this story. What events led up to this nighttime wrestling match?

Jacob, who ran away from his home after tricking his twin brother, Esau, and stealing Esau’s blessing by tricking his father, Isaac, was tricked by Laban, into marrying both of his daughters, Leah and Rachel. Jacob has now worked for his father-in-law for 20 years. While Jacob was growing his family, he was also growing Laban's flocks. Jacob's labor for Laban has made Laban wealthy and prosperous. When Rachel, who was barren for so long, gives birth to Joseph, Jacob goes to Laban and asks to be released from his bonds to Laban. He wishes to return to his homeland, to make things right with his brother Esau.

Laban agrees to divide the flocks with Jacob. Jacob will take the goats, the sheep that are striped, spotted or speckled and leave the rest for Laban. Laban orders that any animal with those markings must be separated from the flocks and herds before Jacob can take them. Jacob knows what his father-in-law has done, and in either the first instance of genetic engineering or through some sort of supernatural trickery, is able to manipulate the animals as they breed. So more lambs and kids are born striped, speckled or spotted than any other kind. Thus they belong to Jacob. 

            Jacob hears Laban's sons grumbling that he has more of their father’s wealth than he deserves. He also knows that his esteem in Laban's eyes has decreased significantly. Being told by God in a dream that it's time to leave, Jacob talks it over with Leah and Rachel. They pack up, people and animals alike, and leave early in the morning. When Laban hears about it, he chases after them. Amid the packing and the leaving, Rachel stole her father's household gods. Laban thinks Jacob stole them and accuses him of it when he finally catches up to them. Jacob doesn't know what Rachel has done, so he tells Laban to freely search for them. Rachel hides the gods by stuffing them into a saddle bag and sitting on them. When her father comes into her tent to search, she apologizes for not standing up in the presence of her father, but she is "in the way of women." When Laban is satisfied that his gods are not with Jacob and company, they make a covenant and mark it with two pillars of stone. I find it almost funny that the beginning words of their covenant – “The Lord watch between you and me, when we are absent one from the other" – are used on matching necklaces to be shared with friends, and embroidered on sentimental little pillows. However when you read them in their actual context, it's not a sweet sentiment between father and son-in-law. It is an uneasy truce at best. And before he leaves, Laban reminds Jacob that if he does anything to hurt Laban's daughters, God will know.

Laban and his posse leave, and now Jacob must face the prospect of seeing his brother again. He divides his entourage into groups and sends them ahead one after the other, both to offer gifts to Esau, and most likely to show off his wealth and resources. Finally he sends his wives and children ahead, and we come at last to our part of the story. Jacob, alone at night, on the run from one angry man whom he tricked and deceived and about to face another, Esau, also tricked and deceived by Jacob. Whatever Jacob was thinking or feeling in that darkness on that night, he most likely did not realize that the ground beneath his feet was holy.             

            Up until this moment, I’ve always seen Jacob as sort of the Justin Bieber of the Old Testament. I can't understand why a punk like him has been chosen in the first place, and there’s something about him that makes me think he needs to be smacked upside his head. But something about this night is different. Something about this encounter with the divine is different. The encounter with God that he had many years before when he dreamed of staircases and angels was a holy moment to be sure, but it was merely a portent of what was to come. That dream didn't seem to fundamentally change Jacob. But this night is different. As one commentator noted on this night, in the darkness, faced with an unexpected ambush, for the first time Jacob, the trickster, the deceiver, doesn't try to weasel his way out of a confrontation. He doesn't bargain or try to slip away. He wrestles the man face-to-face. He struggles. He stands his ground as surely as the other man stands his. And from those dark hours of struggle and wrestling, as the new day dawns, Jacob is changed. He is transformed. He becomes Israel. He has been wrestling on holy ground.

            But how could it be holy ground if Jacob walks away with a limp? Wouldn’t meeting God face-to-face on holy ground be a healing moment instead of a wounding one? Jacob’s wound is not temporary either. He will limp for the rest of his life. He will bear a physical reminder of his night spent on holy ground. Maybe this seems counterintuitive to us, because surely we should not walk away from holy ground with scars. We should walk away from holy ground, from encountering the divine, with shining faces not scarred and limping. But if you’ve lived for any amount of time, you bear the scars of that life, don’t you? And it is our scars and our healed over wounds that tell our stories. The scars on my knees tell the story of how many times I tried to skateboard down the street I grew up on. I have a scar on the top of my foot from the summer when I was expecting Zach and tried to cut rhubarb and dropped the knife.

            And I bear other scars too, scars that can’t be seen but are there. Scars from the long dark nights of the soul. Scars that come from wrestling with God and my inner demons and my fears and doubts. Scars that were made while I stood on holy ground, even if I didn’t know it was holy ground at the time. Because standing on holy ground is not always nice. It is not necessarily a place of optimism or sweetness and light. Holy ground may be the place where we wrestle and struggle and strive with God. Holy ground may be the ground we stand on when we wrestle with our fears and our failures, when we wrestle with the parts of ourselves we would rather not come to the light. Standing on holy ground may leave us limping.

Meeting God on holy ground did not leave Jacob unscathed. But he was transformed. He walked away from this encounter with God, away from this holy ground not only with a limp but with a blessing and with a new name. Jacob, who has been living up to his name his whole life as a grasper of others, a trickster, a cunning deceiver, now bears the name Israel – one who has striven with God and with humans and prevailed. Israel is the name that he will live into and live up to from this moment on.

Holy ground, the places and times when we encounter God, reveals our call and reveals ourselves. Holy ground can be uncomfortable and even frightening, but it can transform us, body and soul. Thanks be to God for those times we stand on holy ground, for those long nights when we wrestle with God, for those encounters with God that transform us even if that transformation comes with a limp. Thanks be to God.

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

Amen.

Holy Ground -- July Sermon Series

Exodus 3:1-6

July 6, 2025

 

            When Brent and I went to Richmond, Virginia in May to attend a conference at my seminary, I realized that I had not been back to my alma mater or to Richmond in general in 25 years. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to go back, it’s just been because, you know, life. Family, work, distance, money, time, life. All those factors and more have made it hard to get back to the seminary and the city that I loved. So, it was great to get to make the trip this Spring and show Brent the place where I encountered my burning bush.

            You heard me correctly. I’ve tried to describe what I’m about to describe countless times, and I’m never sure I’ve given a clear account but I’m going to try again. I moved to Richmond not to attend seminary but for a job. The job was terrible, but I found my way to a Presbyterian Church and my life was transformed. The job went away, which was both terrifying and a blessing, and I was scrambling to find another one. I’d heard through folks at church that the Presbyterian seminary in town was hiring. So, resumé in hand, I went to the school to apply. I parked in front of the main building and walked around the corner of that building trying to get oriented to the campus when I was stopped short.

            This is an old seminary in an old neighborhood. At the top of Watts, which is the main administration building, there are gargoyles watching over the campus. There is a quad, which is just what the name implies – a large rectangle of grass surround on all four sides by buildings – the library, dorms, the chapel, faculty offices located in old houses. It’s very pretty but there’s nothing extraordinary about it, about any of it. But when I walked around that corner, saw the quad, saw the other buildings, I was overwhelmed with this intense feeling, intuition, deep-seated knowledge – there are no suitable words – and whatever this sensation was, it stopped me in my tracks. I just stood there and looked and looked and looked. The seminary can be intimidating, but I didn’t feel intimidated. I felt overwhelmed and overcome. In that moment, I just knew in a way that I had never experienced before or since I must be on that campus. I had to be in that community. I had to be on those grounds and in those buildings. Whatever that feeling or intuition or sudden knowledge was, it was powerful. But it was only in hindsight that I recognized it for what it was: I was being called. That sounds hokey, I know, but I believe it to be true. I was hearing, feeling, intuiting a call. There was no deep voice calling my name.

“Amy, I want you to be a minister in the Presbyterian Church (USA).”

I didn’t actually see any bushes, burning or otherwise. I just knew I needed to be there. At that moment, I thought it would be through a job. It wasn’t until a month or two later that I began to contemplate being there as a student. But that’s what would eventually happen. Whatever it was that happened to me in that moment, whatever it was that I felt or knew or understood, it was a call. It was my Moses moment, my metaphorical burning bush.

Moses encountered an actual burning bush.

He was out tending the flock for his father-in-law, Jethro. He led the flock beyond the wilderness to the mountain Horeb. We, as the readers and hearers of this story, know that Horeb is the mountain of God, but there is no indication that Moses understood that he was encountering the divine. Again, we also know that what is making the bush burn is no ordinary fire but the flame of the angel of the Lord. But Moses does not know that. What Moses knows is that there is a bush that appears to be burning, but the fire is not consuming it. It’s not being turned into ash as it burns. It grabs his attention, it piques his curiosity, so he decides to go and see what this burning bush is all about.

“I must turn aside and look at this great sight and see why the bush is not burned up.”

Biblical scholar Terence Fretheim points out that Moses was not frightened by the sight of the burning bush. He was not repelled by it either. He does not seem to think that there is anything godly about it. He is merely curious, and God uses his curiosity to draw him closer. As Fretheim wrote, “curiosity leads to call.” It is only when Moses’ curiosity compels him to go closer that God begins to speak to him.

And when God speaks to him, he tells Moses to remove his sandals for the place where Moses is standing is holy ground. Again, there is nothing to indicate that this is holy ground. God chooses to call Moses away from anything overtly religious or sacred. There are no temples nearby. There is no religious altar or marking to designate this as holy ground. But it is holy because this is where God and Moses meet. This is where God identifies himself to Moses as being the God of his father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob. If we were to keep reading in the text, God tells Moses that he has seen the misery of his people. He has witnessed their suffering and heard their cries. So God is calling Moses to be his messenger to Pharaoh. God is calling Moses to lead his people out of enslavement and into freedom.

This is a big calling, bigger than Moses was prepared for, bigger than he wanted or thought he could handle. And God has yet to reveal the full scope of Moses’ call. Moses will argue with God. Moses will tell God that he has no business being the Lord’s messenger. He is not a gifted speaker; in fact he struggles with speaking. Moses tells God that God should call his brother Aaron instead. Aaron can speak to Pharaoh. Aaron can do this job much better than Moses can. Oh, and by the way, God, if I do this and it’s still an if, the people are going to want to know who this God is who sent me. They are going to want to know your name.

God tells Moses that his name is “I Am who I Am.” Tell the people “I Am has sent me to you.”

This name God gives Moses has been studied and pondered for years, centuries. Grammatically, it could also be translated as “I Will Be who I Will Be.” Tell them “I Will Be” sent you. Or it could be translated as “I Create who I Create.” In other words, the name of God is bigger and broader and fuller than what our language or any language can communicate.

This is the call of Moses. This is the call that came from his curiosity to see a bush that was burning but not being consumed. And while the call itself is essential and important, I want to circle back to the ground, the holy ground.

It seems to me that what made the ground holy was not the presence of the bush or the mountain Horeb. There was nothing in that particular spot that designated it as holy. It was holy because it is where God chose to be. It was holy not only because it is where God chose to be, but because it is where God chose to be and where God called Moses. What made the ground holy is because God and Moses encountered each other there. It was holy because that is the site of the encounter between divine and human.  

This broadens the scope of holy ground, doesn’t it? Holy ground is not necessarily ground that is set apart for the divine. Holy ground is wherever God meets us and where we meet God. Holy ground is wherever God calls us, and we recognize that call. When I stood on that spot leading to the quad of the seminary, I was standing on holy ground. I didn’t know that, not intellectually anyway. Something in me recognized that I was standing on more than brick and concrete. I was being called even though I didn’t fully understand or comprehend that call. But it was holy ground.

If you are comfortable and able, slip off your shoes for a moment. Let your feet touch the ground beneath you. Look down and look at where your feet are. Maybe it’s where your feet are most Sundays. You are sitting in the pew or the chair where you always sit. The ground beneath you is carpet or floor, just like it always is. But I think something more is happening in this moment. I think the ground where we are standing is holy ground, because God is calling us in this moment. God is calling us in this moment, in this place, on this ground. God is calling us to hear the cries of his people, to see the suffering in the world and to respond – with our prayers, with the work of our hands, with our voices, with our whole beings. We are called and because we are called this ground beneath our feet is holy. We are standing on holy ground. Wherever God calls us, wherever God encounters us is holy ground. And because God calls us through others, those people are holy as well. It seems to me that God infuses all of creation with holiness, if only we could be curious enough to turn aside and see, if only we could recognize it in ourselves and in others. Take off your shoes because this is holy ground. Thanks be to God.

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

Amen.

 

Along the Road

Luke 9:51-62

June 29, 2025

 

            I was a communications major in college. My focus was on radio and television, and I had an English Writing minor. That meant that when I entered the real world after graduation, I was qualified to be an assistant to the Public Relations Director for a talent and booking agency in Nashville. Being the assistant meant that I did the grunt work of the job. I answered phones and brought coffee to our clients when they came to the office. I collected headshots and other press items from other assistants to other artists and directors to keep our stock up-to-date. I ran errands. I took the CEO’s wife’s car to the shop. And it turned out that when that same wife wanted to make venison chili for the entire office, I was the one who had to locate the venison.

            It was not a glamorous job by any stretch of the imagination, but I learned a lot. I learned by doing and I learned by listening. Mainly I learned by listening to my boss. She was great. A hard worker. A tough boss. But we became good friends, and nobody could sell like she could. Now, technically, PR is not selling. Except that it is. You’re not selling a product like dish soap, but you are selling people on the talent you represent. One of our responsibilities was creating tour press for some of the artists we represented. That meant that we had to send out press releases and schedule interviews for the upcoming shows in the cities and towns where the talent was touring. So you’d have to reach out to newspapers and radio and tv stations. My boss was a master at creating amazing tour press. She could talk to anybody about anything. She could make the most mediocre album sound like it was destined to go platinum. I would listen to her do her pitch and just marvel. She was a PR dream come true, and she knew how to spin information just so and make it work, make it believable and exciting. I would listen to her and marvel because I did not have that talent. And at the risk of sounding irreverent and sacrilegious, neither did Jesus.

            If you are looking for a lesson in selling discipleship in a neat and happy package, do not turn to our passage from Luke’s gospel as guidance. Jesus’ approach to would-be disciples is a public relations nightmare. He is not interested in making following him sound palatable. He clearly does not want to market discipleship as fun or easy. He puts no spin on what it costs to follow. He just speaks the truth, the hard truth, the messy truth, and keeps on going.

            What we learn about discipleship from this passage is that if you want to follow Jesus, you better really think it through because nothing about it is going to be easy or tidy or nice. It’s going to require total commitment on our part. Even to the point of giving up our lives for the sake of following Jesus. 

            But are we ready to do that? Are we prepared 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 nor bloodshed but with love and the power that comes from being the suffering servant.

            Jesus has set his face. This is not just a point about the direction Jesus has chosen to take. Setting his face means that Jesus is going to Jerusalem no matter what. Jesus is fully aware of what waits for him in Jerusalem, but he has set his face and there is no looking back. This is not the road most people would choose willingly. I suspect that many of us would choose to go anywhere but Jerusalem if we could foresee what lies ahead. But that isn’t Jesus. Jesus knows that taking the road to Jerusalem will make all the difference.

            So, the scene is set, and Jesus is on his way. In the first part of this narrative Luke tells us that Jesus sends messengers ahead of him. They stop in a Samaritan village but are not welcomed there because of Jesus’ destination. 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, not the villagers like we might expect. Rejection is part and parcel of following Jesus, and to respond with anger to anyone who disagrees with you or rejects your message is to spend more energy on anger than on love. Therefore, there will be no raining down fire on villages.

            They travel on, and along the road 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.” It’s as if Jesus is asking this person, “Are you sure about this? Are you really sure? Following me is not about comfort and stability. Following me means that you are not guaranteed even a pillow to lay your head on at night. Are you sure you want to follow?

            Then Jesus calls to another person, “Follow me.” This person tells Jesus that he must first go and bury his father. Jesus’ responses continue to surprise. “Let the dead bury their own dead, but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.”

            Scholars far smarter than me have been trying to work out the exact meaning of Jesus’ words about letting the dead bury the dead. Is this about the spiritual dead burying the physically dead? Or something else? But I’m not sure understanding his exact meaning is really the point. I think it is more about understanding his urgency. If you want to follow me, you must let go of everything that holds you here, even burying your father.

            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.”

            Again, Jesus seems to be telling these potential followers that they must let go of all that holds them where they are. What they consider priorities are really obstacles to following. What they think are responsibilities are really excuses to prevent them from following him.

            Think about the first person. He wants to follow. He’s 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 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. I will follow you, Jesus, but I have duties I must fulfill. But I have responsibilities I must take care of. But I have priorities. I have prior commitments. I have a long to-do list and very little checked off. However Jesus wants them to understand that discipleship, following him, is not something you put off until its convenient. It will never be convenient. You can’t check off discipleship on a list of tasks and think that it’s over and done. It is ongoing. It is all the time. It is not a priority, it must be your top priority.

            Following Jesus along this road comes with a cost. Have you counted the cost?

The Biblical scholars I’ve read agree that Jesus’ responses are harsh. They are, and it would be easy to try and explain this harshness away by saying that Jesus was using hyperbole, deliberate exaggeration to make his point. But that doesn’t do justice to Jesus’ words. Jesus’ face is set toward Jerusalem. He’s going. He has chosen this road, and he knows what lies ahead. He’s told the disciples, twice, what it means for him to be the Son of God. He will suffer. He will die. He will be raised again. Jesus refuses to put a pleasant PR spin on following him. Jesus knows what’s coming, so there is no time for waffling. There is no such thing as casual discipleship.   

There is no such thing as casual discipleship, and that should give us pause. Jesus wasn’t speaking in hyperbole. He wasn’t exaggerating to make a point. Discipleship is hard, uncomfortable, inconvenient, and it could cost you everything. There is no spin on this that can make it nice and tidy and easy. There is no way to sell this so that it is palatable and polite. Discipleship is hard. Following is hard. Choosing the road that Jesus chose is hard. I think Jesus really means what he is saying, and that gives me pause. That makes me uncomfortable, because I know that I do not follow him with this level of commitment. I like comfort. I enjoy having a soft place to lay my head. I am good at nesting. Please don’t ask me to lay aside my to-do list. Please don’t ask me to reprioritize. There are some costs that I am still not willing to count.

An acquaintance that I met on a study trip in seminary many years ago, joked with me about the serious signatures of most pastors. He wasn’t talking about our names. He was talking about the ways we end letters or emails. Like in my weekly emails to the church, I always sign off by writing, “Peace and blessings.” Other ministers will write, “In Christ,” or “Serving Christ,” or “In Christ’s holy name,” and so on and so on. But this person joked that when he became a full-fledged minister, he was going to sign off with “Serving him leisurely in my spare time.”

We both laughed at the irony of this, but looking back I wonder if that signature is truer than I care to admit. Do I serve leisurely? Is my commitment more on the spare time side and not on the this is my top priority side? Have I really counted the cost?

So, what is the good news in all this? What is the good news in this passage that gives us pause? What is the good news about following Jesus when it’s hard and uncomfortable and even scary? The good news is that we’re here. That we’re listening. That we keep on trying. We may fail and falter, but we come back. We continue along the road. I’m not trying to let us off the hook, but I am trying to trust in the power of grace. I trust that the call to follow continues to be offered. I trust that God’s love is bigger than my mistakes, my misgivings, and my missteps. And I trust that the Holy Spirit is still moving, still working, through me and in me, through us and in us. And that gives me hope. Hope that even when I mess up and fall away, Jesus still calls, Jesus still challenges, Jesus still wants us to follow. That is good news indeed. Thanks be to God.

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

Amen.