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SERMON
ARCHIVE July-September,
2005
Sermons may be printed using the Adobe Acrobat version of the sermon. Click on the "printable format" link. If you do not have Acrobat Reader installed on your computer, click on the icon above and follow the simple directions to download it free from the Adobe web site. 19 Pentecost Ezekiel 18:1-4;
25-32 Click here for printable .PDF format At first, they thought he was great, and they were ready to follow him anywhere. OK, he was from Nazareth in Galilee, and that was a bit of a problem since Galilee was full of gentiles, and Galilean Jews tended to intermarry with them, and the result was a sort of losers’ version of the true faith. And Scripture does skeptically ask if anything good can come out of Nazareth. But all of that could be overlooked seeing as how Jesus was of the house and lineage of David, and he was—supposedly—born in the City of David, and all of that was a definite plus as far as his candidacy for Messiahship was concerned. On the other hand, there was that matter of his inner-circle being comprised mostly of Galilean fishermen—but that too might have just been a sign that this Jesus could reform anyone—and it was possible that the whole Galilean fisherman thing was simply a cover, that they were really bodyguards and advance agents, sons of powerful religious leaders from Jerusalem ready to throw off their disguises and become freedom fighters when the time became right for revolution. What really spoke in favor of Jesus’ qualifications for Messiahship, however, were the miracles. Big “WOW” factor. Definite sex appeal! Giving sight to the blind! Hearing to the deaf! Making the lame walk! And then those food miracles—making a single basket of loaves and fishes feed thousands of people! Awesome. Casting out demons was a good sign too. Lots of power there—obviously Jesus had what it would take to cast off the yoke of Roman oppression and restore right religion. And that news of him calming the storm—true mastery of the elements—power over nature—it couldn’t get much better. What’s more he had a way with the crowds, and that would be very, very useful for commanding the kind of revolutionary force that would allow Messiah to vanquish the Roman army and rebuff all of the worldly powers that would be set to prey upon the nation. Yes, this Jesus looked like genuine Messiah material and those who knew exactly what God’s will for the world was were ready to follow him. Time to build a truly Christian nation—one led by a Messiah of power and might—one who would restore capital punishment for adulterers, homosexuals, and prostitutes, one who would keep women in the home where they belonged, one who enact the death penalty for tax-collectors and other collaborators, one who would respect traditional family values. But then things started going sour. The Galilean fishermen turned out to be just that—ignorant working-class peasants who reportedly never fasted and were seen in public breaking the Biblical dietary laws right and left. And then there was that whole business with the women. Jesus and those filthy Galilean fishemen allowed women to speak with them of God, allowed to travel around with them, allowed women to eat with them—in clear and blatant violation of scriptural principles. What was more, some of these women seemed to be supporting the men—something no self-respecting male would ever, ever, ever allow. Supposedly Jesus even allowed a prostitute to kiss him and give him a foot massage. Then there was the stuff he said—talked about giving to everyone who asked, about lending money without expecting anything back. And get this—he said if anyone wants to sue you and take you coat, give that person your cloak as well. And it got worse: do not resist an evil doer, but if anyone strikes you on one cheek turn the other also. And just when you thought it couldn’t get worse?—it actually, really, seemingly impossibly did: he said go, love your enemies, and pray for those who hate you. What sort of Messiah says that sort of thing? How could a person be the anointed one of the most high, powerful God and, at the same time, advocate a total renunciation of power? It’s one thing for a Messiah to be a bit unconventional—another one for a Messiah to act like...to act like...well, to be blunt about it, a loser, wimp, a woman. That is what those who knew what a Messiah should be couldn’t handle. And so, the powerful and the truly religious began to fall away. Winners do not back losers. What drove the final
nail into the coffin was the way that Jesus treated the sinners, those
whose sins were responsible for the nation’s woes. Jesus seemed
to welcome prostitutes, tax collectors, and other completely disreputable
types. If this man were truly the Messiah, he would know what sort of
people these were. But he not only welcomed those people, he seemed
almost...well almost like their servant rather than their judge. Next
thing you know, he’d be washing their feet instead of treating
them like the immoral people they were. And of course, they ate that
up. Put all of this together and of course both the right and the left, both the sensible religious folks and the radical revolutionaries lost all their trust in Jesus. How could you trust a Messiah who would rather die than fight, who, if you took him at his word, would do something so foolish as to offer forgiveness to his murderers rather than strike them dead? And so as the end drew near, the only ones who really had any trust in him were the widows, the orphans, the prostitutes, the hustlers, and the thieves—the losers of the world. And they actually believed they had some sort of “new life” in him—that they were filled with his Spirit—that they were being reborn in his image. Why would anyone with any reason or strength want to be rebornin the image of some fool of a Messiah who empties himself of power and takes the form of a weak and womanish slave? 18 Pentecost Click here for printable .PDF format Jonah 3.10-4.11 “So....you really want to know what the realm of God is like? Well,” said Jesus, “it’s like the owner of a fabulous vineyard who early one morning drives by one of those day labor places you see all around town. The reliable laborers, the truly hard-working ones, are there waiting for work even before the sun is up, eager to do whatever job comes their way. ‘Twenty dollars an hour I’ll pay you,’ says the owner of the vineyard, ‘two- hundred-forty dollars for 12 hours in the fields.’ The vineyard owner has no trouble filling the van with workers and once they get to the vineyard they’re off picking grapes as fast as they can. “A little while later, the vintner drives back in to town, goes by the day-labor place, sees some stragglers, tells them come to work in the vineyard and they’ll get paid whatever’s right. Wow! Such a deal—they got to sleep in and they still end up working! Another couple hours later, close to noon now, the vintner again goes by the day labor place and sees yet some people looking for work. This group, however, is definitely a few steps down from the first two van loads of grape pickers. These ones are sort of a sluggish variety, and none of them looks too ambitious. But the owner of the vineyard says, ‘Come work, and I’ll pay you what’s right.’ And off they go. Same thing happens at three o’clock. This mid-afternoon group, however, is definitely on the sketchy side—several are clearly hung-over and a couple of the women and at least one of the young men obviously worked East Colfax most of the previous night. “Then five o’clock rolls around—close to quitting time, but once more the owner of the vineyard goes out—sees yet some more people standing around the day-labor place. Come work for an hour says the vintner and I’ll pay you what’s right. “Now this last bunch is a group of dim bulbs if there ever was one. One tweaked-out individual has purple hair and piercings just about everywhere, tattoos by the dozens, and is wearing platform shoes completely unsuitable for anything except standing around and posing. Another individual, obviously in need of a drink, figures, what the hell, an hour’s wages might buy enough Thunderbird to get by on for at least the next couple days. The rest of the group go rapidly down hill from there. But they all get into the van and arrive at the vineyard just in nick of time—to put in something somewhat shy of five minutes’ work— which is a good thing since it’s apparent that this last bunch is really not into whole word scene. Purple-hair-with-platform-shoes staggers around looking for firm ground while smoking something that smells vaguely like manure; another “worker” is having a totally random conversation with himself about interplanetary travel and having just arrived from some galaxy far, far away. And the one Jonesing for Thunderbird has the shakes and is obviously about to hurl on the vineyard owner’s brand new boots. “None too soon the end-of-shift whistle blows and everyone lines up to get paid – and the last group, mainly because they haven’t really budged from the parking lot, are first in line. Purple-hair and Thunderbird, in a rare show of energy, are the first to tear open their pay envelopes: twelve crisp twenty-dollar bills!! Wow!!!!! But, surely—surely(!) there’s been some ridiculous and insane mix-up. But so it goes for everyone in line— those who worked their hearts out for twelve hours, those who worked for nine hours, those who rather ineptly worked for six hours, and those who bumbled about for three hours—slowly and with hangovers—everybody gets the same pay. Gypsies, tramps, and thieves—along with those imbued with the work ethic to the very marrow of their bones—all of them treated...alike—all of them treated most royally. “Well, you know exactly who isn’t happy—and they waste no time loudly telling the owner of the vineyard how completely cocked up this whole business is—in fact, they tell the owner, this is no way whatsoever to run a business. Who’s your accountant?!?—they scream. The owner of the vineyard is used to this by now and does a little roll of the eyes and says, ‘Oy gewalt, such a tsimmes! Listen, I died to all of that business accounting stuff a couple thousand years ago. Besides, what’s it to you? It’s my vineyard and I get to do what I want—so quit kvetching, take your gelt, and go get yourselves some dinner at my restaurant.’ “And so the laborers—and the non-laborers—went off to dinner...Purple Hair lurching along in platform shoes; Mr. Inter-planetary traveler muttering to himself about finally arriving in a decent solar system; the East Colfax whores and hustlers looking somewhat stunned over their trickless good fortune; and Thunderbird, hungering for some decent, not-out-of-the-dumpster food for a change and thirsting after something truly refreshing...the whole thoroughly odd mish-mash, all together tiredly slouching toward some restaurant called The House of Bread. Of course, the laborers of the first hour still looked like they could just plotz over the whole situation and they did seem to be wondering if there was a country somewhere they could invade—but they would get over it as soon as someone hosed ‘em down with some cool water and stuck a menu in their hands. “However, the strangest things started happening during the meal. This unlikely bunch of fellow diners found themselves getting a little...well, a little over-generous. And not just with their money—‘though certainly that too. They started spreading it around like there was no end to the twenty-dollar bills in their envelopes—but now that you mention it, it did seem like the number of bills in everyone’s envelopes stayed pretty much the same no matter how much they spent. But there was another sort of extravagance going on – the age-old enmity between the workers of the first hour and those of the third, sixth, ninth hours, and of the last five minutes—that age-old enmity seemed to dying away. Fact is, there was a whole lot being put to death right and left, and to the infinite shock of everyone, whole new selves were being born. Purple-hair-with-platform-shoes and the early morning worker-bees were toasting one another’s good fortune and having a regular love feast. Thunderbird seemed...free...free for the very first time ever. The women and young men of Colfax Avenue were being treated with dignity and respect, and their faces shone like the sun. And everyone agreed that Mr. Interplanetary Traveler was the very best storyteller they had ever heard. Of course to the rest of the world the whole thing from beginning to end was absolutely crazy, insane, and all cocked up. The owner of the vineyard merely smiled; it was good, it was very good, it was god-blessed, gotcha-but-good good. And tomorrow would be yet another day with a whole new crew of “workers” to be brought in. “And that,” said Jesus, “is what the realm of God is like. And mark my words, it shall be so, this very day...here on earth...among you...as it is already in heaven.” 17 Pentecost A 05
(Pr 19) Click here for printable .PDF format Genesis 50:15-21 This morning's Gospel begins in the middle of a discussion that Jesus has been having with the disciples about how you treat someone in the community who has done you wrong. Jesus had started this whole discussion by saying to those around him, "Listen if another person in the community sins against you, go to that person and point out the fault when the two of you are alone. If that person listens to you, great. But if not, take one or two others along with you so that every word may be confirmed by the evidence of two or three witnesses. If the person refuses to listen to them, then tell it to the whole community – and if the offender refuses to listen even to the community – then let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector." I don't hear anyone laughing . . . nobody's grinning. I don't even see a hint of a smile anywhere out there. Don't you hear how hilarious it is? Jesus gives this carefully laid-out procedure for dealing with an offense in which he sounds just like a Scribe or a Pharisee – nothing new here – same old stuff the rabbis reach. But then – and you can bet with a straight face – but then Jesus goes and demolishes this impeccably legal process with one of his best one-liners: "Listen, treat an intransigent, unrepentant offender just like you would a tax collector or a Gentile." Do you get it yet? This line is in Matthew's proclamation of Christ? Remember Matthew? One of those despised tax-collectors? How did Jesus treat Matthew? The same way Jesus treated all of the outcasts and sinners in his life – Jesus invited Matthew out for drinks and dinner. How are followers of Jesus to treat sinners? Like tax collectors and Gentiles and all the rest of the riff-raff. You invite ‘em all out for cocktails and a nice meal accompanied by good wine. Forget the tired legal procedures of the Scribes and Pharisees – skip right to the chase – treat the sinners of your life like treasured dinner companions. Sit down at table and have a meal together. "OK. This sit-down-at-table thing isn't going to be easy," thinks Peter. "But I suppose it could be do-able." Peter is pretty sure he knows what's coming next, so he beats Jesus to it. "Lord, I'll bet you don't want us to do this just once – we're supposed to give the sinner a whole handful of chances – actually a handful plus two – seven chances, right Lord?" Peter is obviously overflowing with pride. "See Jesus – I really do understand you. You want us to be plentiful with this forgiveness. Seven times out for drinks and dinner – that's how willing I am to be your chief disciple Jesus." Peter's so preeningly pleased with himself you just wanna throw up. "See, I really am the best of the disciples, an example for all the others, you know, the Rock, the one who really gets it. It's OK Jesus -- you can praise me in front of the others – I can act humble." Poor Peter, once again the wind is about to be taken from his sails. No Peter, not seven times – but seventy times seven – that fine Hebrew metaphor for infinity. Your neighbor sins against you – you invite your neighbor over for beer and brats and for thanksgiving dinner and for Christmas dinner, Easter dinner, just plain-old Sunday dinner, lunch, brunch, supper, mid-week night out, an early breakfast, hump-day happy hour, and Friday Afternoon Club. Of course, it is very, very costly to sit down that often to eat and drink with people who've sinned against you. You might even say it's downright deadly. It means the old self that would rather die than forgive must in fact do precisely that: die. It means dying to the eye-for-an-eye, tooth-for-a-tooth way of the world. The get-even ego must perish, for it is only through such a death can the new life that participates in the eternal can arise. A few months ago I met a young man from Africa – we'll call him Brian -- who told me how he had witnessed the torture and murder of one of his parents. Brian told his story without anger, bitterness, or hatred – sadness yes, but I could pick up no tell-tale sounds of fury or of the need for vengeance. Taken aback, I wanted to know more; I asked Brian how he felt about those who had so brutally killed his mother. "Oh, I have forgiven them," he said. His voice, his face – filled with grace, peace, gentle conviction. "Isn't that what Jesus tells us to do?" he asked. And suddenly I was in the garden with Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of Jesus, and the other women, and the smells of Easter filled the room. Brian had died to judgment, hatred, vengeance, anger – and the ego – and a new self had risen from the grave. I felt as if I were in the presence of the Christ – and I guess, in essence, I was. This treating others like Jesus treated tax-collectors, Gentiles, and other assorted sinners and riff-raff is indeed costly. Inviting outcasts and sinners to the feast that never ends costs God a great deal – the death of God – the death of God as the angry judge, but the resurrection of God – the resurrection of the God who is at peace with all humanity, the resurrection of the living God whose love and pardon, grace and peace are unconditional and everlasting. So my fellow tax-collectors, Gentiles, outcasts, riff-raff and other assorted sinners, come to the everlasting feast to which Jesus has invited us all. Dinner and drinks are on Christ. But hear this and hear this well: when you dine on Christ, you are dining upon the very essence of the Christ who invites you – the God who everlastingly died to judgment and who is risen to everlasting love and forgiveness – and you know how it is: you are what you eat and drink. Day of Mourning
& Lament Psalm 22 Click here for printable .PDF format What shall we say of all these things that have come to pass in the late days of the summer of 2005? What language shall we borrow that we not misrepresent, excuse, deny, mythify, use this event—make of it a quiver of arrows to fling against the nearest politician—or against God—which on some days many easily mistake one for the other? Who ordered all this death and destruction? Was it you God? Was it the hoofbeats of your apocalyptic horses that thundered across the gulf skies? Were they your minions who drove on the massive engines of swirling clouds that with terrible efficiency delivered death and destruction to the people of the south? Was it your wrath that drove the crowds of pilgrims in Baghdad to stomp a harvest of blood from the bodies of veiled women and innocent children? What hath God wrought? A disaster movie that will not end, 90,000 square miles of hell with no food and no clean water. Refugee camps better organized in war ravaged regions overseas than they are here. Dead bodies floating in waters from New Orleans to Biloxi and Pascagoula, dead bodies in homes and in attics—uncounted—just for now—but a sure blow to our psyches once the numbers come. The Hebrew voices of lament question—was it you God who did this and if so, why? Who sinned? We are assured in these latter days that God is sorely grieved by the suffering and death of any of God’s children. But surely there is sin—says one government official, “those people must bear the responsibility for their fate —they were told to evacuate.” Is it sin that Katrina came ashore at the end of the month when the poor of Biloxi Point could not afford to buy the gasoline necessary to flee the coming danger? What sin is it for which they paid with their lives? What sin is it that those stranded in the filth and squalor of stadium and convention center were overwhelmingly black or elderly or handicapped or infirm—all poor, most without cars, most without money even for bus fare—that is, had there been busses in the first place? What sin is it that even the police in New Orleans were themselves forced to loot after three days of no water and no food? What sin is it that we are stunned that this horror is happening in our country—but hardly ever notice that what we are witnessing these days on our shore is the daily routine of vastly greater numbers of people across this shadowed planet? What sin is it that the faces I see here on Colfax Avenue seem somehow the same as the faces of the suffering I see among the ruins of the Big Easy? What sin is it that the victims I see on CNN look so much like the same people who come to our doors here each day, who crowd into our hot, stuffy community room on Mondays and who drop by sometimes Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, hoping against hope that somehow or another a decent meal might just miraculously appear on the tables in the rooms of the building at 16th and Grant. Where are you God? Where are you in all of this? Just where the hell are you? I look across my study at home. There, repeated six times in six different ways, God’s answer—not the answer I or most of the world want or expect—nonetheless the answer we have been given. Where is God? There—in Christ hanging upon the cross. Where is God? Trapped in a hot attic somewhere on the Gulf Coast, surrounded by flood waters but without water that can be drunk, out of food, waiting for her rescue while trying to ignore the smell of the dead body of her husband that shares the cramped quarters of her dark and hellish prison. Where is God? God is there, kneeling beside the mother who weeps for the infant she cradles in her arms, the infant so dehydrated and hungry that he no longer stirs nor makes any sound. God is there in the man on a bridge in Baghdad who wails over the lifeless forms of his wife and three small children whose only sin was wanting to be together for a time of holiday, a time of prayer and praise. God in Christ, suffering the heat, the humidity and the dark, dangerous nights of an indoor playing field turned into a dumping ground of spoiled food, human excrement, and dead bodies gnawed upon by rats. Behold your God: the only God whose will it is to be intimately acquainted with suffering and sorrow, the one God who will not shun conditions of squalor, who wills to suffer the systemic evil of a world where the rich are white, young, and healthy and the poor overwhelmingly are not. God in Christ deigns to be found there, not only undergoing suffering but reaching out in brokenness to comfort those who cry out from the depths of their misery. The hands of the mothers and fathers who soothe their frightened children—those are the hands of Christ. Christ’s are the hands of the nurses and aids trapped in the upper floors of a flooded New Orleans hospital who hour after hour manually pump air into lungs that cannot breathe on their own. Christ is really present in the tenderness of the man who sits watch and prays over the bodies of the dying and the dead. The body of Christ is truly present in the serviceman who weeps alongside the sorrowful mother in Iraq. Christ is sacramentally present in Coast Guard helicopters where fatigued women and men are ready to give their lives for the sake of complete strangers trapped in trees and upon rooftops. And let us make no mistake—the real Body and Blood of Christ were present on Friday afternoon when Mr. Bush embraced a mother and her children in a Mississippi refugee camp—Christ is present wherever and whenever a hand is held, a drop of water is given, and a crumb of bread is shared. And Christ is present in you, in all of you. In your tears and in your prayers. Christ is present in the alms you give for the sake of the suffering both here and across the world. Christ is present in you as you become educated about the plight of the poor whoever they are, wherever they are. Christ is present in you as you yearn for justice, as you work for peace, as you fill the food-shelves at Metro CareRing, as you offer-up your time, your money, your prayers for the St. Paul Local Assistance Ministry. The body and blood of Christ are truly present in, with, and under your form on Mondays at Street Reach whether you wash dishes or scrub the floor or put your arm around a guest who you’re sure hasn’t used soap at any time during the last month or more. And God in Christ will be most surely present in the days and weeks to come—in your anguish over the suffering, the homeless, the dying, and the dead—in your prayers—in your offerings—in your anger—and yes, in those tough questions of God which you could not ask in the first place had not the Holy Spirit chosen to haunt you from the day of your Baptism. What shall we say of all these things that have come to pass in the late days of the summer of 2005? Like those poets whose lamentations are preserved in the Hebrew Scriptures, I cannot speak for another—I can only bear witness to and testify to what I know. I know that my Redeemer liveth and that my Redeemer shall stand at the latter day upon the earth and in my flesh shall I see God. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. And whether our tomorrows be filled with good or ill, we will triumph through our sorrows and rise to bless God still, to marvel at Christ’s beauty and glory in Christ’s ways, and make a joyful duty our sacrifice of praise. The Twelfth Sunday
after Pentecost I Kings 19:9-18 Click here for printable .PDF format “Faith in the Midst of Chaos” Psalm 77: 16 Core to the faith of Israel was its birth not only out of slavery but also out of the chaos of water. “ While God was beginning to create the heavens and the earth darkness was upon the face of the deep.” And for life to begin the chaos had to sorted out. The dry land from the face of the deep. In biblical thought the sea itself connotes the forces of chaos, held at bay in the creative act of God, but always threatening. To the biblical mind, being on the sea is itself a threat, representing all the anxieties and dark powers that threaten the goodness of the created order. To be at sea evokes images of death of the active power that is the goodness of life. The sea in our gospel separates the disciples from Jesus, who represents the presence of God. It is reminiscent of the sea that separated the Hebrew slaves from certain death on one side and freedom and a future on the other. In the midst of the chaos of the world, the disciples like us are left alone in the boat/church (The nave),with only their fragile craft preserving them from its threat, buffeted by the stormy winds of conflict and persecution, temptations trials and doubt. And like the story of Jesus calming the sea, we are those in the boat. It is not just the apostles that are in the boat but all believers are in the endangered ship and dependant upon their savior. We, too, are those caught midway between faith and doubt. Is Iraq and the
theory of the American Empire going to pull Is our ELCA going
to come apart in Orlando over the issue Can St. Paul take on the renovations that it seeks in order to make this building fully functionally for us and the community. Can the issues
that tug on most of us be overcome? Will we be The sea is so large and our boat is so small. In 1961 I worked at a Lutheran family camp in Willsboro, New York, which was up on the very wild Lake Champlain. We didn’t have a dock or a raft, but a large pontoon. A group of us young men feeling that we were supermen, detached it from its anchor one day, flipped it over and striding the large sides paddled the pontoon out into the lake with long rowing oars. We had a sense of being Vikings when in fact we were idiots. The wind blew up. Lighting started, rain came. Using all the power of six young men we paddled and went nowhere. We then caught (by some gift) a good wind that helped us paddle toward shore where we could then tow the pontoon back to camp about a half a mile away stumbling on the rocks along the shore. Biblical images as well as those of the Titanic came to our minds. Jesus, please calm the sea. We fantasized about headlines in newspaper, “Six young men fried in Lake Champlain.” Our boat was so small. Three years ago
my wife and I attended and AME church in Lisle, Illinois. He said: About ten years ago I mentioned in a sermon at St. Philip Lutheran that the Red Sea according to the Rabbis did not part until the first Jew stepped into the water. After the service some old lady who was visiting the church grabbed me by the chest and said, “You keep telling those young people to step into the water?” “Yes, Ma’am.” It took me a while to grow those chest hairs back. During the modern period, following the Enlightenment, society was so relieved that there was something more than faith. There was mathematical equations, chemical formulas, eventually atomic microscopes, predictability, geometrical end points and mankind thought it was going to get a handle on all of this. WE will create the future. WE will overcome nature. WE will become as gods. In the post -modern era we now know that we are in boats far from shore, chaos is a part of reality and predictability is within some mathematical variance. In other words we still have to live between faith and doubt. Perhaps a more informed faith and doubt but still a faith in the face of doubt. The knowledge of faith is not as certain as the knowledge of science, yet it speaks of realities that are of more ultimate importance than the things we can see and touch. To believe in the saving power of Jesus is to take a risk. In the storm…. in our little boat…. Jesus says through word, sacrament, through the presence of family and community, “Take heart, it is I, do NOT be afraid.” And to Peter and to me He says(And maybe to some of you), “You of little faith, why did you doubt?” It doesn’t say, “those of NO faith,” but of little faith. In the Fourth Gospel
believing is always a verb, never a noun; Doubt raises its stormy head and it often looks like “The Perfect Storm,” but it is kept in subordination by grace. Like the epileptic’s father in the gospel of Mark, each Christian must pray continually, “I believe; help my unbelief!” In the third “Indiana Jones” movie, Indiana Jones in order to get to the Holy Grail has to step out onto the “Bridge of Faith” that he cannot see. In reality God does not call us to stop thinking or to risk our lives and welfare pointlessly. Our oldest grandson, Luke, is much of the time timid and cautious. He is twenty nine months old. However, when we were in Singapore in June and in a swimming pool each day, Luke would run as fast as his little legs would carry him and jump off the side into the deep water. Where did he get this sudden courage? His father was there to catch him each time. So is ours when we get in touch with faith. So what is this rebuke when Peter starts to sink? **Perhaps Jesus was speaking as a friend. Perhaps he knows and accepts Peter’s limitations and what he is saying is, “you were doing it! You had it! Don’t lose that!” Faith is never settled once for all. I grasp God, or more accurately, for a moment I realize that God grasps me, and then I lose that knowledge. I never get to check off “have faith” on my list of accomplishments.** Each of us here
in different and various ways are either going into a storm, in the
storm or coming out of the storm. In the storm we are pushing that boat
against some scary winds and waves, or looking for faith to do what
has to be done. And it isn’t the test that seems to be overwhelming
it is the sense of worth in the midst of the challenge. **And I have
felt so often the many ways Jesus reaches out his hand to catch me——in
the love of family and friends, the sustenance of spiritual practice,
the bonds of community and the moments of the presence of the Spirit
that seems to come from no where to raise me up.** In the literature
of many cultures deities walk on water, subdue seas, and calm winds.
We are not deities. We have to “walk by faith and not by sight.” Or as we will sing
in a few minutes: His footprints cannot be seen, yet the journey continues for each of us, for all of us together; Gays, Straight, Black, White, Brown and Yellow; Old and Young; shades of this belief and that belief; sinners redeemed, loved and forgiven. Accepted and made whole. We cannot find success by Kevin’s good theological preaching, nor Mark’s good music, nor by the sound of the good organ, nor by our good works in the community, nor by our accepting of various differences in the human spectrum. We in this ship, this nave, sail by faith and trust that God will bring us to the shore where we belong. Going into the storm, in the storm, coming out of the storm we know to whom we belong. It is not by our rowing or paddling, but by His grace. AMEN **Taken from Christian Century July 26 Issue
The Eleventh Sunday
after Pentecost Click here for printable .PDF format Isaiah 55:1-5 Jesus, consumed with grief at the death of John the Baptist withdraws from the crowds so that he might be by himself. The people, however, thousands of them, see where he goes, and they follow him. Jesus, instead of doing what you or I might do—that is, turning around and telling them to leave him alone—is filled with compassion for them; and, then, in a more literal translation from the Greek, Jesus heals them of their powerlessness. In his great compassion, laying aside his own sorrow, laying aside his own needs, Jesus takes away that which paralyzes them, takes away the emptiness that was leaving their lives meaningless, takes away all that was robbing them of wholeness. And all this Jesus does without any reference to their deserving or lack thereof, all this out of sheer goodness and mercy. Then we have the disciples—who are, of course, a dramatic stand-in for—well, for us—the disciples of this time and place. We disciples seem to be at the end of our rope, tired of people who are in need. Tired of the crowds looking for assistance, tired of having to feed so many, many people, people who return our hospitality with complaints about the heat. We’re tired of helping people who need clothing, people who need bus fare, people who need prescription money; we’re tired of people who need rent assistance. We’re tired of the all kids from day camp and all the messes they make. We’re tired of all the overnight groups, tired of all the support groups, tired of all the community organizations that need space for their meetings. And if that doorbell in the courtyard door rings one more time....oh, Jesus, send them away and tell them to do something to help themselves for a change. Compassionate Jesus replies. No—don’t send them away. Feed them, help them, show them hospitality, and yes, pick up their messes after they leave. Give them hope, give them human dignity, give them wholeness, give them life. You talking to us Jesus? You telling us what to do? Listen, we’re fresh out—fresh out of compassion, fresh out of time, fresh out of room, fresh out of patience. And we already give so much time and money. Look—this is what we have and it’s obviously inadequate to the task. There’s only so much to go around, and we’re completely tapped out. Let someone else do it for a change. And Jesus says, bring all that you have and all that you are and give it to me. I will take your possessions, I will bless them, and I will break them of the hold they have over you; and once broken, they will be distributed for the good of those who come to you in search of compassion and hospitality. And I will take you yourselves, I will bless you, and I will break you. I will break you of your self-involvement, I will break you of your possessiveness, I will break you of your materialism, I will break you of your consumerism, I will break you of your powerlessness and I will pour you out......for the good of the world. And I, says Jesus, I will do all this by taking bread, and taking wine. These I will take, I will bless, I will break, and I will pour. No longer filled with yourselves, you will be filled with me—and all those things you claimed you did not have, all those things you claimed you could not do—that will all be changed. Truly, on your own, you cannot do as I command you to do—but filled with my good gifts, you are becoming as I AM. No matter how tapped out, no matter how worn out, I will feed you, I will refresh you, I will renew you, I will give you new life. So come to the table; receive that which I have taken, blessed, broken, and poured out —and you too—all that you have and all that you are, I shall take, bless, break, and pour out—and I will give you to the world—my gift to the world, for the good of the world. The Eighth Sunday
after Pentecost Click here for printable .PDF format Isaiah 55:10-13 Ah, but the path was proud of itself. Straight and narrow, hard-packed, it was the proverbial high-road. No, it was not like the rest of the terrain around it. No noxious weeds. No loose stones. It alone provided sure footing. It had tradition on its side, and it alone led people on the way they should go. Even in the rainiest of seasons, water ran right off of it, and so it was never wet. And any seeds that threatened to worm their way into it, to sprout up, to grow, and to obstruct traffic were quickly gotten rid of by the birds who kept it clean and clear of corruption. God be praised, thought the path, that I am not like that rocky ground at my right side; I thank you Lord that I am not infested with thistles like that ground at my left side. By contrast, the rocky ground to the right of the path, though it would never say so, was rather unsure of itself. It couldn’t quite decide what it wanted to be. The various seeds that fell into its many, dark, cool hiding places always provided the rocky ground food for thought. And the rocky ground always welcomed the various new seeds that fell upon it with greatest enthusiasm. With each new seed, here at last, thought the rocky ground, was something that gave the rocky ground real meaning, a reason to be, something that the rocky ground could really put itself to work for. But each time this happened, the rocky ground realized after a short while that whatever the new seed, its roots, it growth would change the rocky ground—and forever. Indeed, sprouting seeds had the potential to transform the very nature and being of the rocky ground—roots could widen cracks and break open even large rocks; and the vegetation springing forth from the seeds could keep water from quickly running off, could keep water close to the rocky ground—and the rocky ground was quite sure that water might just be the beginning of some sort of cataclysmic change. And then there was the thorny ground on the opposite side of the path, and its growth was magnificent. The thistles there grew high and mighty. They were strong, hearty, and most able to keep the rest of the world at bay. Any foreign or alien seeds that fell in the midst of the thorny ground were immediately gotten rid of: Thorny ground for thorny growth. Thistle plants, the biggest, baddest plants around! Armed to the teeth with sharpest swords! And thistle plants bore incredibly large blossoms—blossoms of purple, the color of empire. And, said the thorny ground, my tough and spiky growth is eminently useful too, value added, supple material for weaving into crowns. Then there was that other soil—strange soil. It seemed to have its beginning high atop a hill—a hill that once had been dry and hot, its rock the color of bones bleached white from years spent in the desert sun. And now that you mention bones...if you looked at that hill just right, it did look like a skull—especially before that strange thing with the soil began to happen. It had all started at the top of the hill—near a spring of fresh, cool water that had suddenly appeared right out of the rock one Friday afternoon after an earthquake. And this strange new soil appeared that same day—the soil was a most remarkable blood-red in color, like the color of the earth on Oahu where the sweetest of pineapples flourish. Amply watered by the cool spring, this new soil, like the water, seemed almost to flow down that skull-shaped hill. Reaching the bottom of the hill, the blood-red soil had begun to flow toward and then surrounded the home of a tax-collector. And if was there the most lush grape vines began to spring from the new, red soil. From the tax-collector’s home, the strange, new soil went on to surround the houses of harlots and thieves—and there too bore luscious melons, tomatoes, beans and peas. On and on the new, red soil went, surrounding gay bars, strip clubs, and office buildings—surrounding the homes of Pharisees, the homes of government bureaucrats, elected thieves, and of just plain ordinary folks who would never do anything quite right or well...that same mysterious soil, always blood-red, always well watered. And then, out into the wilderness it went, where hardened paths, rocky fields, and thorny ground were...well...changed—seemingly in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, and vines appeared in this new earth, bedecked with bright, trumpet-shaped blossoms providing sweetest nectar for hummingbirds and honeybees alike. On and on went this new red soil to make the rough places plain and every valley lifted up. And through this good, blood-red, spring-fed soil danced a sower of seeds—a sower of seeds, born of a human mother, an offspring of humanity, yet something else as well. And the sower’s bag of seeds was never empty, always full, seemingly without end. On wounded feet the sower danced, and with wounded hands the sower indiscriminately, profligately scattered seeds of every kind upon the newborn red soil—and there was a place even for thistle seeds, the thorny growth of which the sower strangely blessed. And upon the side of the sower’s garment a stain—a blood-red stain, the same color as that of the good new soil. And unto this day,
all soil that is hard, rocky, worn-out, over-grown, or just plain dead
continues to be reborn—reborn each day to be blood-red, well-watered,
good, good, very good soil. And still the sower sows. And daily the
good soil continues to bear good fruit, fruit of every kind for the
good of every living thing. And the good, blood-red soil, as it was
in the beginning, is filled with reverence and awe—for the new
soil knows it has done nothing on its own, on its own has done absolutely
nothing. Every good thing has come to the soil from outside itself.
New life and good fruit have been abundantly given to it, everything
a gift, completely and unconditionally free. The Seventh Sunday
after Pentecost Click here for printable .PDF format Zechariah 9:9-12 Some of you already know that last Sunday, those of us who left the church building around noon were accosted by protesters who had assembled on the grassy median near the 16th Avenue rear doors. These protesters were bearing a variety of signs and greeted people leaving the church with angry shouts. No one who walked by them from our community was exempt from the ugliness; even a young mother and the infant in her arms were the unfortunate targets of hate-filled screaming. Among the messages of these so-called Christians were “Diversity is perversity,” “Death to homosexual priests,” “Homosexuals will burn in hell,” and “Homosexual priests will burn in hell.” Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to get those ugly images out of my head this past week. However, there is another image from last Sunday morning that also runs through my mind. It’s the image of little Soren Gilbertson presenting himself at the altar rail to receive the body and blood of Christ. Soren, Christopher, Breanna, Amanda, and the children who come forward for communion each week approach with something very near...radiance. They almost dance with joy and anticipation as they come forward; their eyes sparkle, and their faces beam with delight. They kneel or they stand; either way, their chins barely clear the rail. They cup their hands together, they watch every move, they watch as I place the bread in their hands, and when I say, “The body of Christ, given for you,” they look down, and their eyes widen with awe and faith, and when they say “amen” you just know that they trust, with every last ounce of their little beings, that God loves them—and without condition. They trust with every fiber of their beings—in a way beyond words that in Jesus, God reveals God’s gentle and humble heart, that in Jesus, God gives us rest for our weary souls. These dear little ones know and trust, in a way beyond both Scripture and Catechism, that God’s love, God’s acceptance, God’s forgiveness are for all people—a great and tremendous gift, completely free, without condition. And Jesus said, “I praise you Father, Lord of heaven and earth because you have hidden these things from the presumptuous and those who think they know everything—but have revealed them to little children.” But you others too, you in this community, like these little children do know and do trust that God’s love, God’s acceptance, God’s forgiveness are for all people—a gift, completely free, without condition. Blessed Waldo Smith said it well when he greeted a young couple at the door on a hot summer Sunday five years ago, “Everybody’s welcome here!” Indeed, through your ministry here at St. Paul, you have made a name for yourself through your ministry here. Through your ministry here you very really proclaim for all those words of Christ from our Gospel reading this morning, “Come to me, all you that are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” The yoke, the burden, nothing more nor less than the joy of God’s unconditional love and forgiveness. For you, for all, for free. How light! How easy!! There is, however, a cost, though it is most definitely not a cost imposed by God. Rather it is a cost imposed by the world. The world, you see, cannot abide the notion that God’s love and forgiveness are free and for all. Grace, in the final analysis, is an insult and a scandal to the way the world works. And just as the world one Friday made its outrage known outside Jerusalem at the Place of the Skull, so too does the world continue to make its outrage known, in many and various places, as the protesters here last week made so abundantly clear. They and others cannot abide the proclamation of God’s grace through Jesus Christ, they cannot abide the proclamation that God’s love is unconditional, that God’s acceptance of all people is unconditional, that God’s forgiveness is unconditional. But have no fear of the world, for by his cross and resurrection, Christ has overcome the world. Have no fear little flock, for by Christ’s cross and resurrection, you too have already overcome the world; have no fear little flock, for by Christ’s cross and resurrection, you yet shall overcome the world, and the dominion of our Gracious God shall be from sea to sea, from the rivers to the end of the earth forevermore. AMEN |
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