Making Peace

 

Matthew 18:15-20

September 6, 2020

            It all started with a ham. People got angry. People made accusations. People left the church. Over a ham.

            I heard this story a long time ago about a congregation that ended up in a major conflict over a ham. Now I want to make the disclaimer that this was not a church I served, and I do not remember where or when I heard this story, or the person who shared it with me. So, to say that this is a fully accurate depiction of what happened would be false. However, I do know that a church conflict started over a ham. I have a good imagination, so combine that with the details I can piece together from my memory, and here is what I suspect happened.

            One committee in this church was responsible for providing the meal for special church dinners, whether it was a time of fellowship or for a dinner after a funeral. Serving on this committee was a couple who always provided a ham or hams for the meal, depending on how large the dinner needed to be. That was what this couple did. That is what this couple always did, and that was the way it was supposed to be. However, a new couple joined this committee, and they decided that maybe it was time to do something else besides ham. Maybe they could serve chicken tenders or a pork roast or, for the potential vegetarians in the mix, something that did not contain meat at all. Gasp!

            Well the new couple on this committee apparently did not realize that the established folks on the committee – specifically this couple – had a particular way of doing meals, and those meals always included ham. So, when the new couple questioned the serving of ham, the old couple who provided the ham got upset. They got angry.

How did they deal with their anger, you ask? Did they approach the new committee members and tell them that they were hurt and angry that they were left out of the decision making? Did they call for a private chat to express their concerns? Did they share their hurt feelings in a calm way, and ask if a compromise could be reached? If you think that the answer to any of these questions is yes, then you are sweet – you are naïve, but you are sweet.

            No, the ham couple did not approach the anything-else-but-ham couple and talk to them directly about their conflict. The ham couple did talk to people, though. They told the people in their Sunday school class. They talked to the people who shared a pew with them. They talked to other church friends out in the parking lot. They mentioned it to the youth pastor and the choir director. They told their neighbors about it. But they never talked directly to the new couple who wanted to do something different than ham. And the conflict over this escalated. Rumors flew. People chose sides. Resentment built. And eventually the new couple left. Why? Because people got angry and hurt over ham.

            Clearly there was more going on in this situation than ham. Standing outside of this situation and looking in, it is easy to see that the couple who got so angry did not how to deal with conflict. They certainly did not heed any of the advice Jesus to his disciples about conflict in our gospel passage this morning.

            Before we dig deeper into Jesus’ advice, I also want to acknowledge that I think this conflict over ham was ridiculous. How silly, how sad, that it reached the point that it did. But how many times have I been that ham couple? How many times have I been hurt or angry, and instead of dealing with the conflict directly, I made it worse by avoiding it? How many times have I refused to make peace, and made something small into something big? More times than I can count. Perhaps you have been the ham couple too.

            The good news of this passage is that Jesus knew ham couples and anything-than-other-than ham couples would all live in the community of faith. I realize there is irony in saying it that way because Jesus, the disciples, and most people who were in that early community with them were observant Jews who would have shied away from ham completely. But you understand my analogy. Jesus knew that conflict would arise. He seemed to have no allusions that people would live in pure peace and harmony with one another. So, Jesus offered them a way of dealing with conflict when it arose.

            First, if someone hurts you go to that person directly, privately. Do not make it a big deal in front of others right off the bat. Go to that person, talk to that person. Talk about what happened, talk honestly about the conflict. If that person hears you and believes you, then it is done. The conflict has been addressed, and the path has been laid for reconciliation. But, if the private addressing of the grievance does not work, then take one or two other people who can be witnesses. A note of caution at this point; often when churches have enacted this second step, it has not been so much about having impartial witnesses to a conflict between two people, but as a ganging up on the supposed sinner. I don’t believe that Jesus was suggesting the latter. I think Jesus adds this step so that the conflict will not devolve into a we said, they said mess.

            If the person who is at the heart of the conflict still does not listen or address the wrong done, then the matter needs to be taken to the church, the larger community of the faithful. Again, a note of caution. I do not see this as a trial by the church. There may be wrongs committed that ultimately require a trial, but I do not see that Jesus was saying that in this passage. And, let’s be honest, this is probably the most difficult thing for us in our contemporary context to hear. The idea of having a conflict brought before the whole church sounds awful. It would feel like a trial, even if it wasn’t intended to be one. But again, I do not believe that Jesus was urging the community to gang up on the offender – in twos, threes, twenties or more. He wanted his followers to understand that the way for the community, the beloved community, to be whole, healthy, and functional was to bring the conflict to the light. This was not about a verbal stoning, but an addressing of wrongs and a making of peace. And remember the ham conflict? That did eventually go to the whole church, but the way it did so was anything but healthy.

            But if making peace was the goal of these steps, this peacemaking outline, than why would Jesus then tell them that it does not work, if there is still no righting of the wrong, then not only let the person go, but let them be considered a Gentile or a tax collector.

            What do we hear when we read those words? What do we imagine or envision? Shunning? Cancel culture? And yet, think, think, about how Jesus treated Gentiles and tax collectors. Think about the people he reached out to and welcomed. Think about the people he sat at table with and broke bread with. Think about how he treated the people who were most marginalized, most despised. Think about his words of forgiveness even from the cross.

            I do not think this was about canceling another member of the community. I think that it was a recognition that even if the conflict is not resolved, the door is to be left open for reconciliation, for restoration, for peace.

            Before I end this, I want to point out one more thing. When I read this passage, I automatically put myself in the position of the person who has been sinned against. Rarely, do I want to consider the possibility that I might be the one who needs to be confronted with my own sins. If someone comes to me and tells me that I have hurt them, that I have sinned against them in word or deed, do I believe them? Do I apologize or do my best to right the wrong? I hope so. But I know there are times that I have not. That’s true for me. Maybe it is true for you. It is certainly true for other individuals, and for congregations, and for the Church with a capital C.

            Making peace is a two-way street. It is about not avoiding conflict in our interpersonal relationships, whether that conflict is at home, in our communities, our congregations, or our denomination. But it is also about realizing when we are at fault, when we are the ones who have done the hurting and even the sinning. The good news is that Jesus knew this would happen. The good news is that Jesus gave us a way out and a way forward and reminded all who would listen that it is not just about us, but about the kingdom of God in our midst and in heaven. What we do, how we live, how we treat one another, how we make peace, affects us here and in the hereafter. There is a ripple effect. So, may we be peace makers – whether it is over ham or something much bigger – and may our peacemaking reverberate across this whole world, because people who can make peace are needed now more than ever.

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

Divine Things

 Matthew 16:21-28

August 30, 2020

            Failure of imagination.

It was the early days of NASA’s space program. The mission was Apollo 1, and astronauts Gus Grissom, Ed White, and Roger Chaffee were in the test module working through simulations. The air inside the module was pure oxygen and there was a spark. I understand little about science, but I understand enough to know that one small spark in an atmosphere of oxygen can result in fire. It did. Until the explosion of the Challenger Space Shuttle, one of the most devastating tragedies of the space program was the horrific fire that claimed the lives of Grissom, White, and Chaffee.

Failure of imagination.

When astronaut Frank Borman testified in front of congress after this deadly fire, he told the congressmen who were questioning him that no one working for NASA had considered something so awful happening while the astronauts were on the ground. They had considered plenty of disasters that could happen in space. They had spent countless hours planning and preparing for any number of calamitous events in space. They had looked to the heavens and tried to imagine everything that might possibly go wrong up there. But on the ground? They had not considered that something this awful, this disastrous would happen while the astronauts were on the ground. It was a failure of imagination, Borman said. And that it was.

            The phrase “failure of imagination” has been used after other catastrophic events. It was spoken after the terrorist attacks of September 11^th. It was expressed after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. It was voiced after the sinking of the Titanic. It would seem that the aftermath of a tragic event makes it clear how imaginations failed. It is hindsight employed after a catastrophe that reveals the multitude of forewarnings and red flags that were present to suggest that the catastrophe could very well occur. But before the catastrophe? There was a failure of imagination.

            Perhaps it is a failure of imagination on Peter’s part that makes him so upset with Jesus’ words about suffering, dying and resurrection that he pulls his rabbi, his teacher aside, and rebukes him for saying any of it.

            From building rock to stumbling block, Peter traverses at lightning speed the distance between being praised for his confession of Jesus’ true identity as Messiah to being rebuked by Jesus as the embodiment of Satan when he failed to get what Jesus was telling him about the true meaning of Messiah.

            Jesus is not just hinting at what may happen, possibly, if he continues on his current trajectory. Jesus is not speaking in riddles. Jesus is not giving the disciples clues to a word puzzle they must decipher. No, Jesus tells them plainly, from that time on that he must go to Jerusalem. Once in Jerusalem, he must undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and that suffering will lead to him being killed, and on the third day after he is killed, he will be raised.

            Say what?!

            Peter cannot believe what he is hearing! He has just told Jesus that he is the Messiah, the Son of the Living God, and Jesus told him that he was correct. Jesus told him that God worked through Peter to reveal that truth. Jesus told him that he will be the rock on which his church will be built. But now Jesus is saying terrible things about going to Jerusalem and suffering and dying and something about rising again, which makes no sense, because dead is dead.

            It does not take a great deal of imagination to picture what Peter was thinking as Jesus said these words. I suspect that he heard a roaring sound in his ears, and waves of denial, then anger rushed over him. What Jesus is telling us cannot be true. What Jesus is telling us will not be true!

            No! No, Jesus! No, no, no, no, no!

            Stop saying these things. Stop saying these words. You are the Messiah. I just said it. I just confessed it. You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God. Did I say living God? Living not dying, not dead. The Messiah is not supposed to suffer. The Messiah is supposed to make our enemies suffer. The Messiah is not supposed to die. The Messiah is supposed to put our enemies, the ones who have oppressed us for so long to the sword. No, Jesus, no!

            “God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.”

            But Jesus is not messing around, He is not playing games. He is not trying to make them guess what will happen next. He is trying to make them understand, to see, to imagine the full truth of what it means to really be the Messiah.

            “Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me; for you are setting your mind not on divine things, but on human things.”

            From building rock to stumbling block. The Greek word for stumbling block is skandalon. It is a deadly snare, a moral trap. Can you hear the word in English that we get from this? Scandal. What Peter said was scandalous. Jesus rebukes Peter just as Peter rebuked him, and he calls him a skandalon. In his failure of imagination, Peter is not only something that will trip up others, he will serve as a deadly snare that will misdirect others to his wrong way of thinking. Peter can only see the human things. He cannot see the divine things. And in this instance, the divine things are what we as humans most dread: suffering and death.

            But this was not the end of Jesus’ rebuke. Listen, he told the disciples,

            “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or what will they give in return for their life?”

            This is finally where the rubber hits the road. This is finally where the disciples must come to grips with the fact that if they truly want to follow Jesus, if they truly want to learn from him and walk in his steps and witness to his message of the kingdom of God, then their fates are inextricably bound with his own. He will go to the cross and sacrifice his life for the children of God, and they are going to have to deny themselves and pick up their own crosses and do the same. You want to save your life, Jesus tells them, then you’ll end up losing it. But if you are willing to lose your life, you will end up having more life than you could have ever dreamed of. You could turn away from me now and gain the whole world, but in the end you will forfeit your everything. Can you imagine it? Can you imagine that these are the divine things I am speaking of?

Peter, the building rock, was focusing only on human things. He could not grasp that the Messiah had finally come, only to be told that the Messiah would ultimately die. He could not imagine that life would come from death, that resurrection would come from a cross. He could not imagine that in denying himself and picking up his cross, he would gain everything. In that moment, I suspect Peter, and the other disciples as well, experienced a failure of imagination.

Jesus was telling the disciples what the divine things were, what they looked like, what they meant, but the disciples could not imagine it. My question is, can we?

I admit that I get Peter this morning. I don’t want to hear words about death or denial or suffering. I don’t want to be reminded that in order to truly follow Jesus, I have to pick up my own cross and bear its weight. I just don’t. I want to hear about happy things and words that are filled with sweetness and light. But in wanting all of this, I also know that I am experiencing a failure of imagination.

This dramatic scene between Jesus and Peter and the other disciples is not the first time that Jesus has shown his true self. Jesus has been showing them his true nature all along. They have seen it in his healing of so many people, in his teaching and preaching, in his willingness to sit at table with people no respectable rabbi would ever dine with. They have seen it in his willingness to speak truth to power, and to buck the letter of the Law so that the spirit of the Law could be fulfilled. They have seen Jesus walk on water and still storms. These were not parlor tricks. These were not done just to get their attention. Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of the Living God. And because Jesus is the Messiah, that means that everything he has said and everything he has done, and everything he will say and do, is about revealing what the divine things truly are. He has been stretching the disciples’ imagination all along. The kingdom is already here, in your midst, he’s told them. Can you imagine it?

The kingdom of God is not based on human values of success, it is based on love, God’s love. Love that is a verb not a noun. Love that does the hard work of truly loving others, even the ones who are the most other of all others possible. God’s kingdom is based on compassion and mindfulness and making sure that everyone is fed, and everyone has enough. God’s kingdom is where the meek and the poor and the mourning are blessed and loved and comforted.

Can you imagine it?

The kingdom of God is where both justice and mercy reign. It is where righteousness, not self-righteousness lives. The kingdom of God is not where the oppressors finally make room at the table for the oppressed, but where a whole new table is created for everyone. The kingdom of God is where the abundance of God and God’s love and grace and mercy is finally understood and realized.

Can you imagine it? Can we imagine it?

Jesus’ words are good news. Because they call us to imagine what the world might actually look like if we did what he said we must do: deny ourselves and pick up our crosses. Jesus calls us to imagine beyond the suffering and death, beyond our belief that the kingdom is only found on another plane of existence, and to see it right here and right now. Can we finally imagine these divine things? Can we imagine?

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

At the Table

 

Matthew 15:10-28

August 16, 2020

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “Lord, help me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Thanks be to God.

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

25 Years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unexpected Transformation

Genesis 32:22-31

August 2, 2020

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man asks Jacob his name.

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

“Jacob.”

The man says,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Kingdom Is ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            The kingdom of heaven is …

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

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

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

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

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

Thin Places

Genesis 28:10-19a                                                                                                                                 July 19, 2020

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            The Lord speaks to Jacob in the words of covenant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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