I Must Be On My Way -- Second Sunday in Lent

 Luke 13:31-35

March 13, 2022

 

 

She asked us to lament.

Lie down on the floor

weep, wail, wring our hands

learn suffering’s sound.

 

Unsure of this teacher

permitting us grief

we tentative students

 

persisted at blind happiness.

O! To reclaim that

blessed invitation.

Now my cry,

 

“My God, my God,

why have you forsaken us?”

would swallow the silence,

 

Subdue the void

left by that absence.

I would give heartbreak its voice,

sing agony’s crooked tune.

 

I would gnash my teeth

fashion sack cloth

drench my head in ashes.

 

If remorse could

stop Death from cradling

babies in his unrelenting arms,

if sorrow could melt

 

weapons like wax;

repentance dry the eyes

of every parent

 

of every child lost,

no sense, nor reason,

then I proclaim my remorse.

Shout apologies to the heavens.

 

I turn back, turn around,

change direction,

heed the prophet’s call.

Only Comforter, speak comfort. 

 

Cry hope. 

Soften stony hearts.

Reshape new from old, living from dying.

Teach us life, teach us love.

 

My God, my God, hear our lament.

 

            A favorite professor of mine, Gwen Hawley, was the teacher referenced in this poem. I was a student in her advanced group processing class, and the goal of advanced group processing was that we – the students – were to become a group. That sounds deceptively easy. Trust me, it is not. At one of our meetings each of us came to class feeling upset, despairing, worried or anxious. Our emotions were based on different events in our lives, but we were all feeling just plain bad. Gwen took stock of the emotional climate in the room and declared that we needed to lament. We greeted her words with anxious silence.

“I’m serious,” she told us. “You need to lament.”

She urged us to sit down on the floor and lament, wail, and gnash our teeth; whatever was necessary, whatever we needed. We all looked at her like perhaps she had lost it just a little bit. None of us could do it. No matter how much we may have needed to express our feelings, we were all too self-conscious and too uptight to vent them in such a dramatic and overt way. Gwen realized her suggestion was not going to take so she dropped it. But there have been many times since when I have wished to go back in time and take her up on her offer to publicly lament.

            I realize that it’s probably self-serving to use my own poetry in a sermon, and I apologize for that. But I wrote this poem when refugees fleeing from the war in Syria were trying to cross the ocean in small boats and dying in the attempt. I wrote it when I saw pictures of a little one washed up on a beach, and whole families lost to the sea. These last two years with Covid and seeing such dramatic pictures of the people fleeing the war in Ukraine reminded me of this poem. We are living in uncertain and difficult times. The circumstances of the world today give us plenty of reasons to lament. Lament features prominently in our story from Luke this day.

            Although lament is the overall theme of this story, in the first two verses Jesus sounds more irritated than mournful. Some helpful Pharisees came to him and warned him away from entering Jerusalem. “Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you.”

            But Jesus refused to be scared off by their warning.

            “Go and tell that fox for me, ‘Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work. Yet today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem.’”

            “Go and tell that fox for me.” Jesus swatted away their warning as you would an annoying fly. I’m sure his response would have surprised, if not shocked, the Pharisees and probably anyone else privy to that conversation. Herod was a dangerous man and a dangerous ruler. This was the same Herod who to save face in front of his guests and to placate the desires of his wife and stepdaughter, had John the Baptist – whom he liked – beheaded. He was not a tyrant whose bark was worse than his bite. His bite was pretty darn bad.

            Some scholars question the motives of the Pharisees who warned him. Perhaps they understood that Jesus going into Jerusalem would cause more trouble for them than they could handle. So, if they could keep Jesus out of Jerusalem by warning him about Herod, then it would make life easier for them as well. But Jesus could not have cared less about their warning or Herod for that matter. He was not going to be bullied into staying away from Jerusalem. Jesus had kingdom work to do. He had a ministry and a mission and a purpose to fulfill. He would not be kept out of Jerusalem because Herod was breathing threats against him.

            His words, “because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem,” makes it clear that he knew the dangers the city held for him. He knew where his path would lead. He had been trying to make that clear to the disciples for some time. Ahead lay the cross and his death.   Herod’s threats meant nothing to Jesus. He had work to do, and he was going to do it. I must be on my way.

            Yet as he pondered Jerusalem, Jesus’ irritation and annoyance gave way to lament.

            “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”

            Jesus’ poignant lament for Jerusalem tears at my heart every time I read these verses. The imagery Jesus used to describe himself paints a vivid picture of the people in that great city. They were like chicks, lost and vulnerable. The mother hen was there, waiting to take them under her wing, to protect them, and love them, but they were unwilling to be sheltered.

            I don’t know much about raising chickens. I remember visiting a farm of close family friends when I was a very little girl, and I didn’t like to get close to the hens because they pecked at your hands when you tried to gather eggs. But I went looking for pictures of hens and their chicks when I was writing this sermon. When a predator comes near, the hen puffs herself up, looking bigger and fiercer than normal. The chicks are pulled under her wings for protection, and the hen, though not so ferocious a creature as a mother bear or lioness, is willing to put up a fight to protect her babies. What’s more, she is willing to sacrifice herself to save them.

            I must be on my way.

            Jesus knew what awaited him in Jerusalem. He was under no illusions that Herod or any of the other powers that be would not see him as a threat to their power. Jesus was determined to do what he had to do. He was determined to continue his work, his ministry. He was faithful to his call. And this was no passive faithfulness. Jesus would be faithful, no matter what the cost, and the cost would be great indeed. Like a mother hen, he was willing to sacrifice himself for the chicks that needed his protection.

            I must be on my way.

            Jesus knew that safety in this world was not the same thing as being safe in God. When it came to the world, going into Jerusalem would guarantee that he had no safety. Violence awaited him in Jerusalem. Execution awaited him in Jerusalem. But Jesus was not about safety. He was about being faithful. It seems to me that he knew that while the world could do its worst – and it did – he had, as the psalmist declared, a stronghold in God. The tyrants of the world may take his life, but they could not take God’s light and salvation away from him. They could not take that.

            In this season of Lent, we are called to repent and reconsider the ways in which we are living our lives, following God’s call or not. I think we are also called to lament as Jesus lamented. We are called to lament the pain and suffering we cause ourselves and one another. We are called to lament that the Herods of the world do not easily give up or go away. And as we lament, we are also called to acknowledge our vulnerability. Jesus could have used a different image when he looked down on Jerusalem. He could have declared himself a mother bear or a lion, willing to fight to the death to protect his little ones. But he chose a mother hen instead; a creature not large or fierce, but one that even in her vulnerability would lay down her life to protect her chicks.

            Jesus knew that in earthly terms, he was vulnerable. But he also knew that he was sheltered in God’s love and care. And that was better than any protection found in this life. That was better than any worldly power he might have claimed. God was his light and his salvation, and because of that he had nothing to fear. He must be on his way. And so must we.  

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

           

 

To Be Human -- First Sunday in Lent

 Luke 4:1-13 

March 6, 2022

 

            For Superman it was kryptonite. Superman was impervious to anything that might take out you or me. Bullets bounced off his chest. His strength was so great he could stop speeding trains. He could fly higher than planes. He only needed a telephone booth to make the quick change into his hero’s tights. He even made people believe that simply putting on glasses and ordinary clothes was an adequate disguise. Certainly, there was no way anyone could place him as Superman when he was dressed as mild-mannered Clark Kent.

But there was one thing, and one thing only had the power to take out Superman – kryptonite. Even a small amount of the matter and minerals from his home planet could render him weak and powerless. His superhero, superhuman, superpowers were unbeatable; he was indestructible and invincible. Unless … a small piece of kryptonite got too close. Then he was as mortal and as weak as any of us. For Superman it was kryptonite. That was his vulnerability. Kryptonite made him vulnerable and human.

            If we ever forget that Jesus was human, we only have to look to this passage from the gospel to see that Jesus was as vulnerable to hunger as any of us. No matter what year we are following in the lectionary cycle, no matter what the gospel, we always begin the first Sunday of Lent with the telling of Jesus’ time in the wilderness. After all, Lent is patterned after that time. Jesus spent 40 days in the wilderness, fasting, praying, and being tempted by the devil. Luke’s gospel tells us that after those 40 days of no food, Jesus was hungry. Of course, he was! Who wouldn’t be?! That’s a long time to go without food. He was as famished and weak and hungry as any one of us humans would be. The devil, being the great opportunist that he was, saw Jesus’ hunger as his chance. Although we read that the devil tempted Jesus during the 40 days in the wilderness, we don’t know what those temptations were. But at the end of Jesus’ time in the wilderness, when he was starving, Luke reveals three specific temptations.

            First the devil told Jesus that if he was really the Son of God, then he should command a stone to become a loaf of bread. Jesus answered the devil’s temptation with scripture.

“It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone.’”

            Second, the devil led Jesus up – where? The sky, the heavens, wherever it was, it was someplace high enough that Jesus could see all the kingdoms of the world. The devil informed Jesus that he, the devil, had been given all authority over these kingdoms. He can give that authority and power to anyone he wishes. He would give it all to Jesus on one condition, “worship me.” Jesus didn’t buy it and again he responded with words of scripture.

“It is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.”’

            Lastly, the devil took Jesus to Jerusalem. He placed Jesus on the pinnacle of the temple. Then the devil dared him,

“If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you,’ and, ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’”

            The devil knew scripture too, and he knew how to prooftext and manipulate it to say what he wanted it to say. But Jesus still didn’t give in. He responded to scripture with yet more scripture.

“It is said, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the text.’”

            The devil knew he had lost this round, so he left Jesus; not for good but to wait for another opportune time. When the devil retreated, Jesus left as well. He left the wilderness and began his public ministry in Galilee.

            Jesus went into the wilderness “full of the Holy Spirit.” Although he ate nothing and was famished, he still did not give into temptation. The devil could not get the best of him. Whenever I read any of the temptation accounts, my first thought is, “Well of course, Jesus wasn’t tempted. He was Jesus. He was human just like us, but he did not sin.” That is the accepted belief of our faith, isn’t it? Jesus was fully human just like all of us, but he did not sin. He was Jesus, God’s Son. Sinning was just not going to happen no matter how hungry he was. End of story.

            Usually when I read Luke’s account, I focus solely on the temptations themselves. I read the sentence, “he was famished,” but it’s just a blip in the story. It’s easy to see hunger as a blip when you’ve never faced true, debilitating, killing hunger, isn’t it?

But it seems to me those three words – he was famished – are the point.

Jesus. Was. Famished.

He went without food for 40 days and he was as hungry as anyone of us would have been. If he was as hungry as the rest of us, it is a good chance that hunger had the same effect on him that it has on us. When I get really hungry, not forty days hungry, but really hungry, my head begins to hurt. I feel weak and lightheaded, agitated, and shaky. If I don’t get to bite into some food soon, I might just bite your head off. Jesus was famished.

            But because he’s Jesus, I think we tend to diminish his hunger and how it might have affected him. He was hungry and he was fully human, but he was also fully divine. Well, what does that mean exactly? What does that look like? When it comes to his temptation, I think we see Jesus more like a superhero that has been exposed to the one thing that makes him vulnerable. He is like Clark Kent opening his shirt to reveal the large S underneath. Jesus is fully human, but when it comes to temptation there is a shirt with a large D for divine underneath his robe.

            As one commentator put it, Jesus’ divinity acted as a failsafe. If temptation went too far and he got too close to the edge of sin, then divinity jumped in to save him. But if that’s true, then what’s the point of his humanity? What’s the point of telling the story of his being tempted, because in the end they would not have been real temptations? It seems to me that temptation has to have the possibility of snaring you in order to actually be temptation. It has to have teeth and a bite. If Jesus wasn’t really tempted, if it were impossible for him to actually give in, then this story is no more than a morality play. We watch to get an example of how we should be, but we are actually human so we might fail. This is nice of Jesus to show us this, but if he couldn’t actually give into temptation, then he really isn’t like us.

            But Jesus was like us. That is the substance of the incarnation. Jesus was like us, fully human. And to be human is to be hungry, vulnerable, tempted. He was human, just like us.

            At the risk of ticking a lot of folks off, let me say that one of the most powerful depictions of Jesus’ humanity that I have ever seen was in a movie that was so controversial, people from all denominations worked to ban it from theaters. The move was The Last Temptation of Christ. I did not see it when it came to theaters. I watched it when I was in seminary. The main reason this movie was controversial was because it showed Jesus in a physical relationship with Mary Magdalene, and even the idea of that is completely taboo. I do not want to stir up a hornet’s nest here, and there were parts of this movie that were strange and even a little boring. But here is the part of the movie that made me think.

The story was about Jesus and his ministry and his walk to the cross. It was while he was on the cross that the last temptation occurred. Temptation came to him in the form of a little child, haloed in beautiful light. The child told him that he could get down from the cross. He didn’t have to stay there. So, Jesus gets down. He gets down off the cross. He falls in love. He lives.

            I realized that the true temptation for Jesus was not lust, it was life. His last temptation was that he got to experience what we experience as humans. He got to love just like us. He had the chance to have a family and a home and the ordinary everyday realities we take for granted. If we mean what we say that Jesus was fully human, then let’s acknowledge that being human is messy. It is filled with temptation. It is filled with wrong turns. As humans we have enormous capacity for love, and we have an equally enormous capacity for evil. Examples of giving into the temptation for power, for cruelty, for evil is writ large in our world today. Jesus was fully human, so the devil’s temptations to make food where there was no food, to have power, to have coercive authority must have been … tempting. Jesus was fully human, so those temptations must have pulled at him as much as they would have us.

            But I think that what makes Jesus different, what makes him able to resist temptation was not some superhuman ability that we do not have. I think that what he had was full knowledge, full understanding, full comprehension of love, God’s love, sacrificial love, agape love. Jesus was fully human, as fully human as we are meant to be, as we are created and called to be. He knew and lived and breathed Love. Jesus was not a superhero savior. He didn’t have some secret ability that we don’t have access to. He was filled with the Holy Spirit, he was filled with God, he was filled with Love.

            The good news, the great and glorious news, is that we can be too. We can be as filled with love and life as Jesus was. We were created out of Love, because of Love, for Love. Jesus was fully human just like us. He was tempted just like us. He was weak and vulnerable just like us. But Jesus knew completely how to love and he lived and died trying to teach us to do the same. Siblings, during this season of Lent and always, let us take seriously what it means to be human; let us take Love with a capital L seriously. Let us love like Jesus did so that we can be fully human as well.

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

           

A Homily for Ash Wednesday

 Isaiah 58:1-12/Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

March 2, 2022

            From dust we came and to dust we will return. 

            In an hour or two, we will leave the church. We will get in our cars to drive home. Some of us may stop for gas or a few groceries. And wherever we stop, and whoever we meet will see this sign of the cross on our foreheads or on our hands. They may wonder what it is that we’ve done to ourselves. Some may mistake it for a smudge of dirt that looks oddly cross shaped. Some folks may ignore us and the cross on our foreheads altogether. But some people may suddenly remember that today is Ash Wednesday – that strange day that some Christians observe, and others don’t, that Christian day that refers to a practice of repentance that doesn’t really make sense in today’s world.

            In an hour or two, we will go home and wash the ashes away, watch some tv, or read, or just go straight to bed, and wake up tomorrow to return to our regular days. But if we are paying attention and trying to practice what we preach – Amy – then we know that even if the ashes are not visible, we have moved into Lent, that season of the church year when even as the days get longer and lighter, our way becomes darker and narrower, leading step by step to the cross.

            My daughter refers to Ash Wednesday as that day in church when we all proclaim, “Hey! We’re all going to die!” And she doesn’t like that. When I was her age, I would not have liked that either. But I understand now that Ash Wednesday is not just about death, it is a reminder about what life should be, what life is meant to be. It is a reminder not only from where we came, from dust, from infinitesimal specks of stars, but also to Whom we belong. We come from God and to God we return.

            I find this a most humbling and powerful day. On this day we wear the visible sign of our repentance, of recognizing that we fall far, far short of the people God created us to be. On this day we consider the ways in which we have loosed the bonds of injustice from others and the ways we have not.

            On this day we remember that life is short, that death comes for us all, and that while we lean on the promises of life after life, we are also called to do God’s work in the here and in the now. In a world where war and violence are on display on our televisions, our phones, our computers, we wear these ashes to remind us of our call to be peacemakers, to work for justice, and to live in righteousness.

            This is a humble day, not a day for shame or diminishment, but for humility. No matter how much we think we have control over our lives, over our homes, our jobs, our families, this day reminds us that we are called to trust rather than control, to believe rather than doubt, to see the world through the lens of faith, even if our faith is fragile or faltering.

            And on this day, we are given the chance to see what the world can be. We hear the ancient words of the prophet, of the gospel, the psalmist, and we get a glimpse of what God wants for us, what God hopes for us, where our treasure is, and what it would be like to repair the breech, to restore the streets, to live in the lush greenness of a watered garden.

            I guess Phoebe is right. This is the day when we proclaim that, “Hey! We’re all going to die.” But it is also the day when we can proclaim that the time we are given is precious beyond price.  It is the day that we remember that God wants us to live fully in this life, in this time, in this place. Yes, we are all going to die, and there are people on whom I have imposed ashes who are no longer here. But God did not create us solely so we could trudge through life toward death, but so we could do the work of the kingdom now.

            So, consider what you truly treasure now. Offer your food to the hungry now. Loose the bonds of injustice now. Let the oppressed go free now. Be peacemakers now. Restore the streets for people to live on now. Repair the breach now. Live the life that God has called you to live now.

From dust we came. To dust we will return.

In life and in death, we belong to God.

Thanks be to God.

Amen.

Mountains and Valleys -- Transfiguration Sunday

 Luke 9:28-43a

February 27, 2022

 

            When you hear the phrase “mountain top experience,” what do you think of? What comes to your mind? Have you had a mountain top experience? How would you describe that moment or that time? Was it a time when you felt closer to God, closer to humanity, closer to more clearly seeing your purpose in the world?

            I often tell people that my first mountain top experience took place on an actual mountain, when I was a youth advisor during a youth conference at Montreat. There on that mountain, I worshipped, prayed, played, learned, and fellowshipped with adults and youth from all over. It was there on that mountain that I found out I had been accepted into seminary. It was there on that mountain that I thought,

“So, this is what a mountain top experience must be like.”

I was wrong. I mean, it was a powerful and memorable experience. I loved that week in Montreat, and I wanted to capture all the feelings and understandings that I had on that mountain and bring them back down into the valley with me. I wanted to take my mountain top experience with me for the rest of my life. I didn’t. I carry the wonderful memories with me, but I’m not sure I’ve carried those feelings of being close to God and close to others with me.

             That time on the mountain was powerful. And I have had other even more powerful, more memorable times on mountains since. I have shared communion on top of Mount Nebo. I have hiked on the hills of the Appalachian Trail and some of the smaller peaks in Yellowstone. I’ve seen the top of Denali clearly through a remarkable break in the constant clouds that surround its peak. I live, like all we do, amid the rolling hills of Tennessee. But I still think that my mountain top experiences were not really mountain top experiences – not in the way that I have formerly believed them to be.

            Why? Because if we base our mountain top experiences on this passage in scripture, then there is no way I have had one. I haven’t gone up a mountain with Jesus and seen his face and clothes become dazzling white. I have not seen Jesus talking to Moses and Elijah. I have not seen the kind of glory that the gospel writers try to convey. I have not been covered in a cloud and heard the voice of God telling me, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”

            I have had profound experiences on mountain tops, but I have not had this. This story, on which we base our understanding of a mountain top experience, is strange and unfathomable. In my years of preaching, I have yet to find the right way to dig into this story, to make even a semi-adequate analogy between what happened on that mountain and our lives.

            And the truth is, I don’t think it’s possible. I think we look for glimpses of glory in all the wrong ways. And it’s not that glory is not to be found, it’s not that glimpses of glory don’t happen. They do happen on top of mountains and in other places as well. But I think we also imagine that these glimpses of glory are either otherworldly, spectacular, unbelievable, and strange, or that they always leave us filled with joy and exuberance. But I’m not convinced that is always the case.  

            The thing about mountain top experiences, what I learned and maybe what Peter learned, is that you cannot, in the words of Debie Thomas, “hoard them.” You cannot build dwelling places and make those moments stay. The reality about the mountain is that eventually you must go back down into the valley.

            Scripture is filled with references to mountains and valleys. Moses went up the mountain to speak with God but came back down to the valley where the people had grown tired of waiting and created a new god for themselves. In Isaiah the prophet speaks of one day all peoples, all nations, streaming to God’s high and holy mountain, where they will feast on good food and drink good wine and they shall know God, and they shall find peace. But there are references to valleys too. Ezekiel is taken to a valley of dry bones, and asked, “Can these bones live?”

Psalm 23 reminds us that we walk through the valley of the shadow of death. Valleys are beautiful places, just as mountains are, but it seems that the analogies of mountains and valleys is that on the mountain you have some time to see clearly, you have a moment to be closer to God, but you can’t avoid the reality that the valley brings. But don’t we also see God in the reality of the valley? Isn’t God there as well as on that mountain?

            Jesus went up to the mountain to pray, to call all the disciples, to teach particular lessons, but he always came back down to the valley. In our story today, he comes back down the mountain to the valley where the people – hungry, harassed, hurting people – waited for him. A man in the crowd shouted out to him for help for his son, his only child. A spirit would seize the child, convulse him, maul him. The father had asked the disciples to heal him, but they could not do it. And Jesus, frustrated with the fact that the disciples, much less the crowds, could not seem to grasp all that he had been saying, cries out,

            ” You faithless and perverse generation, how much longer must I be with you and bear with you?”

            But Jesus still heals the boy. He cast out the demon that had so tormented the child. He came back down to the valley where sickness and confusion and misunderstanding reigned. He came back down to the valley. It was not only on the mountain where God’s glory through Jesus could be seen. It happened in the valley too, but the people could not see it for what it was. They could not see Jesus for who he was. Not really. Not yet.

            And as many years as I have preached this passage, I have also thought that Jesus took the disciples up to that mountain for their sakes. Teacher and preacher, Anna Carter Florence, once said in a conference that I attended, that we think Jesus took Peter, John, and James up that mountain because they were the ones closest to Jesus’ heart. But maybe, she said, they were really the remedial group. Maybe they were the ones who most needed the lesson. Yet what if Jesus took them with him not only for their sake, but for his own. Jesus knew what waited for him in the valley. He knew that he would meet violence and death in the valley. Maybe he needed that time on the mountain to help him, strengthen him, encourage him.

            Perhaps Jesus asked the disciples to come along to keep him company, to wait with him, just as he would ask them to wait with him in the garden. Jesus talks with Moses and Elijah about departure, his departure. He knew his departure was coming, and he knew that it would not be peaceful. Maybe Jesus needed this time on the mountain for himself as well as for the disciples. He went up the mountain because he knew that most of his life, his ministry, his teaching, his healing, and his suffering would take place in the valley.

            So, perhaps that is what we need to hold onto as well. We long for the mountaintop experiences. We long for those moments when we think we might have glimpsed glory, but we live the majority of our lives in the valleys, don’t we? And if God makes himself known on the mountaintop, then surely God is also known, glimpsed, recognized in the valleys as well.

            Like people around the globe, I have been following the news of the war in Ukraine with great intensity. It is hard not to be scared and troubled and worried about what this means for all of us. It is hard not to be caught up in emotion as we watch the Ukrainian people fight back, protect their country, their culture, with everything that they have. But don’t you think that the citizens of Ukraine want to live their lives, take care of their children, drink coffee with friends, go to work, and live in peace? Don’t you think this is true for the people of Russia and Poland and America and Mexico and South Africa and India and every other place on the globe as well. Don’t you think that all people just want to put their children to bed at night, and to trust that they will wake in the morning? Don’t you think that people everywhere just want to have peace in the valley?

            That’s what I want. It is in the valley where we have to learn what peace is, where we must learn how to get along with one another, when we have to learn what Jesus knew, that peace is not just the time between wars, but that it is true shalom. It is the fullness of life lived without fear and violence. It is the kingdom of God. It is the kindom of God. Jesus went back down from that mountain into the valley because that is where we live most of our lives. It is in the valley where we eat and sleep and love and hate. It is in the valleys where we hope and dream. It is in the valleys where we wait and watch. It is in the valleys where God meets us, in our suffering and in our joy, in our living and in our dying.

            Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for you are with me. We long for the mountaintop, but we live in the valleys, and God is with us in both places. I said I was wrong in thinking that my mountain top experiences were actually mountain top experiences. I was and I wasn’t. Yes, there were profound times in my life when I felt God’s abiding presence. But I have also felt God’s abiding presence in the valley. But it took hindsight to understand that. It took looking back at the valley to see that God was there all along.

We may go up to the mountaintop for a time, but we are called back down to the valleys, back to the people, back to the brokenness. Jesus went back to the valley knowing what waited for him there. He went back to the valley, not to meet evil with evil, violence with violence, but to give of himself, to sacrifice himself, to be a servant to others, so that finally, one day peace, real peace, might reign in the valley. May we do so as well. May this be our solemn vow, our fervent prayer, our deepest hope. We are called to live and love and work for the kingdom of God in the valley. May there be peace in the valley, now and forever.

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

Amen.

           

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.