A Good Measure

Luke 6:27-38

February 20, 2022

 

            Seventh grade was not a good year for me. Seventh grade is not a good year for many people. The changes of adolescence are hitting hard. Your body is changing, and your hormones are raging. These changes make it hard to navigate relationships, school, peer pressure, etc. It can be a difficult time. But all the challenges of my seventh-grade year were made even harder by a mean girl – a really mean girl. I’ll only refer to her by her initials – Y. T.

            Y. T. was popular. She was smart. She was a cheerleader. And, I thought, that we were becoming friends. She invited me over to her house to spend the night. She encouraged me to confide my secrets and fears and secret fears to her. Then, on Monday, during a break in class, with me right there, she told all the other girls all the things I told her. She mocked and made fun of me, and, of course, the other girls made fun of me too. It was humiliating to say the least. That was just one incident, one example of her meanness. I tried to keep my head low, stay away from her, but from that point on I the target of all her venom. It was a long year. And I have never been more grateful that we didn’t have classes together in eighth grade, and that we ended up going to different high schools. I would have begged my parents to move, send me to private school, or enter me into a convent, whatever it took, not to spend those last four years of my public education with her.

            This was a long time ago. And looking back, I realize that Y. T. was probably dealing with her own insecurities and demons. She was dealing with the changes of adolescence too. Maybe there were things happening in her life then that none of us knew or could understand. But even with this long-distance perspective, I still haven’t forgotten how badly she wounded me, how horribly she embarrassed and humiliated me. I still have not forgotten how she betrayed my trust and scarred me. Those scars are still with me. They always will be. For good and for bad, they are part of who I am.

            I have never prayed for terrible things to happen to Y. T. I have never prayed for her to be harmed, to have terrible, tragic accidents happen to her or to the people she loves. I never wanted vengeance in any violent sort of way. But I did pray for her, quite often. I prayed and prayed, I prayed fervently that she would come to no harm, but that if there were any small amount of justice in this world, then I prayed that she would age badly. How are those wrinkles working out for you, Y. T.? Huh?

            Clearly, I have some work to do, especially when it comes to forgiveness. So, reading the next part of Jesus’ sermon from a level place in our scripture today is not easy for me. Because what Jesus declares in these verses is pretty radical stuff. He calls those who will listen to do some of the hardest work there is – to treat those who have hurt us with kindness, to forgive those who have harmed us, abused us, to turn the other cheek, to show kindness, grace, mercy, love even to our enemies. Jesus calls those who will listen to forgive those just as we have been forgiven, to show those who harm us not the retaliation that the world would encourage, but to show the mercy that God shows us.

            I think it is important to clarify here what forgiveness of those who have harmed us really is, because these verses have been used against the people who are harmed and to justify those who do the abusing. Forgiveness, like love, is not passive. It does not mean that if someone is being harmed or abused that they must continue to stay in that relationship, to continue to be abused, mistaking that as turning the other cheek. Forgiveness does not necessarily mean reconciliation or staying in a relationship. Sometimes, even with forgiveness, the ties that bind need to be severed.

            No, forgiveness is not passive. And forgiveness is not magic either. Someone once told me that true forgiveness is being willing to accept the fact that you will never get the apology that you deserve, but you forgive the person anyway.

            Forgiveness is not passive, and that’s what makes it hard. That’s what it makes so hard to do. Because we humans are messy, messy creatures. And so often the wounds that hurt us the most are the ones that cannot be seen. And it is those wounds that continue to hurt us. Forgiveness is so hard, but it can be the key to our healing.

            Forgiveness is not a one-time thing either. Just saying the words, “I forgive you,” does not make it happen. Forgiveness is a process. It is something that we have to work for and work at over and over again.

            And ultimately, forgiveness is not just about the other person. Forgiveness is about the one who is doing the forgiving. When I work to forgive those who have wounded me, those who have hurt me, I am working on myself. I am doing the work of healing for myself, much more than for them. As I forgive others as I have been forgiven, I learn to let go of my own bitterness, my own anger, my own grief, and frustration. Forgiveness is not passive. It is messy and it is hard, and it is a process.

            Several years ago, director Ken Burns, produced a series on World War II for PBS called “The War.” It was a powerful, haunting, and difficult series to watch. People who had lived through the war, who had fought in the war, told their stories. One man, a veteran from Mobile, Alabama, talked about his experience as a prisoner of war in a Japanese prison camp. It was brutal. He made it home safe, but not necessarily sound. He hated the people who had done such harm to him. He hated them. But he came to realize that the only person his hatred and bitterness was hurting was him. The men who had imprisoned him were living their own lives, dealing with their demons. They weren’t thinking about him. They weren’t worrying about how his life was going. So, this man, this veteran, decided he had to forgive them. He said that with the help of his wife and his preacher, he did just that. He worked and worked to forgive his enemies. And that forgiveness set him free.

            Lutheran preacher and teacher and writer, Nadia Bolz Weber wrote about the wounds caused by others as chains that bind us, and that forgiveness breaks those chains. She wrote,

            “Maybe retaliation or holding onto anger about the harm done to me doesn’t actually combat evil. Maybe it feeds it. Because in the end, if we’re not careful, we can actually absorb the worst of our enemy, and at some level, start to become them. So, what if forgiveness, rather than being a pansy way to say, ‘It’s okay,’ is actually a way of wielding bolt-cutters, and snapping the chains that link us? What if it’s saying, ‘What you did was so not okay, I refuse to be connected to it anymore.’? Forgiveness is about being a freedom fighter. And free people are dangerous people. Free people aren’t controlled by the past. Free people laugh more than others. Free people see beauty where others do not. Free people are not easily offended. Free people are unafraid to speak truth to stupid.  Free people are not chained to resentments. And that’s worth fighting for.”[i]

            And when we are free, free from the chains of resentment and anger and bitterness that binds us, maybe that’s when we can finally be open to the abundance that Jesus speaks of. The abundance that comes when we forgive, when we love, when we cease judging, when we give back, a good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, all the love that we give, will be given in return, poured into our laps, overflowing our cups, flowing with abundance and abandon into a world that needs it so.

            Let all of God’s forgiven children, God’s loved children, and God’s blessed children say, “Alleluia.”

            Amen.

           

---

[i] Nadia Bolz Weber quoted by Debie Thomas in Journey With Jesus essay, “On Struggling to Forgive,” February 17, 2019.

A Leveled Place

Luke 6:17-26

February 13, 2022

 

Greeks spit.

            Now that I have your attention, let me explain that statement before I completely offend my dear sister, my brother-in-law, nephews, and all my other loved ones in Greece. Greeks spit ritualistically as a way to ward off evil, the evil eye or evil spirits, etc. If you’ve ever seen the movie, My Big Fat Greek Wedding – and if you haven’t you really should – there are at least two occasions in that movie when the ritual of spitting occurs to keep evil at bay. One of them is at the actual wedding. As Tulla, the bride, walks down the aisle, the guests spit at her dress. If the evil eye is going to strike, its likely to come for the bride. Better spit on her dress just in case.

            Greeks aren’t the only people who spit in this way. Think of the movie Fiddler on the Roof, again another movie that if you have not seen, you really should. Golda, Tevya’s wife, does the ritualistic spitting three times to ward off evil or prevent more disaster.           

I know that these are examples from movies, from fiction, but they are based on reality. I’ve been greatly influenced by the Greek side of my family, so much so that I occasionally think about doing that ritualistic spitting; especially at happier moments cause that’s when it seems the evil eye is most likely to strike.  Everyone in the family is healthy, happy, things are okay; quick start spitting – you know just in case. 

But I have another image that comes to mind when it comes to spitting. I think about some of the boys I went to high school with who chewed tobacco. We weren’t allowed to have soda cans in class, so they would make spittoons out of paper and sit at the back of the class, hopefully outside of the teacher’s notice, and periodically spit. I didn’t understand geometry to begin with, I didn’t need the distraction of the disgusting sound of tobacco spitting behind me. Not the most pleasant of images, I know. 

            There’s a reason why I’m talking about this subject, and it is based on a word used in our passage from Luke’s gospel. The word is ptochoi; in English it is spelled P T O C H O I.  Richard Swanson, professor of Religion, Philosophy, and Classics at Augustana College in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, did a profound word study on ptochoi in his commentary on this passage, and all the credit for what I learned about this word goes to him. 

            Jesus uses this word in the first of his blessings.

“Blessed are the poor.”

Ptochoi means “poor people.” 

Unlike Matthew’s version, in Luke’s gospel Jesus wasn’t referring to the “poor in spirit.”  Jesus said, “Blessed are the poor people.” “Blessed are the ptochoi.” 

But as Swanson pointed out, every word comes with connotations. So, it’s helpful to think about other words that begin with that pt sound. Swanson offered analogies to birds, such as ptarmigan and pterodactyl. As odd as it may seem to compare the poor to birds, ancient or otherwise, think about what it’s like to be swarmed by pigeons looking for crumbs. How often have I been walking along in a city, big or small, and been swarmed, not just by hungry pigeons, but by homeless people asking for change. Blessed are the poor who must swarm the well-off looking for food, whether it’s on a city street or outside of RFD or God’s Storehouse. Blessed are the ptochoi. 

            While Swanson offered other interesting analogies between ptochoi to similar words that begin with the pt sound, the one that struck me was this – ptochoi is related to the Greek word ptuo. In Greek it literally means “I am spitting.” In fact, our word ptooey comes directly from it.   Blessed are the poor people. Blessed are the spat upon. 

            Blessed are the spat upon. Think about the different examples of spitting that I started off with.  I would gladly accept the ritualistic spitting because, superstitious as it may be, it is a way of showing love and concern and asking for protection. But there’s nothing in this world that would make me want chewing tobacco spat on me. Nope. No way. No how. But Jesus says that those who are spat upon are blessed. Blessed are the ptochoi, the poor people, the spat upon. And he does not stop there.

“Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled. Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh. Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile, you, and defame you on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, for surely your reward is great in heaven; for that is what their ancestors did to the prophets.”

Still, Jesus does not stop. Because if there are blessings there must also be woes.

“But woe to you who are rich, for you have received your consolation. Woe to you who are full now, for you will be hungry. Woe to you who are laughing now, for you will mourn and weep. Woe to you when all speak well of you, for that is what their ancestors did to the false prophets.”

Luke’s version of this sermon is very different than Matthew’s as I have already pointed out. Matthew has Jesus standing on a mountain, above the rest, sharing somewhat lofty beatitudes. But in Luke’s gospel, Jesus comes down from the mountain. He comes down from naming all twelve of the disciples, he comes down to a level place, and stands eye-to-eye and toe-to-toe with everyone and tells them that the poor, the spat upon are the blessed. And the hungry are the blessed, and those who cry now are blessed, and those who are hated and reviled now on account of the Son of Man are blessed. And then in equal measure, he speaks the woes. The woes of those who have everything now, who have riches, and more than enough food, and those who are laughing now, because their time to mourn is coming as well.

Jesus stands on this level place and tells all who will hear that in God’s kingdom the playing field is leveled, what’s more, in God’s kingdom the great reversal happens. Our expectations, our assumptions, will be turned upside down. Jesus stands on a level place and pronounces that God’s kingdom is a leveled place. Blessed are those who are spat upon now. Their suffering is not God’s wish or desire. Their suffering does not go unnoticed. But woe to those who do not see it.

Are you uncomfortable yet? I am. (imitate spitting)

But that is the nature of the gospel. The good news is often hard news, unsettling news, difficult news. But it doesn’t make it any less good. And while I don’t want to spiritualize or take away from the gritty truth that Jesus proclaims in these verses, I think we have to consider that the more comfortable we become in our lives – and I just don’t mean with wealth or material goods – but the more removed from the world’s suffering , the more comfortable and complacent we become, the less room there is for God. When I am self-satisfied, I don’t think about God. When I am complacent, I don’t make room for God. When I am surrounded by the things that keep the pain of the world away, I can easily shut out, shut off God’s call, God’s urging, prodding, pushing, pulling call.

Yet we don’t have to look very far to see how quickly lives can be changed. Tornadoes can level homes that were solid, strong, and built to stand for generations. A relatively simple virus can cause the deaths of millions upon millions of people. Everything that we work for, hope for, can be swept away in a fraction of a millisecond.

Life has a way of leveling us. And Jesus, of all people, knew that. You cannot hide behind your things or your money or your comforts. God’s kingdom levels the field, not out of retribution and punishment and wrath, or the divine evil eye, but out of love. God does not want any of God’s children to suffer, but to woe to those who forget that. Woe to you if you think that what you have or what you do or what you accumulate will make God unnecessary. Jesus stood on a level place, with them, eye-to-eye, toe-to-toe, because he was with them. He stood on this level place to announce the good news that God was making a leveled place for all of them, for all of us, for all of God’s children. Don’t lose sight of that. Don’t forget that. In the beginning and in the end, in life and in death, we belong not to our things or our work or our joys or to our sorrows but to God.

Jesus stood on a level, leveled place, with the people, with us. With. Us. Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

Amen.

 

Yet If You Say So

 Luke 5:1-11

February 6, 2022

 

One of the first things I had to learn how to do when I answered the call to go to seminary, to seek a life in ministry, was tell people about the call that I answered.
            “Tell me about your call,” was a phrase I heard often. It was asked of me by the committee on preparation for ministry when I went to them wanting to become an Inquirer, the first step in the long process of becoming a minister. I was asked this by people at the seminary when they were talking to me about admissions. I was asked this by people in my home church when I asked the Session to support me. And, when I started in seminary, my fellow classmates and I time sharing call stories. “Tell me about your call,” was another way of asking “Why are you here? What brought you here? What brought you to this moment in your life, when you decided to follow God vocationally, spiritually, emotionally?”

“Tell me about your call.”

Some of my classmates had dramatic stories of call. Others were people who had been considering ministry most of their lives. Others, like me, were kind of in the middle. Our story wasn’t really dramatic, but we recognized it at a critical moment in our lives and we took the leap of faith.

“Tell me about your call.”

Throughout scripture, we have dramatic stories of call. Moses hears the voice of God calling him from a burning bush. Samuel hears the voice of God calling him when he was just a little boy. Jonah hears God’s call, and well, he had to be convinced. Then we have the story of Isaiah in our first lesson this morning. Talk about dramatic! Isaiah sees the Lord sitting on a high throne and the Lord’s robe is so massive that just the hem of it fills the entire temple. And there are seraphs waiting attendance on the Lord. They are flying about, these creatures with six wings, and they are calling out,

“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory.”

And Isaiah is overwhelmed by his guilt, his uncleanness as a lowly human being. And then one of the seraphs flies over and touches his lips with a burning coal, which cleanses him from his guilt and sin. And Isaiah hears the Lord asking, “Whom shall I send?” And Isaiah cries out, “Me! Here am I! Send me!”

And then we have the call to Simon, James, and John. Only, it doesn’t read quite like other call stories read. It is certainly filled with some drama, but unlike Matthew and Mark, Jesus does not say the words, “Follow me.” As far as I can tell, there is not a specific call given. Yet, this is a call story. And it is a miracle story. And it is kind of a teaching story too.

Jesus was standing on the shore of Lake Gennesaret, and the crowds who were beginning to follow him, hungry for his teaching, his healing, his ministry, were pressing in on him. Jesus did what he sometimes had to do, he got into a boat and went out on the water a little way so he could continue to teach the crowds but not be pushed into the water by their need to be close to him.

It was Simon’s boat that Jesus got into, and when Jesus was finished teaching, he asked Simon to row out to deeper water and let down his nets. Although the text does not tell us specifically what time of day it was, I imagine that it must have been early in the morning. And the reason I suspect that is because when Jesus asked this of Simon, Simon responds,

“Master, we have worked all night long but have caught nothing. Yet if you say so I will let down the nets.”

They had worked all night long. The reason Simon’s boat was close enough to the shore for Jesus to climb into was because, I imagine, they were finished and coming to shore to tie up their boats, repair their nets, maybe get something to eat and try to rest a little before the next night’s work.

I don’t hear obstinance or argument in Simon’s response to Jesus. If anything, I hear weary defeat. We have been at this all night long. We didn’t catch anything. I have been doing this work for a long time now. I know when its time to call it, when its time to go back to the shore and wait for another night. I know this work, Jesus, I know these waters, Jesus, and there’s no fish to be caught. Yet if you say so.

What made Simon agree? What made Simon defer to Jesus’ request? What caused Simon to say, “Yet if you say so.” This was not Simon’s first encounter with Jesus. Unlike the way Mark and Matthew tell it, where the reader does not know for sure whether the fishermen have had any previous contact with Jesus, in Luke we know Simon has. Jesus has already healed Simon’s mother-in-law. Simon has seen what Jesus can do. Surely, the crowds pressing in on Jesus to hear him, be near him, clued Simon in on the fact that this man was different. So, while Simon did not necessarily think that dropping the nets one more time was a worthwhile effort, Jesus was different. Simon knew it, and he responded.

Yet if you say so.

And what a catch it was! Simon’s nets were overflowing. He had to call the others to bring their boats and help him. The catch was so mighty that their boats began to sink under the weight of all those fish.

All. Those. Fish. When Simon sees this, when he tries to take in what had just happened, he falls to his knees before Jesus, in awe and in dread, and says,

“Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.”

When Simon sees with his own eyes, and recognizes with his own heart, that Jesus is not just another wandering preacher, but maybe, just maybe, God in the flesh, he sees just how sinful and human he truly is. Like Isaiah, he is acutely aware of his own sinfulness in this moment. But Jesus says words that we hear over and over again in our scripture.

Do not be afraid.

“Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people.”

Our English translations don’t capture the full meaning of Jesus’ words. Catching people sounds like entrapment, like ensnaring them. But the implication in the Greek is that catching people is not like pulling fish into nets for food but rescuing men and women from a path that will lead only to death and turning them toward life. Catching people is turning people toward life.

And maybe that is what Simon recognizes in this moment. Maybe that is what makes him fall to his knees. Maybe that is what clicks in his mind, registers in his heart. This is the One who will turn him toward life. And without a second thought, he and James and John, the son of Zebedee, leave this abundance. They leave their boats at the shoreline, they leave this tremendous, overwhelming, extravagant catch of fish and they follow Jesus.

In this remarkable call story, Jesus does not issue a call. He does not say the words, “follow me.” He does not invite them to come and see where he is abiding. He just shows them what life – abundant, extravagant, God-filled life – looks like. And they leave everything and follow him.

Yet if you say so.

Jesus tells Simon to let down the nets just one more time and everything changes. Contrary to what your experience as a fisherman and your commonsense tells you, let down your nets one more time. Even though you’ve been out all night with nothing to show for it, even though you’re tired and hungry and you want to go home and rest, just let down your nets one more time. Yet if you say so, Simon says, And Simon does.

And the whole world changed.

In this time when everything feels uncertain and off. In this time when we may be struggling with worries and fears that seem too big to share, when we feel most days like we are at the end of our ropes. At this time when we wonder what will happen in our jobs, in our families, in this church, Jesus calls us to let down our nets just one more time. Let them down just one more time. And even though we think we know that nothing will be different, that nothing will come from it, we do. Like Simon we respond, “Yet if you say so.” And the whole world changes.

Where in your life do you feel weary and defeated? Where in your life do you think no difference can be made? Let down your nets. Just once more. Let them down. Take the leap of faith that Simon took and let them down and trust that God will show you life in abundance.

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

Amen.

Without Love

 I Corinthians 13:1-13

January 30, 2022

 

A few years ago, there was a video on YouTube that went absolutely viral. The video was called “Kevin and Jill’s wedding.” I first heard about the video because it was parodied on the television show, “The Office,” when two characters on that show, Pam and Jim, got married.

But as far as I know, Kevin and Jill are real people, and this was their real wedding. The video starts out just moments before the bridal party is about to walk down the aisle. At first glance, it looks any other wedding. There are ushers handing out wedding programs. You can sense the anticipation and excitement in the wedding guests gathered. Then all of a sudden, BAM!

A pop song begins to play that is definitely not your typical wedding processional. The two ushers who were handing out wedding bulletins suddenly fling the programs into the air and begin to dance their way down the aisle. Then before you can fully take in what just happened, two bridesmaids process in, also dancing down the aisle. Then the best man and the maid of honor bebop their way down the aisle together. Then the ushers and the bridesmaids and the groomsman all begin to dance together. They gather around the door leading into the church, and viola! The groom somersaults his way through them, dancing his way to the front.

Finally, the music reaches its peak, and there she is! The bride. In some weddings, the music changes for the bride to process, but she isn’t going to be left out of this choreographed wedding extravaganza. She too boogies her way down the aisle and is met halfway by her husband-to-be, who escorts her, arm and arm, the rest of the way. 

            My description does the video no justice. As silly as it sounds, the first time I watched it I was overwhelmed – not overwhelmed to do this at our wedding – but overwhelmed still. This couple was obviously so full of joy, that it seemed completely natural and normal that they grooved their way to their marriage vows. The only person who doesn’t get to take part in the dancing was the pastor. If it would have been me, I’d have been dancing at the front of the church. But I digress.

            The video that the public sees ends as the bride and groom finish the processional, so we don’t know what their vows were like. We don’t know what else was said or preached, and we don’t know the scripture that was read, but I wonder if it was this familiar and much-loved passage from I Corinthians.

            This is often the go-to scripture for weddings. What words could be more fitting, more appropriate for a ceremony when two people pledge their lives together than these profoundly beautiful words about love from Paul’s letter to the church in Corinth? They are all about love, after all; what love is and what love isn’t. Perfect for a wedding.

            However, Richard Hays, a commentator and scholar with the Interpretation series of biblical commentaries disagrees. He writes “the first task for the interpreter of I Corinthians 13 is to rescue the text from the quagmire of romantic sentimentality in which popular piety has embedded it. The common use of this text in weddings has linked it in the minds of many with flowers and kisses and frilly wedding dresses. Such images are far removed from Paul’s original concerns.” 

            Paul did not write these words to a young couple giddy with love, eager to marry. Paul wrote these to a church in chaos and conflict. The Corinthians have taken spiritual gifts and turned them into a hierarchy – with some being better and more important than others. They have squabbled over table rituals, and some have claimed that those who have lived in the faith longer have no need to worry about the faith of newer members. The Corinthians have misunderstood, misinterpreted, and just missed the point of what Paul tried to teach them about being a church in the name of and for the sake of Jesus the Christ.

            So, if Paul is writing these words of love to this congregation, maybe we need to read between the lines a little bit to get the full gist of his meaning.

            “Love is patient – and you have not been. Love is kind – and you aren’t. Love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude – and you have been all these things. It does not insist on its own way – and you have. It is not irritable or resentful – and you are. It does not rejoice in wrongdoing – but you have. It rejoices in the truth – and you have done the opposite. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things – but have you?”

            And, to skip back a few verses, even if you are doing the right thing, the correct action, if you do it without love – not romantic love, not sentimental love, but agape love, the kind of love that God shows for us through Jesus, the kind of love that Jesus demonstrated over and over again – then your actions and words have lost their meaning. They ring hollow. They are like a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.

            Paul has already told them in verses that we have heard in the past two weeks that they – and we – are all members of one body. Every member, no matter what gifts they bring, no matter who they are in society, is necessary and needed. We are all members of one body, and we need each other, and because of this, because we need each other, we need to figure out to love one another. And I’m not talking about warm, fuzzy love either. I’m talking about love that is a verb. Love that is an action. Love that is about doing, doing for the other, serving the other, striving for the other. So, Paul writes these words about what love is.

            And they are profound words indeed. And when I have used them at weddings where I have officiated, I have encouraged the couple standing before me that the time to really hear these words, to lean on them, is not in this moment when everything is wonderful and rosy and exciting, but when things get tough. When there is too much month left at the end of the money, when the kids are sick, when jobs are lost, when anger and irritation bubble up. That is when you need these words of love. That is when you need to remember, most fervently, what love is and what love isn’t.

            And this is not advice only for married couples. It is advice for all of us. Paul wrote these words to a struggling congregation. He wrote them to imperfect people living imperfect lives. They rang true for the first readers and hearers, and they resonate with us as well. Because no matter how hard we try we are always imperfect when it comes to love. We are always imperfect at how we live out love. Love for God, love for one another, love as an active verb, should be our foundation and our guiding star. But the routine of life, the frustrations of life, the weariness of life gets in the way. But without love, we are like those Corinthians, misunderstanding and missing the point. Without love, my words from this pulpit fall flat. Without love, our work on session and in ministry units and in the community misses the mark. Without love, we are like noisy gongs and clanging cymbals.

            And remember, this is not about love that we necessarily feel. This is about love that we do. We’re not going to always feel love for one another. Married couples don’t always feel it. Parents and children don’t always feel it. Friends don’t always feel it. Congregations don’t always feel it. But we are called to do love, to live love, to act with love.

            In a few minutes we are going to install and ordain the newest class of ruling elders for this congregation. I can think of no better words to lead up to this moment in the life of our church, than these from the 13^th chapter in I Corinthians. Because the work that these elders do, that all members of the session does, must be based in the kind of love that Paul wrote of in this letter. I won’t kid myself or anyone else that living lives based in this kind of love is easy. It’s not. Loving this kind of love is hard. It’s challenging. It takes everything we have and more to love in this way. But it is also our highest calling. The four people who are about to be ordained and installed have answered a call to serve. But we have all answered that call, in one way or another, just by being here. We have answered the call to serve … and to love.

            None of us are going to get right. All of us are going to fail and fall and struggle. But the love that we are called to live is the love that God has for us. God loves us this way. God’s love for us is a verb. God’s love for us was embodied in Jesus. God’s love for us manifests itself through the power of the Holy Spirit, that gives us the courage and the strength to keep on trying, to keep on loving. Because God loves us, we are able to love. Because God loves us, we can love. Because God loves us, we are never, ever without love. Thanks be to God.

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

           

 

           

 

The Body of Christ

 I Corinthians 12:12-31a

January 23, 2022

 

            According to one of my resources, “the human body has 206 bones, 639 muscles, and about 6 pounds of skin, along with ligaments, cartilage, veins, arteries, blood, fat, and more.”[1] Our body is a great feat of engineering. I think about how I typed these words. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of different things were happening between my brain, my muscles, and everything in between to make my fingers take the words from my head and put them on this paper. I think that our bodies are created so well, so beautifully, that we don’t have to notice how they work until something goes wrong.

            In January 2008, I was living in Iowa. It had been typically bitter and cold for January in Iowa, but we had had what was known as a January thaw. That means the temps got up to the high 30’s and 40’s for a day or two. It had thawed just enough that the snow had gone from being snow to icy snow, and if there were any wet patches on the sidewalks and roads, they were also icy. I took my two dogs out for a walk, and just as we stepped on the sidewalk in front of our house, one of the dogs spotted other dogs across the street. She pulled at the leash – hard – and in trying to hold onto her, I stepped onto an icy spot on the sidewalk and started to fall. What do you do when you’re starting to fall? You try to catch yourself. I instinctively (instincts – another amazing part of our human self) put my hand out to catch myself, but when my hand hit hard sidewalk, my wrist bone said, “Nope.”

            I knew when I fell that something had gone very, very wrong. And I was right. I had broken my wrist, really broken it. But another amazing thing about our bodies happened when I broke my wrist, adrenaline kicked in. It was adrenaline that helped me get myself and the dogs back into the house. It was adrenaline that helped me call for help. I was in terrible pain and starting to go into shock, but I knew that I had to make sure the kids got picked up from school. I was in an adrenaline-pain-shock haze when I called my dad and managed to tell him what had happened and asked him to pick up Phoebe and Zach.

            By the time I got to the ER and to the front desk to check in, the adrenaline was wearing off and the pain was winning, and I almost passed out. But they got me back to a room, assessed my physical state, took x-rays, called the orthopedic surgeon on call, and, most importantly, pumped me full of morphine. That was Friday. I had surgery on Monday, and then the real fun began. For eight weeks, I wore a cast with an external fixator coming out of it. It was three metal rods keeping my wrist straight and in place. There were two rods that I couldn’t see doing the same thing. And the point I’m trying to make in all of this is that I didn’t realize all the things I did without thinking, until I couldn’t do them anymore. I relied on having both of my wrists functional to dress. For the first few weeks, I needed help dressing. I couldn’t open bottles or the tops of things one-handed. Of course, I broke my right wrist and I’m right-handed, so writing became a real problem. I was teaching community college at the time, and I learned that I could write with my left hand on the board, but all letters had to be huge, and I had to go very slowly. I couldn’t drive, not only because my surgeon said that if I did and had an accident, I could be sued if they saw this medical paraphernalia on my arm, but also because I couldn’t turn the key to turn on the car so I could drive.

            I did not realize until I broke my wrist just how much I depended on having both wrists functioning until they weren’t. Now, please don’t misunderstand me, there are lots of differently abled people in the world who have bodies different from mine who function marvelously. There are people who lose limbs, etc. and learn how to adjust and move forward. My broken wrist was a temporary setback, but it gave me pause when I thought about how my body worked, what I took for granted about my body working, and how much I missed what I no longer could use.

Of all the metaphors that Paul employs, his image of the body to see and understand the church is one of the most profound.

“For just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ.”

Paul was writing to a church divided. The church in Corinth was struggling with many issues of contention. One that was especially divisive was the idea of superior and inferior members. In the first 11 verses of this chapter, Paul addressed the Corinthians on their understanding of spiritual gifts.

“Now there are varieties of gifts. But the same Spirit; and there are varieties of services, but the same Lord.”

When I read these words, I can’t help but picture the Corinthians pointing fingers at one another and saying, “My gifts are better than your gifts.” They seemed to think that there was a hierarchy when it came to spiritual gifts. Perhaps preaching and teaching were at the top. Or maybe they believed that the gift of healing outranked the gift of encouragement. Either way, Paul debunked their understanding. All spiritual gifts, whatever they may be, were given by the same God. The Corinthians were using their gifts against one another. But Paul told them, emphatically, that their gifts – all their gifts – were given to them to be used for the common good.

Paul pressed this point with his use of the body metaphor. Bodies are made up of many different members. But all these different members make up the whole body. Then, to make sure he got their attention, he added the words, “so it is with Christ.”

We are all baptized into one body. Whatever our differences of race, class, ethnicity, or status, we are baptized into one body through the same Spirit. Because of this, we need each other. Again, using the image of the body, Paul wrote,

“Indeed, the body does not consist of one member but of many. If the foot would say, ‘Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body,’ that would not make it any less a part of the body. And if the ear would say, ‘Because I am not an eye, I do not belong to the body,’ that would not make it any less a part of the body.’”

To emphasize this, Paul stretched the analogy into the ridiculous, painting an image of a body made up of all ears or all eyes. Every part of the body, even those parts that seem to be weaker are needed and necessary. The parts of the body that seem lacking in honor are clothed with greater honor. The parts of the body that seem lacking in respect are given greater respect. If one member of the body suffers, all members of the body suffer. I used to get strep throat a lot as a kid, and believe me, when my throat hurt my whole body hurt. In the same way if one member of the body rejoices, all members rejoice. Every part of the body is needed. Every part of the body is necessary. This is not a competition. In Paul’s metaphor, no part of the body was dispensable. Not a toe, not a wrist.  

This is one heck of a powerful metaphor. I go round and round with Paul on many things, but this metaphor is brilliant. But let’s remember that Paul was not merely encouraging a group of disparate people to get along. He was reminding them and powerfully so that they were the church – the body of Christ.

I have preached on this passage several times over the past 20 years. I have read it even more. It is frequently used in other aspects of church life to address the issue that the church is supposed to be in unity. We are not called to uniformity, but we are called to unity. Paul’s metaphor is about living in community with one another; working together for the common good.

Yes, this is all true. The church needs all of us and all our gifts. But here is something I hadn’t really considered much before. Paul called the church the body of Christ. That’s one of those statements that is so well-known and familiar to us that I think we forget its meaning. We are part of the body of Christ in the world. In other words, we are part of the incarnation. Jesus was the incarnation of God into the world. It stands to reason then, that we as Christ’s body continue the incarnation. In this season of Epiphany, the church as the body of Christ should serve as revelation of God’s glory to the world.

But do we? What do we reveal to the world? Do we reveal unity? Do we reveal love? Do we reveal compassion and wisdom and kindness? There are times when the answer to these questions is, “Yes.” But there are also times when the answer to these same questions is a resounding, “No!” In this country, and around the world, many people look at Christians – Christ’s body in the world – and see nothing but enmity, injustice, intolerance, crippling pride, and cruelty rather than compassion. I think so many of us in the church talk about ourselves as Christ’s body, but we forget that a body is embodied. We are the visible sign of Christ in the world. We are part of the incarnation.

Yikes! That is tough to hear, because I know how often I fail in my call to be a part of that revelation and incarnation. I know I am not alone in this. The truth is that the church has always been made up of a motley crew of sinners. Jesus entrusted his gospel and good news to a band of followers who never really got it right while he lived. When the Holy Spirit came upon them, they found their voice and they found their courage. But even then, they were still a motley crew of outsiders and odd ducks. So, it continues to this day. We are a motley crew. We are a group of sinners who come together to be the church, not because we get it right, but because God is gracious. It is God’s grace that makes us the church. It is God’s grace that works through us despite ourselves. It is God’s grace that makes us the church. No matter how bad we can be at being the church, we are still needed and necessary to the ongoing incarnation of God’s love in the world. No matter how badly we fail at this, at being the church, God’s grace does not.

We need one another. That is the message of Paul’s words to the Corinthians and to us. We need one another. This is both the challenge and the good news. We need one another because we are the body of Christ in the world. We need one another, when each of us whole, and when one of us is broken. We need one another. We are the body of Christ in the world. We are the body of Christ. Thanks be to God.

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

Amen.

 

           

---

[1] Bartlett, David L. and Barbara Brown Taylor, eds., Feasting on the Word, Year C, Volume 1, “Homiletical Perspective” by Raewynne J. Whiteley, (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 279.

Beloved -- Baptism of the Lord

 Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

January 9, 2022

 

            Somewhere in our house, there is a picture – or a slide, if you remember what those are – of me next to the Jordan River. And if I remember correctly, the picture shows me kneeling next to the river filling a bottle with that river water. Somewhere in our home, I still have that bottle of water. I think. I remember considering getting rid of it at one point, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, because it was actually water from the Jordan River, and when was I going to have an opportunity to get more – ever.

            Collecting that water happened on my seminary trip to the Middle East, a trip that has given me many stories for sermons ever since. But what I remember from our visit to the Jordan was not so much the river or standing beside it or kneeling beside it to gather water, but going back to the bus with the rest of my trip mates and going from person to person, dipping my finger into the water, and blessing the other folks while I made the sign of the cross on their foreheads,

            I’m not sure what prompted me to do that. That particular form of blessing was not something I grew up with. It wasn’t, as the kids say, in my wheelhouse. But we had all been on the road together for a while by then. And on an intense trip like that you bond with people. There was also bombing happening in that region while we were there, so maybe I thought we needed some extra sense of comfort and reassurance. Well, as all this was happening, Hartley Hall made his way back onto the bus. Hartley Hall was the president of the seminary, and he made that journey to the Middle East with us. When we first started our travels, I was nervous around him. He could be intimidating. He intimidated me. But by the end of the trip, I realized that underneath that gruff, blustering exterior, he was a kind, compassionate, endearing human being.

            Thank goodness that we were in Israel and at the Jordan River closer to the end of our trip. Because Hartley got on the bus, saying in a loud voice, that water is not magic. He had been watching many of us filling bottles with the water, so he wanted us to know, “That water is not magic. It’s water. It won’t do anything supernatural for you.” And so on, and so on.

            That’s when another traveler piped up saying, “Well, Amy has been making the sign of the cross on people’s foreheads with it.”

            Hartley looked at me, and I just gave him a big smile. He shook his head, and we went on our way.

            But Hartley Hall was right. The water of the Jordan River is not magic. It is not made up of some supernatural property. It is a river like the Mississippi or the Cumberland or the Harpeth. It’s a river, a natural water formation, and as I recall, it was not the prettiest of rivers. It was closer to the size of a creek, and it was muddy. But even though I agree that it did not have magical properties, I understood then and now that it was a sacred place. Maybe it was the sacredness of that river that inspired me to bless my fellow travelers. Maybe I was trying to preserve that moment in time, capture it somehow, so that it would be more than just a memory, but part of us, part of our whole selves.

            The Jordan River is a sacred place for us as Christians, not just because Jesus was there, but because he took part in a ritual that continues to shape and form our faith today. Jesus was baptized in the Jordan. And as Jesus was baptized, so are we, whether as infants or believers. It is one of our two sacraments. It is a sacred action, a sacred rite, and we do it because Jesus did it.

            We have reached the day on the church calendar when we celebrate Jesus’ baptism. Honestly, when the Baptism of the Lord Sunday rolls around, it feels like we’ve ziplined from his birth, and the coming of the Magi, to today when he was approximately 30 years old, and on the precipice of his ministry. But we are here, no matter how jarring it might feel to be here, and whenever I preach on this particular Sunday, I can’t help but think about the meaning behind baptism, and in particular why Jesus was baptized.

            To the early church leaders, Jesus’ baptism was an embarrassment. Why would the Son of God, the Lord incarnate need to be baptized? This is a question that theologians still wrestle with? He was supposed to be just like us but without sin. Isn’t baptism a cleansing from sin. Didn’t people go to John because they wanted to repent of their sins, be forgiven, and have that forgiveness sealed in the waters of baptism? And although we don’t read those earlier verses today, it was only back in Advent when we did, and we can still hear John calling the people, the sinners, who came to him a “brood of vipers.” Was Jesus in that category? Did Jesus get baptized just to model for us what we should do ourselves, even though he had no need for it?

            I don’t know the correct answer to these questions. I can tell you the accepted answers, but I don’t think that would add anything to our understanding today, to why we once again stop on this Sunday of the calendar and remember that Jesus was baptized in the River Jordan. But I do know that whatever questions Jesus’ baptism raises, it was a significant enough event in his life, that all four gospel writers reference it in one way or another. And each telling is different. Luke does not give us any description of the baptism itself. There are no direct conversations between John and Jesus. What we do read is this,

            “Now when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying, the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

            Now when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also had been baptized. From the way Luke tells the story, it sounds like Jesus was just another person in the crowd, one of many, who waited their turn to go into the waters of the Jordan and get baptized. And yes, while Jesus was praying, he saw the Holy Spirit descend like a dove, and heard God’s voice calling him his Son, the Beloved. I don’t know that others who were baptized with him had quite that same experience. But, beyond his experience in prayer after the baptism, his baptism itself was not unique. The waters did not part. Others were baptized and so was Jesus.

            Maybe this is just the way Luke chose to tell it. Maybe Luke wanted to put more emphasis on the prayer rather than the baptism, but the baptism preceded the prayer, so he quickly included it. Like, oh yeah, the others were baptized and so was Jesus and then he prayed and then it got really interesting!

            But maybe it is in these quick words about Jesus and others being baptized that we find our meaning, our own point of reference. Debie Thomas from the Journey with Jesus blog, wrote that in Luke’s telling, Jesus’ baptism was an act of solidarity. Jesus stood in those muddy, cold waters with all the rest of the folks and was baptized. He was there, with them, doing what they did, experiencing what they experienced.

And when Jesus also had been baptized.

Yes, Jesus modeled this sacrament for us. And it is absolutely vital that in a moment of prayer, he heard God’s voice and saw the manifestation of the Holy Spirit. This will prepare him and confirm him for the time to come, the time in the wilderness. But also in this moment, he was with the people, one of them, experiencing what they experienced. They were baptized, and so was he.

He was with them. As we move into another year of this pandemic, as we struggle to live in a turbulent present and wonder how much more of that the future will throw at us, it is more than okay to find comfort in this knowledge. It is more okay to see this sentence in Luke’s gospel, which reads almost like a throwaway line, as actually being an inbreaking of grace – just as much of an inbreaking as the dove descending and the voice of God speaking. Jesus stood in those waters, those non-magical but sacred waters, with the people. He was with them, and he is with us. He is the Beloved Son of God, but in these words, we are reminded that we are also God’s beloved children. God created us out of love and for love. God calls us back into relationship no matter how many times we wander off the path. God became one of us, because we are beloved. And that incarnate God, that Son, Jesus, stood in the waters with us. Jesus stands in the waters with us now, not only to model what we should do and how we should live, but because he is with us. God is with us, and we are beloved. And this is good news indeed. This is the word of hope that we long for, that we cling to, in these troubled and rough waters in which we live. God is with us. We are beloved. Thanks be to God.

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

Amen.

           

Drawn to the Light -- Epiphany

 Matthew 2:1-12

January 2, 2022

 

            Two notes of music. Just two notes, and many of you immediately recognized those notes, the movie they are from, and what they represent. Two notes. The music goes on, but all you need to hear are those two notes, and you know that it is the theme from the movie Jaws.

            Jaws premiered when I was a little kid, so I was not allowed to see it. But I knew those two notes, because the radio station that I listened to played the trailer for Jaws over and over again the summer it premiered. And the trailer always started with those two notes. I may have only been a kid, but I knew enough about what those two notes of music meant that just hearing them scared the fool out of me. Those two notes scared me so badly, that I ended up not sleeping an entire night, because I was afraid of the shark in a movie I wasn’t allowed to see. Those two notes scared me so badly that I refused to watch Jaws even after I was old enough. I didn’t watch Jaws till I was convinced to by friends when I was in college.

Those two notes told me everything I needed to know. They meant that in the movie danger – the shark – was close and getting closer. They meant danger and fear and bad things about to happen. Two notes.

            Now, I use those two notes as one of my alarm settings. Those two notes scare me into waking up. But just those two notes are all it takes. Those two notes made me afraid. I suspect they made others afraid too. Those two notes were composed to spark anticipation, dread, fear. And they were brilliant at it.

            Fear is a funny thing. It can be a great motivator. For example, think about someone who has a health scare. Something happens, like a potential heart problem or the risk of diabetes, and that makes you realize you have to take better care of yourself, so you work harder at eating healthy and exercising.

Or fear for someone else makes you act to help before you can even think about it.  A dear friend of our family chased gang members away from a neighbor boy with nothing but a souvenir baseball bat. Without thinking, a man in New York jumped onto subway tracks to rescue a woman who had fallen. Fear can motivate you to act heroically, to help another in need, to change course and do better for yourself and others.

But fear can also do the opposite. Fear can be paralyzing. And fear can make someone do the wrong thing, the very wrong thing. Fear can drive someone to hurt and harm in terrible ways. We don’t often associate Epiphany with fear; we usually think of God’s light coming into the world, God’s revelation of glory through the coming of Jesus, the wise men following the star of light to where this newly born king was lying. And all of this is true and correct. Matthew’s story contains all of that and more. But there is also fear.

There was fear, because God’s epiphany, God’s light and manifestation was not necessarily welcome to everyone. Herod did not welcome it. The first person that the wise men go to see when the reach Jerusalem was the King. They went to Herod and asked,

“Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.”

Matthew recounts that not only Herod was frightened by this, but all Jerusalem with him. In all the years that I have read this story, I have not given much thought to the fear that the people of Jerusalem felt. I have always assumed – when I have thought about it however briefly – that Jerusalem was scared of the light that was being revealed too. The people of Jerusalem shared the same fear as Herod. But a commentator on WorkingPreacher.org made the point that maybe the people were scared because Herod was scared. Perhaps they realized that Herod was not particularly stable. Maybe they understood that when Herod was afraid bad things happened. It is possible that they understood that Herod’s fear could cause trouble for them or people around them.

And it certainly did. While we lift up the Light of God on this day, the revelation of God, how we are called to live in the Light of God from now on, we often leave out the story that follows this one. Herod was so afraid of this new king, this potential usurper, this person who might bring down the wrath of Rome on his head, that he had all the baby boys aged two and under killed in order to protect himself and his throne. It was Herod’s fear and his brutal response in turn that sent Joseph, Mary, and Jesus fleeing to Egypt as refugees.

            Fear is palpable in our world. It probably always has been, but it feels more acute these days. The latest surge of cases with this new variant is a fearful thing. The terrible and extreme weather that seems to be more frequent is a fearful thing. The rise in violence here and around the world, inflation here and around the world, all of this and so much more are fearful things. The world seems like a pretty scary place. Like I said, it always has, but each generation has to contend with it anew.

            So, why all this talk about fear when we should be talking about light? Herod was a cruel tyrant. His kingship was dominated by fear and causing fear in others. I have not found anything about him, either from scripture or historically, to like. But contrast his kingship to the kingship of Jesus. One is a tyrant. One is a servant. One uses brutality and murder to remain in power. One knows that true power comes through self-sacrifice. One is so afraid that he will do anything to alleviate that fear, including massacring children. One is so trusting that he will go the cross because he knows that the kingdom of God will not be defeated by the powers and principalities of this world. One rules out of fear and with fear. One leads with love.

            The coming of the Light reveals these differences. But what is even more wondrous and amazing is who is drawn to the Light. The light brings foreigners and outsiders. It draws the lowly and the least. The light shows that God is with them, that God is still doing glorious things in their midst, that God is calling them, over and over again, to live in the Light.

            This Christmas I read a story about a neighborhood in Maryland. Christmas of 2020, when people were still in strict lockdown, one man strung Christmas lights from his house to this neighbor’s. The neighbor was an older woman who lived alone, and the man wanted her to know that even in a pandemic they were still connected, she was not truly alone. The string of lights crossed the street and other neighbors took notice. When they discovered the reason for the lights stretching from one house to the next, they began to string their own lights, connecting each house with bands of lights. Some neighbors got even more creative and strung brightly lit words of love and hope and encouragement along with the twinkling lights. Up and down the streets of this one neighborhood, lights connected house to house, neighbor to neighbor. It only took one person and others were drawn to the light of this loving act.

            The coming of the Light reveals the good and the bad. It revealed Herod’s fear even as it also revealed the Incarnation of God into the brokenness of the world. And just as the lights strung throughout that neighborhood revealed that none of them were alone or without connection, so too does God’s Light. It is a light shining in the darkness, a light strung from heaven to the earth below. When we let go of our fear and allow ourselves to be drawn to the Light of God, we are reminding that we are not alone. We are not alone. We are connected to God and to one another. What good and glorious news this is. We give thanks and praise to the God of Light.

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

            Amen.