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Sermons may be printed using the Adobe Acrobat version of the sermon. Click on the "printer-friendly 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. Twenty-third Sunday
in Ordinary Time Click here for printer-friendly .PDF format Isaiah 35:4-7a Tyre and Sidon.
In Jesus’ time and amongst Jesus’ people, the mere mention
of the cities of Tyre and Sidon was sure to raise an eyebrow, curl a
lip, and emit a sound of utter disgust. Tyre and Sidon, towns in a region
more repulsive to the good religious people of Jerusalem than even the
region of Galilee. Tyre and Sidon, full of nothing but outsiders and
foreigners with all their revolting customs and repellant religions.
Why in the world would Jesus, or any religiously observant person, want
to be in that literally—to the Judeans—God-forsaken land?
One of the miserable
foreigners—a pagan woman with a sick child (could it get any worse?)
comes to Jesus and asks, no, begs (how obnoxious) that Jesus heal her
ailing daughter. And Jesus’ response to her plea sounding so mean-spirited,
but not to be taken literally, rather Mark’s neat narrative device:
“Listen,” says Jesus, “in my culture, among my people,
my tribe, you have the same status as a dog—and we are not a dog-loving
bunch.” But this foreigner, this woman, this transgressing tart
(why else would she be out in public without a male) won’t let
it rest, won’t take no for an answer. Brash and brazen her begging.
But the woman’s odd and crazed persistence pleases Jesus, thrills
Jesus, and Jesus heals the woman’s daughter. The good religious
folk of Jesus’ culture and nation can’t be pleased, can only
be scandalized to the hilt that Jesus would treat this foreigner and
a woman to boot with loving kindness. What’s more, the people of
the woman’s culture and nation can be none too pleased either that
one of their people has gone to and received help from this south-of-the-border
alien who doesn’t belong in El Norte to begin with. Then as if
healing the pagan woman’s daughter wasn’t enough to rile things
up with everyone, Jesus goes on to Sidon and heals there yet another
pagan foreigner. How could one person so quickly, so deftly scandalize
everyone on every side merely by acts of love and kindness? It is indeed revolting
and repellant, disgusting and beyond disagreeable in every age to hear
that Jesus—true God from true God—does not play favorites;
rather that in Christ, God wills to bless, love, and heal all people
of every nation, every culture, every creed. It is most troubling on
every side to hear that Jesus will have no truck with our human tribalism,
most troubling to hear that putting “in God we trust” on our
coins and “God bless America” on our bumpers will not make
God love us any more or any differently from how God loves the people
of Lebanon, Israel, Syria, Iran, Iraq, the Palestinian territories,
you name it. Jesus’ actions in Sidon and Tyre reveal for all time
and for all people that The God of The Cross will not be a god made
in “our” image, for “our” people, for “our”
supremacy; will not be used for justifying “our” hatred of
those not “us,” for justifying “our” revenge against
the other, or “our” campaigns of alienation, terror, violence
and war. God does not and will not play favorites, and God does not
and will not have any use whatsoever for our human-hand-made divisions. Tyre and Sidon.
Only a little more than a month ago, these ancient place names assumed
contemporary prominence in the news, became names that fell off the
lips of Anderson Cooper as if he had known them all his life. Tyre and
Sidon. Still and once again watchwords of tribalism, still and again
the places where ancient enmities keep on keeping on. Israelis, and
Lebanese; Sunni and Shiite; Hezbollah and Hamas; Iran and Syria—and
God-knows-who-else—their one thing in common: to do one another
in, each and every group thinking itself most favored by God—and
all the rest, of course, despicable in God’s eyes. The story of
Cain and Abel reenacted in Tyre and Sidon once yet once more, the suffering
as ceaseless as the tide. Innocents killed alongside the not-so-innocent.
Children continually robbed of their limbs, lives, or the love of a
parent blown up by a road-side bomb. Families forever destroyed, forever
and ever to light candles of remembrance and mourning for those who
died in Which-war-was-it-anyway, they all seem so damned alike. Tomorrow. The fifth anniversary of what the world has come to call “Nine-eleven.” I don’t know about the rest of you, but I still can not stand to watch replays of what we saw that day; I will not go to films portraying that day’s events in New York, Washington DC, or in the skies above a field in Pennsylvania; and I am not reading any of the too-many newspaper or magazine articles being written about that day five years ago, too terrible for words. I lost no-one that day, but still . . . I am brought to my knees again and again by its mere mention. And so I can only barely, just a tiny bit, begin to imagine what it is like for the women of modern Tyre whose daughters have been maimed or murdered by an Israeli rocket, what it is like for the men of contemporary Sidon whose lives lie in ruins and whose wives and children sleep silently entombed in mass graves. I can only barely begin to imagine what it must be like for the wife and family of the man killed by a Katyousha missile in the backyard of his Tel Aviv home. And then I think of our own so-called War on Terror. What would it have
been like if the United States had met the hellish events of five years
ago not with guns and bombs, but with massive amounts of food, with
health care, and with diplomacy rather than with vengeance; had met
the events of five years ago with prayers and forgiveness and turning
the other cheek? Could things be any worse than they are now? Today, in the course
of two liturgies, we will baptize two children and two adults. A day
surely to rejoice as four people receive the tangible token of God’s
Promise—the Promise that God sees each of them as Christ, that
God proclaims them to be Christ for the sake of the world, the Promise
that with the heart of Christ beating within them, their alienation
from the God of love is no more. And all of this is absolutely, unconditionally,
guaranteed-by-God to be free, free, free, free as can be. Yet . . .
there is a cost. The heart of Christ is a heart that scandalizes people
of every nation by favoring no one nation, by loving, blessing, and
praying for the people of every nation. And you must know: there is
no nation where Christ and those with the heart of Christ will be long
or easily tolerated. Today, two children and two adults hear of God’s unconditional love and forgiveness of them and of all people; two children and two adults hear who they are being made to be. And with them, all of you will hear that Promise. All of you, infinitely and forever loved and blessed, infinitely accepted and forgiven by God, just because that’s the way God is. All of you peacemakers, knowing no tribe or land, yet loving and praying for every people and nation. In this world that will never be popular; in this world that will always be dangerous. It is, however, that way of life which is eternal and everlasting; it is life in the God whose final and forever words are those of unconditional love and a peace that passes all our human understanding, the peace that will not be ever brought by missiles or bombs or guns but is always brought by the cross and resurrection—the cross and resurrection, in which the Christ-God, your God proclaims: “Though you kill me, I will not raise a hand, and my dying peace and love shall live forever.” You, the baptized—that’s what you are all about, for yours now is the heart of Christ, crucified and risen. And that’s God’s Promise—in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. AMEN Twenty-Second Sunday
in Ordinary Time Click here for printer-friendly .PDF format Deuteronomy 4:1-2,
6-9 I have this really terrible personality quirk: I like to shock people. Not sure why—just one of my many perversities. More often than not, when people meet me and hear I'm a pastor, they apologize for not being “religious.” Almost always I flash a wicked grin and say, “Hey, cool. I'm not either!” They never know what to say. “You're joking, right? How can you not be religious? You're a priest for chrissake. Oops, sorry reverend.” I love it; I get 'em every time. But I do mean it. I'm not religious. Nor need any of you be. The Gospel of Jesus Christ is about the end and death of religion. Father Robert Farrar Capon, an Episcopal priest, tells us that “religion . . . is the human race's age-long preoccupation with the notion that there is something we can or should do to set ourselves right with God, or to get God to be nice, or to make the universe go more smoothly.” Indeed. There is, we think, something we can do to keep God off our backs. But how do we figure out what that “something” is? Religionists tell us we must read the Bible—or as someone in all seriousness has called it, “God's little rule book.” Ish! Makes me want to puke. Many people have observed that the most pressing problem within the Church today is how to read the Bible. However, it's always been a problem. This business of how to read and interpret Scripture was at the core of much of Martin Luther's preaching and teaching. With that in mind, let's work with our readings for this morning, readings that seem completely preoccupied with rules. In the first reading we hear from Moses that all the commandments of Torah, of which the Ten Commandments are only a tiny few, are to be kept in their entirety. “Guess what?” says Luther. “Moses and the Law of Moses have nothing to do with us.” All those rules, says Luther, they get us absolutely nowhere with God. Oh yes, we need rules to keep from killing each other, and every place in every time and land needs to figure those rules out. And the business of the state then is to enforce those rules. The business of the Church, however, is to help us know that we cannot get right with God via the rules; that because of who we are and because we live on planet shadowed over by evil we cannot escape, it is impossible to make ourselves good to God. Rather it is God who makes God's self right with us. And it gets even better: God comes to earth in Christ and says through the cross that there is nothing we can do, not even put God to death, that will force God to be angry and vengeful. Nothing. In return for our crucifixion of God we receive not punishment but new life—God says, I create in you a new heart, a heart that beats now to the tune of my unconditional love for you. So there. So what becomes of all the rules in the Bible? With regard to the Epistle of James from which we heard this morning, Martin Luther would have gladly kept it out of Scripture; the thoroughly potty-mouthed, irreligious man that he was, Luther called the book of James all sorts of earthy things that I'll only repeat if you come to Catechism class on Wednesday evenings. James, to Luther, had hopelessly confused The Rules with The Gospel, The Gospel that says we can't get right with God via The Rules. If you're going to read the Bible in a way that is true to Christ, you've got to make a distinction between The Rules and The Promise, between Law and Gospel, and to do that, you have to use your God-given brains to read the various books of Scripture each in the context of their own time and culture. In Deuteronomy, the source of our first reading, when church and state were one, we have rules that really were God's gracious gift to the people of that time and place; those rules were incredibly progressive in the pursuit of well-being and a truly just social order. But they were for a particular time, people, and place—as are all the rules in scripture that keep chaos at bay, that work to keep life sane and just. None of the rules, from beginning to end of Scripture, has much to do with us in our time and place. The state, in every time and every place, has the duty to figure out how best to provide rules for the good of everybody. But the rules also have another function, says Luther. The rules about loving God with all the heart, mind, and soul and the neighbor as the self—those rules especially should function like a mirror. They show us that rather than loving God and the neighbor, we are, all of us, infinitely turned in on ourselves. The rules about loving God and the neighbor, when properly taught, show us that the human heart is concerned with making the self god, with making one's self the ruler of the universe. No set of rules, no matter how well followed is going to change us from being turned-in-on-ourselves, is going to change us from wanting to shove God right off the throne and take over. Washing pots, pans, and hands—especially in the food service industry—is good public health law, but it's is not going to do anything to change the heart. We humans have the innate capacity to call ourselves lovers of humanity, to give to charity, to work for the poor, to care for the widow and orphan and still deep inside, thoroughly despise and wish off the planet some of the people who surround us. Ask me. I'm really good at it. And God may be number one for a few minutes when we're in church, but get out the door and suddenly money, power, prestige, and privilege, all for ourselves, once again become our ultimate concern. The rules about loving God and neighbor, when properly taught, should show us that. But the Promise has nothing to do with following even the rules about loving God and the neighbor. The Gospel, the Promise, that's unconditional—and it is precisely for those who know deep down inside that they are truly turned in on self. The Promise, the Gospel, is for those of us, who know, deep down inside that we are people who honor God with our lips but not with our lives. The Promise of God's unconditional love and forgiveness is for those of us who know that in our hearts we make other people into objects to be used. The Promise for those of us who lust after fast gas-guzzling cars, expensive clothes, and luxurious vacations, and who can rationalize away the fact that these things come at great cost to the planet and to someone, somewhere. The Promise is for those people who in their hearts have come to know that to be a citizen of the United States in this age is to have obscene privileges at the expense of not only the rest of the world but at the expense of some of our fellow citizens and their forebears. The Promise is for those who know they are a part of systemic evils, many of which they are, by and large, powerless to overcome. Furthermore, Martin Luther reminds us, The Promise is the only thing that gives Scripture its authority, and those things in Scripture which do not point us to the Promise may be safely ignored. Ignore the rules? Egads! What then becomes of our behavior? What's to keep us from killing each other? It's the State's job to keep us humans in line; it's the State's job to lock us up for life when we kill. And the Church's job? It's the Church's job to announce the end of religion, to proclaim that the god of revenge is dead, dead, dead. It's the Church's job to proclaim: Your God rules from the cross and proclaims to all humanity, “I will not take revenge upon you, my murderers, rather I will turn my cheek and forgive you all. And I am not be found among the religious, but among the unclean and cast-out, among the thieves and prostitutes. And upon the cross with me, your old self is being put to death and with me in the resurrection, your new self arises.” Sisters and brothers: You have been united with Christ in death, and you are now united with Christ in resurrection. And now in this new life, you have the heart of Christ beating within you. Now there are no longer any rules to follow, only a resurrected life to lead, loving the neighbor as the self—the new self, the self of Christ, the self who loves to death and thereby lives forever. And that's not religion: it's the Promise. So go now you irreligious lot: you are Christ for the world. Twenty-First
Sunday in Ordinary Time Joshua 24:1-2a,
14-18 Oh Jesus, "This teaching is difficult, offensive, scandalous." Whoever eats me, whoever consumes me will live because of me! Yuck! That's about as revolting as anything could get. Or is it? I used to think the real "ick" factor of this teaching of Jesus was the part about eating, consuming Jesus. And yes, there still is something difficult, offensive, scandalous, just plain gross about as the Greek says it - gnawing upon Jesus. There is something in Jesus' words, however, that's even more scandalous than munching on his flesh and drinking his blood. There is one particular
type of conversation about the church I have more often than any other
sort; it's a conversation that is as familiar to me as the hand in front
of my face. A part of the reason it's so familiar is that half the time
the conversation is with none other than myself. It goes sort of like
this. "The problem with the church is that it's so filled with
hypocrites." What do you mean? "You know, people who say one
thing and then turn around and do the exact opposite." Give me
an example. "That's so, so easy. Jesus says not to judge others,
and what to Christians do better than anybody? Judge. Christian - it's
synonymous with 'judgmental.' They make me absolutely wanna puke. Who
do they think they are anyway?" So you don't think people should
judge other people? "No, I can't stand judgmental people. So, I
stay away from church so I don't have to hang around those rotten, judgmental
hypocrites and see them all traipsing up to communion." Jesus says "Whoever
eats me, consumes me will live because of me." The part that's
really difficult, really offensive? It's that whoever part. Even the
hypocrites? How indiscriminate. How undiscerning. How downright promiscuous
of God. Good-by to standards, and there goes the neighborhood. Yes,
Free lunch - even for the hypocrites. Talk about an "ick"
factor. Are we really sure we want to be a part of a group that would
actually include . . . the hypocrites. Because of this, this whoever,
this radical inclusiveness, many of the disciples turned away and no
longer went about with him. Jesus turns to the
so-called "faithful remnant." Well, what about you? Are you
going to take off too? Peter replies, "Where we gonna go? You're
the only one around here talking about the life of the ages, the life
beyond all time. Of course we'll stick around. We'll be the ones who
feed upon you, who consume you. We're with you till the end." The
others nod enthusiastically. Oh, yes, yes. That's us, the reliable ones.
The ones chosen by God. Just like the Israelites who say to Joshua in
today's first reading, "Far be it from us that we should forsake
the Lord to serve other gods." Until, that is, some other god comes
along with a better offer - one that includes prestige, power, privilege,
the latest in electronic gadgets, and a great vacation home thrown into
the bargain. Peter and the others thought Jesus was just great, until
it was apparent that Jesus had no intention whatsoever of making anybody
number one, of making anyone a winner, until it was apparent that Jesus
wasn't going to side with one nation under God and would not be conducting
any time soon a shock and awe campaign against the Roman terrorists.
Jesus was just great until it was far too clear that Jesus was not going
to strike back at his enemies; until it was apparent that Jesus would
not curse his murderers. Jesus was just great until it was apparent
to the twelve briefly remaining disciples that to Jesus, glory and power
were all about giving up all glory and power and privilege in order
to wash their smelly feet like some woman slave. And then, the most
offensive thing of all: telling them to go out and be the same. So, the twelve have
gone the way of the rest and have decided to no longer go about with
you Jesus. Your words have been so difficult that you have managed to
offend everyone. Who would choose to follow you? "No one,"
replies Jesus. "No one . . . unless it's granted to them by the
One in whom is life, the life of the ages." OK. So pray tell, who
then does God choose?? Remember Lazarus? The nice thing about Lazarus is that being so thoroughly dead that he stinketh, he couldn't talk back or whine about 'it's too hard' or make any lame promises he couldn't keep; all dead Lazarus could do was lie around and stink up the place. But then into realm of the dead the command sounds forth from the One who was in the beginning, through whom all things were made, and when that One commands - well, let's just say, whole universes happen. Lazarus, come forth. And Lazarus did come forth. And no, he most assuredly did not decide to accept Jesus as his personal Lord and Savior. Dead people do not decide anything. God made the decision that Lazarus would rise. God is the decider - the only decider (in spite of what the Current Occupant thinks). And God decides - God decides to raise the dead. God so loves the world that God has decided to raise the whole world. All of us. Just because that's who God is. And so this feast
that is celebrated here this day and every Lord's Day and a few other
days thrown in for good measure. And the menu: the very essence, the
body and blood of the God who has decided to raise us, the dead and
the dying. This feast, a foretaste of the feast to come, the breaking
in of eternity upon our deadly ways . . . life, new life, for you, in
the God who is beyond all ages. Resurrection, your resurrection here,
now, today. Already, though not yet fully. This feast, your death and
your new beginning, your tomb already sealed, your tomb already broken
open. But one word of caution, however: this feast is only for the dead and those who will die, for it's only the dead whom God calls forth to life. And if that's not you, well, I guess you're lucky - you won't be needing to traipse up to communion with us hypocrites. Sixteenth
Sunday in Ordinary Time Click here for printer-friendly .PDF format Jeremiah 23: 1-6 Building up Walls, Breaking them Down I am holding in
my hand a piece of the Berlin wall, I’ve kept this
piece of cement for almost 17 years. Sadly, new walls are being built. Even as we sit here
today, Closer to home, Notably, The division that
these texts address Way back in the
book of Exodus, The people of Israel
In addition to the
social barriers that existed during the time of Christ, In the Gospel text
this morning Today’s Epistle, Following the example
of Jesus in the gospel text, I get frustrated
sometimes And yet, I am hopeful because
last summer, And, I carry this
piece of the Berlin wall - More than that, Ephesians speaks
of Christ’s body, And just as the
Gospel describes Christ crossing the Sea of Galilee, Amen. 1 Exodus 19:6 Thirteenth Sunday
in Ordinary Time Click here for printer-friendly .PDF format Psalm 30 My guess is that most of you know about the NIMBY phenomenon. NIMBY of course stands for Not In My Back Yard. Sure, we need shelters for battered women, but Not In My Back Yard—not near why I live. We need low-income housing, but Not In My Back Yard, not in my neighborhood. After all, we have to look out for ourselves, our neighborhood, our property values. A close relative of NIMBY-ism, not nearly so widely knwn is OIMBY-ism. OIMBY stands for Only In My Back Yard. Feed the hungry, for sure, but let’s start here, in Denver—or if we really have to go beyond our immediate surroundings—let’s start with the hungry in the United States. Yes, it’s great to support the Rocky Mountain Synod and the whole Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, but look how much more we could do in our own back yard if we weren’t sending more than 15% of our offerings to the work of the church beyond our own parish. Why can’t we keep that 15% so that we can do more, right here where we live, among ourselves and our own? OIMBY. Only In My Back Yard. Neither NIMBY-ism nor OIMBY-ism are new phenomena. My hunch is that they’re as old as humankind. Putting I, me, mine, and—if need be—ours first might even be the larger portion of what we call “original sin.” If we listen closely to the structure of this morning’s Gospel, we hear not only the lurking OIMBY-ism and NIMBY-ism of St. Mark’s audience, but ours as well. The story begins with Jairus, a much respected leader of the religious community, coming to Jesus and begging Jesus that his daughter, lying at home near death, be healed. And, since Jairus isn’t just any person, of course Jesus will go with the religious leader to grant his daughter healing. Who could be more deserving? Besides, Jairus and his daughter—they’re tribe, they’re part of the family. And observant to boot. We take care of our own first. But while on the way to the house of Jairus, a fly from outside the back yard finds its way into the ointment: an unclean woman enters the scene. She is Other, she is not us; compared to worthy Jairus, she is not deserving of one ounce of attention. Now, normal women are unclean once a month and need to remain in the confines of their homes only a few days. This woman, however, has had a flow of blood for twelve years —never clean—therefore virtually worthless, needing to be shunned, an outcast. What’s more, the good religious people know that this kind of affliction, lasting as long as it has—resistant to therapy and getting worse – this kind of affliction can only be a punishment from God. The unclean woman’s flow of blood is only a symptom of some other sort of evil lurking within her heart. She probably has a right to live and even to seek healing, but let her do it elsewhere—get her away from us. NIMBY: we don’t want her in our back yard. And while all this fal-der-al is going on with this...this...undesirable, time is a-wasting. The truly deserving, good Jairus and his innocent daughter, are being kept waiting. And now, look what you’ve done Jesus—power has gone out from you and this undeserving outcast has been healed. You’ve not only wasted some of your power on this outcast, you’ve also rendered yourself unclean by letting her touch you. Now you really shouldn’t enter the home of Jairus even if you do have some healing power left. Why can’t you restrict your healing to those who are a part of your tribe, your nation, those who are clean in the sight of your own religion? And then come people from the religious leader’s house. Too late, Jesus. The daughter of Jairus is dead. “Not so!” says Jesus. “With God there is always great abundance. There’s more than enough of the gifts of God to go around—more than enough to provide for the outcast, the outsider AND to provide for those who are in the back yard. It’s not ever a question of either/or. There is an abundance of the gifts from God—for all— without exception.” In the God of Christ Jesus there are no insiders or outsiders—there is only abundant grace for any and all in need. St. Paul in this morning’s second reading is writing to a congregation with a severe case of OYMBY-ism. The Corinthians are out for themselves, not really interested in contributing to the needs of those outside their own community. Look, says Paul—there’s an incredibly poor community—in another part of the world—and even they are giving out of their poverty to the needs of people beyond their own back yard. And here are you Corinthians—a bunch of rascals who, nonetheless, have received God’s grace abundant. God has overlooked the raunchiness of your lives and has proclaimed you to be as completely righteous as Christ. So now, how about being who you are? Be Christ! Give to the needs of those outside your own backyard; you’ve got way more than enough. Furthermore, you can bet that if and when you have needs—even the poor of Christ will provide for you. Commit yourselves to the healing, to the binding up of the wounds of the world, for that is who you are in Christ, individually and as a community. The United States
is well-known—or perhaps one might say infamous—for trumpeting
itself as a Christian nation—and yet, this richest, most powerful
empire the world has ever known is dead last among the industrialized
nations in the percentage of gross national product it contributes to
humanitarian aid outside its borders. A case of Only In My Back Yard?
Would that it were so. The Day of Pentecost Click here for printer-friendly .PDF format Acts 2:1-21 Many of you know
that, Although I have
not yet given birth myself, Now, if you've seen
depictions of labor on television While there are
some births that happen very quickly, Ademas de mi trabajo
aqui en la Iglesia Luterana San Pablo In today's reading
from Romans Paul is speaking
of the sounds, El texto de Romanos
hoy habla de los dolores del parto, What does this transformed
world look like? No doubt, ¿Como ve
un mundo transformado? In addition to creation
groaning in labor pains, While we are already
children of God, El Espiritu de Dio
tambien esta transformando nosotros mismos, The Holy Spirit
is already moving in creation This waiting is
not a passive act. I want to return
for a moment to the image of the laboring woman As humans, our first
reaction to pain Labor is counterintuitive. Nosotros tambien
tenemos un rol en la transformacion The transformation
within creation This is the good
news: Esta es la noticia
buena, Amen The Fifth Sunday
in Easter Acts 8:26-40 Click here for printer-friendly .PDF file Drawing lines in the sand. It’s one of the things we humans do best. I, me, and mine on one side, the “other,” the unacceptable, the outcast on the opposite side. And the justifications for drawing our lines and for placing other people on the other side of the lines we draw in the sand—well, they’re infinite—limited only by that remarkable, double-edged sword called human imagination. Perhaps we don’t like the way “they” look. Too tall, too thin, too fat, too short. Hair or eyes different from ours. Skin not quite the same color as ours. Perhaps their language and culture are different from ours. Then, to make good and sure that our placement of the others on the opposite side of the line remains secure, we heap as many negative nouns and adjectives upon them as possible. You know: lazy, drunk, greedy, slow, promiscuous, unstable, sneaky, stupid, pervert, prostitute, thief, alien, welfare queen, Jew, Mick, Spic, and Wop; wow, this is fun—we could keep at it all day and hardly begin to exhaust the labels we pile upon those on the opposite side of the lines we draw in the sand. Consider the label “eunuch,” a word we hear in this morning’s first reading. In the cultural world of the scriptures, a eunuch is a male who has been castrated, or who is asexual, or who is an intersexed individual, or a person with ambiguous genitalia. “Eunuch,” a word to be uttered with a look of disgust if not downright horror. “Eunuch,” a word that was quite helpfully extended to also mean, any male past adolescence who was not married...sort of like, well, Jesus. “Eunuch,” a word so very useful in justifying those lines we draw in the sand. And then, as if
all the labels weren’t enough, we, in a true fit of creativity,
make for ourselves god-in-our-own-image, a particular god who will faithfully,
unfailingly side with us who are on the proper, acceptable, righteous
side of the line, a god who will dependably join with us in condemnation
of the dreaded other, the one on the other side of the lines we draw
in the sand. Let’s revisit “eunuchs.” The scriptures
are quite clear. In Deuteronomy we hear no eunuch will be allowed to
be a part of the assembly. No exceptions. Eunuchs join all sorts of
others on the opposite side of the line: women, foreigners, lepers,
cripples, the blind, pig farmers, fishers to name a few. Eunuchs, consigned
to the ranks of those supposedly beyond the love of “god.”
We love the god who joins with us in sending those on the other side
of the line straight to hell and for all eternity—preferably sooner
rather than later. Gosh, electric chairs, nooses, gas chambers, armies,
and bombs—even big rocks—so wonderfully useful after all.
Oh, and crosses, by all means, let us not forget crosses. Christ Jesus and the people of the way of the cross, they step over the lines we draw in the sand—and just look what ends up happening: eunuchs receive the promises of the loving God who created them, and they are proclaimed whole and clean and truly wonderful in God’s sight. And all the others on the wrong side of the line—all of them touched, embraced, loved, proclaimed to be God’s very own daughters and sons—every single one of them. And all of them—joined to Jesus, people now who live with Jesus, in Jesus on the wrong side of the line—people now who are continually becoming one with Jesus: one with Jesus in loving, loving to death, their own death, all who are “other,” all who dwell on the wrong side of the line. This, beloved sisters and brothers is who you are—people of the way, one with the Jesus who is forever to be found on the wrong side of the line. This is who you truly are—branches grafted onto a sturdy vine, one with the vine—living, working, giving—and sometimes even dying—for the sake of any and all on the suspect side of the lines drawn in the sand. Wild things that we can sometimes be, however, we oft’ times become like an unruly offshoot of the true vine – we send out little creepers that seem to think things are better on the side of the line where privilege and power dwell, on that side of the line where dwell the empty promises of the gods made by human hands, the gods that speak the cruel words of exclusion, entitlement, condemnation, hate, prejudice, and fear – the gods that promise that the life is to be found in money, possessions, muscles, body-type, military superiority, skin color, language, gender, age, marital status, and in –isms nearly without number. And so our wild tendrils, our rebellious creepers—the Spirit, a most Holy Gardener, comes to trim and prune. Among the pruning tools of the Holy Spirit Gardener—the Word proclaimed—the Word thats tell us over and over who we truly are—in words like those of St. John that tell us again that we are branches on the vine of the unseen God of love, and in the vine, one with the God who is love, one with the God who is in love with us and with all people, and therefore, we do not hate—it’s not who we are. And the Holy Spirit Gardener waters us, and with that life-giving water proclaims the Gospel promise—that God is continually making you branches of the true vine, and because God is bigger than you, not even your wild, creeping tendrils are going to mess that up. And the Holy Spirit Gardener feeds us—with wine and bread that become for us, that become for you, the true essence of the true vine that you may be people of the way. Hear it once more people of God: with Christ, your life is life lived in solidarity with all the beloved of God who dwell on the wrong side of the lines drawn in the sand. Now come, take Christ into your own bodies that you may strengthened to be who you are. And as you go out into the world this day, mark yourselves again with water and the sign of the cross—for you are people of the way of the cross, taking your place in love with all who dwell on the wrong side of the lines drawn in the sand. In the name of the Father, and of the Son +, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. The Fourth Sunday
in Easter Click here for printer-friendly .PDF file Acts 4:5-12 For at least the past twelve centuries, the Fourth Sunday of Easter has been known as Good Shepherd Sunday. Year after year for twelve-hundred years church-goers throughout the world have heard on this day, “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want,” have heard from St. John on this day that Jesus is the Good Shepherd who lays down his life for the sheep. It’s a safe Sunday, right? Nothing much to upset us – not much to really rock the boat or challenge the way things are. The sheep are cute and the shepherd is friendly, forever posing benignly in white robes for portraits rendered in nearly every artistic medium known to humanity, tamed forever in the splendor of stained-glass windows nearly without number. Nice, good shepherd. I have a proposal, however. I know it’ll never fly with the organized religion crowd, but I would really like to rename this Sunday. I don’t mean to be irreverent or disrespectful, but I’d like to call this “Insane Shepherd Sunday.” Of course to the rabbis of Jesus’ time, sticking the adjective “insane” next to the noun “shepherd” would be more-or-less redundant. Some of you have heard me discourse ad naseum about the purported proclivities of shepherds—so I’ll spare the details. Suffice it to say, shepherds weren’t exactly on the “A” list of invitees to the annual Sanhedrin Masked Ball. They were so well-known for their odd behaviors that rabbinic commentaries wondered why God would have ever let either the Psalmist or the prophets refer to God as a shepherd. Shepherds, in Jesus’ time, were odd, to say the least, but then along comes Jesus, not only contributing to the lore of odd shepherd behaviors—but just plain upping the ante. Remember with me how Jesus asks the people: what shepherd of a hundred sheep wouldn’t leave the 99 in the wilderness and go looking for the one lost sheep, and when the shepherd has found the one sheep, throws a big blow-out of a party in honor of the found sheep? Shepherds may be odd, but you’d be hard pressed to find a shepherd quite that odd. And then there’s this morning’s story from St. John. Here Jesus calls himself the Good Shepherd who lays down his life for the sheep. Do you catch how totally, utterly idiotic this is? Jesus notes that a whole lot of shepherds are hirelings and so aren’t really all that devoted to the safety of their flocks. By contrast, a shepherd who owns the sheep is going to be much more conscientious. Of course, but a shepherd laying down his or her life for sheep?!?! Dying in an accident—slipping on a rock and falling while trying to rescue a sheep—maybe...but intentionally, willingly, without coercion, a person dying for sheep???? Things just don’t get much more disproportionate than that. Sheep may be cute—when they’re washed and groomed and when little. But they’re basically smelly, dumb, dirty, and stubborn. And no amount of sheep are worth a person’s life—let alone the life of the one who is God from God, Light from Light, True God from True God. This is one totally nutball shepherd—a real weirdo, a total loony-tune, beyond wacko. This beyond-wacko shepherd is also grandiose. Not content with a small flock, he claims all the sheep are his—and he wants one big huge flock without divisions or distinctions. And he’s going to die for all the sheep of the world. No wonder in John 10, verse 20 we hear the crowds say that Jesus is out of his mind! So what’s this insane shepherd up to anyway? Why all this bother about sheep in the first place? Pain in the butt that they are, sheep do fulfill a purpose—they produce wool. And lambs are a food source—and in poorer countries, even when sheep no longer produce decent wool, mutton is still a decent source of tallow for lamps and candles and something to be tossed in the pot for protein. And in certain times and places, quality lambs can be sold at a premium for temple sacrifices. Sheep are a commercial means to a commercial end. Sheep are things to be used and consumed, and no one but children ever gets too upset over a dead sheep – especially when roast rack of lamb is served at a banquet. But then we have this insane shepherd, ridiculously in love with the sheep, with every lamb, ram, and ewe that has been and will ever be, and he’s going to die to prove it. Jesus, the insane shepherd, dying to say: “I delight in you sheep, just for who you are. I’m such a goofy shepherd, that I’m not going to use you – for wool, for tallow, for Irish stew, or for a sacrifice. I would rather die than be known as one who sees sheep as something to use, a means to an end—something to be sheered, slaughtered, or sacrificed. I delight in my sheep—every single one of them, not just the champions, but the runts, the non-producers, the ones who need to be carried, the ones constantly getting caught in the thorns, the white ones, the black ones, the grey ones, the bald ones, the little ones, the old ones, the odd ones, the nasty ones—you name ‘em, and I call them mine, and I will die before I’ll let them be hurt, used, or abused. I really am just that weird, odd, eccentric, insane..............holy. Now, here’s where the story of the insane shepherd gets even more interesting. After the shepherd lets himself get killed rather than be known as a slaughtering shepherd, the shepherd comes to life again—for the Master Story-teller wants it known for all time, that the insane way of the insane shepherd is the way to that life which is of the ages, the way to that life which is from eternity, unto eternity. But the Master Story-teller isn’t done yet —in the oddest move of all, the Story-teller says: “You know, my friends—you might still look and act a whole lot like sheep on the outside—jbut by the work of my creative breath, I’m busily turning you into...... shepherds. Insane shepherds. You now are being made new in the image of The Insane Shepherd who delights in the sheep, all the sheep, without exception. YOU are being made new in the image of the Insane Shepherd whose way of self-sacrifice is the way to the only life that is lasting. You too will lay down your lives for the sheep. And don’t bother protesting that you don’t want to be Insane Shepherds. It’s my story and I’ve already written the ending, and I know that it ends well. Very well. Very well indeed.” In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. |
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