Here We Go! Sermon on Matthew 10:5-15, 40-42

I was only the second person in my family to go to college. It was a big adventure. And the process of packing was an ordeal. What to take? I have been a voracious reader since my mom caught me reading “The Bobbsey Twins” under the covers with a flashlight. Do I take all the books I love? Do I take “The Diary of Anne Frank” and “The Story of a Soul,” the autobiography of Saint Therese of Lisieux? (The answer to this question was, “No.” In college you acquire additional tons of books, so you don’t take all your favorite books, especially if you are a bookworm.) Do I take all my music? Which, for a college girl in 1978 meant vinyl AND cassettes AND 8-track tapes. (The answer to this question was a qualified “Yes;” the 8-track tapes got left behind—in more ways than one.) And clothes… you leave for college in the summer, and by the time you come home for Thanksgiving break it is practically winter! So do you take all those clothes? (For me, the answer was “Yes.” And it is this single fact that necessitated the upgrade from driving to Boston in my parent’s car to the rental of a small U-Haul truck.)

What do we really need, when we hit the road, when we say, “Here we go!” and where we’re going takes us on a brand new adventure? My friends and I played a game in college that involved naming the five essentials we would want to take to a desert island—usually, five essential books, or recordings, the assumption being, I survive, that we would be able to survive on our own, a la Tom Hanks in “Cast Away.” To which my older, wiser self replies, Yeah, right.

Which I imagine might be something akin to what the Twelve said at the prospect of going on their missionary journey. Usually when I speak of Jesus’ friends and followers, I use language as inclusive as possible. I say things like, “Jesus’ friends and followers,” because the gospels tell us that there were many more than “the Twelve” gathered around Jesus. At times, his followers were in the hundreds. But in this passage from the gospel of Matthew, Jesus sends the “Twelve,” meaning, the twelve apostles. That’s what “apostle” means, “one who is sent.” And here, the twelve are living into that definition. They are being sent with the message of the gospel, into the world.

Now, they are being sent, this first time, on a relatively modest expedition. Go nowhere near the Gentiles, Jesus says, and stay away from those scary Samaritans. Don’t go to any places where a hostile reception is more or less guaranteed. Instead, go to the lost sheep of Israel—in other words, go to be among “our own people.” People to whom the apostles are already related, their own tribes. Twelve tribes. Remember, way back in the late winter, early spring, when we were talking about Matthew’s gospel, and his eagerness to paint Jesus as the “new Moses?” Here he goes again: just as Jesus as the “new Moses,” the twelve apostles and their mission to the twelve tribes are making up the “new Israel.”[i]

But packing for this trip is an ordeal of a different kind. No U-Haul required. I remember when my parents opened a checking account for me, and taught me how to use it. But, Jesus says, Take no gold, or silver, or copper in your belts. Take no checkbooks or ATM cards. I’ve already mentioned the mammoth haul that required not only a truck but by brother’s willingness to lift and carry and relocate. But, Jesus says, Take no bag for your journey, or two tunics, or sandals, or a staff. Don’t take your prom gown, “just in case.” I recall the college meal card, and mastering the art of making it last for the full semester, but the twelve are, evidently, going to have to depend on the kindness of strangers, for laborers deserve their food, Jesus says. Implying, that it will be supplied—not brought along in Tupperware containers.

Who, in their right mind, would agree to such working conditions? The apostles are being sent on a mission with what appears to be exactly nothing. Only themselves, and the clothes on their backs.

And what they are supposed to do? Well, proclaim the Good News, Jesus says, Tell those lost sheep, ‘The kingdom of heaven has come near.’ Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons.

Oh fine. Just go about Galilee being Jesus? Is that what he’s asking? Is he serious? And it’s true. Jesus has been going all around Galilee and points beyond, and he has been sharing this news, ‘The kingdom of heaven has come near,’ which is polite and pious Jewish shorthand for ‘The kingdom of God has come near.’ Which is Jesus’ way of saying, ‘Here I am.’

Jesus is the kingdom of God come near. Jesus is healing, and life-giving, and accepting the people who were otherwise considered unacceptable—like the demon-possessed and the lepers. Jesus embodies all these things, all without benefit of his dog-eared copy of “The Catcher in the Rye” or his lucky baseball glove or any extra baggage whatsoever. He is all these things in himself, and by sending them out with absolutely nothing, he tells the twelve, You are too. You are all these things.

And so he sends them out, to embody the dawning kingdom of God. That time and place—already here, and not quite here—when we will all be healed, and we will all be given new life, and we will all be accepted. He sends them out to accomplish all these things without the benefit of a mobile army surgical hospital or a tony spa in the Adirondacks. He sends them out without a whole lot of training, and even fewer provisions. He sends them out to simply be themselves, and to bring healing and new life and acceptance for all God’s children with them. Because that is how we go about proclaiming the Good News: we do it with our own lives. This is that wonderful advice attributed to Saint Francis of Assisi: “Preach the gospel at all times. If necessary, use words.”[ii]

But, you know, as reassuring as all that is—that we can embody the gospel, that we can bring new life like Jesus did, etc. etc.—as reassuring as all that is, the prospect of actually doing the thing still paralyzes us. Doesn’t it? Who here has their 2-minute long elevator speech ready to go? You know, the short pitch to invite people to your church? Or, even bolder, to tell them why you love Jesus? Anyone?

If we feel daunted—well, we can start small. One-cup-of-cold-water-small. Did you catch that part? If going out armed with only your sweet self and the clothes on you back and the joy, joy, joy, joy down in your heart is just too much to contemplate—well, just consider welcoming someone else who is doing that, by giving them a cup of cold water when they’re thirsty. No, not even that—giving a cup of cold water to a “little one” who knows someone who’s spreading the gospel. That’s it! That’s our way in. The kingdom of God/ kingdom of heaven is so vast, so unfathomably enormous. And we get to participate in it by starting small, by starting right where we are, right here, right now. With what we can do, now. We can give a cup of cold water.

So here we go! Because, you knew it, didn’t you—we are being sent, just like the twelve. And we don’t need special training or provisions. We don’t need a seminary education, or a million dollars, or the “right” program. All we need is to have been paying attention, to who Jesus is, and what Jesus does. All we need is the willingness to be who and what God made us to be, and to let our genuine selves bring forth God’s healing, and new life, and acceptance for all God’s people. All we need is the willingness to pour out a cup of cold water for someone who thirsts, and to know—this, right here, right now, is God’s kingdom, breaking through. Thanks be to God. Amen.

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[i] Stephen Butler Murray, “Matthew 9:35-10:8 (9-23): Theological Perspective,” in Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary, Year A, Volume 3, Pentecost and the Season After, David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, Editors (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 140.

[ii] Fr. Pat McCloskey, OFM, “Great Saying But Tough to Trace: Did Saint Francis Really Say That?” in Saint Anthony Messenger, October 2001. Original quote: “Let all the brothers, however, preach by their deeds.” http://www.americancatholic.org/messenger/oct2001/Wiseman.asp

Meditations for Trinity Sunday

Which I preached without benefit of the text, as I forgot to email it to myself. Oops!

¹¹Finally, brothers and sisters, farewell. Put things in order, listen to my appeal, agree with one another, live in peace; and the God of love and peace will be with you. ¹²Greet one another with a holy kiss. All the saints greet you. ¹³The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with all of you. ~2 Corinthians 13:11-13

Meditation 1: The Grace of Our Lord Jesus Christ

How would you say “Good bye” to someone who was driving you crazy? Someone who, in your opinion, had their priorities all wrong—who spent their money on the wrong things, or wouldn’t spend it at all? Someone who couldn’t see past glitz and glamour to the empty sentiments on the other side of it all? Someone who rejected you because—you didn’t have that glitz and glamour?

Paul faces this situation at the end of his second letter to the church in Corinth. The Corinthians are driving him crazy. After speaking his mind, telling them what he thinks of their shortcomings, when it finally comes time to say good bye, Paul says, “Grace.” The first words of his farewell benediction are “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ.” And grace is all about forgiveness. Grace is all about the sufficiency of God, even (or especially) when we have found ourselves to be sorely lacking. Grace is all about the work of Jesus on our behalf—the totality of his life, his ministry, his death and his resurrection. To the tough and recalcitrant Corinthians, Paul gives a blessing of grace, and says, “Take heart. All is not lost. Far from it. There’s still grace. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Meditation 2: The Love of God

And then, Paul says, “Love.” The confluence of Father’s Day and Trinity Sunday give me an opportunity to speak of the first person of the Trinity, whom Paul here calls God, and who for much of church history has been referred to as “Father.” Jesus called God “Father,” but he also called God “Abba,” which is an endearment, like “Papa” or even “Daddy.” Today the father of the family may be the breadwinner or the stay at home caretaker. Today the father of the family may never enter the kitchen or may be the best and most creative cook. Today the father may be the strict disciplinarian or the soft touch. Today almost all the functions of father and mother can be taken on by either parent—almost.

But in Jesus’ day, the Father was always, in addition to the one who gave you life, the head of the household, the breadwinner, and the one on whom the family depended on for protection, for stature in the community, for identity. The good father was a tower of strength. And Paul commends the very difficult and frustrating Corinthians to the “love of God.” And so “the love of God” resonates with all these things—it speaks of our identity as God’s children, of protection, strength, security, and, yes, tenderness. To those whom Paul has criticized mightily, there is the still more mighty “love of God.”

Meditation 3: The Communion of the Holy Spirit

And finally, Paul says, “Communion.” Communion is a word, that in it’s most basic meaning, is “union with.” Last Sunday I spoke at some length about the Holy Spirit. One of our Presbyterian creeds tells us that “The Spirit… binds us together with all believers 
in the one body of Christ, the Church.” The Spirit is the one who brings it—the one who brings us—all together. It is by the power of the Spirit that people who are different in every conceivable way—old and young, rich and poor, healthy and weak, hawks and doves, liberals and conservatives—it is by the power of the Spirit that such people can live together, and thrive together, and do God’s good work together. Name any obstacle, construct any dividing wall, delineate any barrier, and the Spirit is capable of overcoming it, breaking it down, moving powerfully and gently around it.

In the final words of Paul’s benediction, he invokes the Trinity—the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit—to remind the Corinthians of the abundant blessings of the God in whom they live and move and have their being. They are living in grace—in forgiveness. They are living in love—in powerful identity and protection. They are living in communion—in the ability to come together as one, despite the forces that might try to drag them apart. The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit constitute the reality of the life of faith. Grace, love and communion—these are our heritage, too, something to fill our hearts with songs of praise. Thanks be to God. Amen.

The Problem With Pentecost: Sermon on Acts 2:1-21

I just can’t resist this story. I can’t resist a good story, generally, but the story of Pentecost is really so wonderful.

The risen Jesus is gone from sight into heaven. Jesus’ friends and followers—hundreds of them—are all gathered together in one place. They are undoubtedly studying scripture together, because that is what Jews do on the feast of Pentecost (Shavuot is the Hebrew name for it), the commemoration of God’s giving of the Torah to the people. So here they are, all gathered together, waiting, watching, wondering what on earth could be next. And suddenly, all heaven breaks loose. A mighty wind blows through, filling the room. Tongues of fire appear on all their heads, young and old, male and female. They all begin to speak in new languages, languages they did not know before. The Spirit, the Holy Spirit, the Spirit of God and of Jesus, has come upon them.

They pour out into the streets, where their ability to speak new languages means that everyone can understand what they are saying, what they are preaching, the Good News. All the people who have come to Jerusalem for the festival, no matter where they come from, can hear the words being spoken in their own tongues.

So many beautiful things are happening, it’s hard to convey them all at once. Those who were hidden away in fear are filled with courage, and come out into the open. Those who were silent are speaking out. Those who were divided, separated, are united, they have become one. So many beautiful things. The power of the Spirit unleashed.

But—and you knew there was a “but,” didn’t you? Wait a minute. Hold on. A sour note is sounded. A sour note intoned by at least some of the bystanders. “But others sneered, and said, ‘They are full of new wine’” [Acts 2:13]. And there it is. Where some see a miracle, others see dissipation. Where some see God’s power at work, others see misbehavior, or worse. Where some see a marvelous example of people coming together, others see drunken revelers who ought to be off the streets, home in bed.

And there you have it, the problem of Pentecost. A mighty wind blows through, and suddenly you have a mess of downed tree limbs and power lines. Tongues of fire alight on everyone’s heads, and sooner or later someone complains that they’ve gotten burned. You start speaking new languages, and now old friends are acting strange. They shake their heads. They say you’ve changed.

And we are left wondering, what on earth (or in heaven) has just happened? Hasn’t the Spirit come in power? Isn’t this a great victory? Yet, we’re left feeling more like the people in the cartoon I just saw this week, in which a voice from heaven declares, “I shall send down my Spirit, and it will be like a flame upon your head.” So one person says, “Does this mean I can’t wear a hat?” And another says, “We’d better have a fire drill.” And another says, “This is a health and safety nightmare!” And yet another says, “What if I set off the fire alarm?” And, of course, someone says, “But my church is a non-smoking [facility]!”[i]

The Spirit comes. And we are not sure what on earth to do about it. We’re not even sure if we’re happy about it. We’re not even sure what it means.

So, perhaps, a refresher course is in order. Title this part of the sermon, “Holy Spirit: 101: A brief introduction.” Except for Pentecost, when the Spirit comes with so much bluster and fanfare, lots of us tend to think of the Spirit as the “shy” member of the Trinity. We are much more aware of God the Father or Creator, and of God the Son, in Jesus Christ. But God the Spirit? Slippery. Invisible. Dare I say, ghostly. And yet, a look at our creeds reveals that the Spirit is where the action is, in terms of our lives and faith. The Brief Statement of Faith of the Presbyterian Church (USA) describes the work of the Spirit in this way:

“We trust in God the Holy Spirit, everywhere, the giver and renewer of life.”

“The Spirit justifies us by grace through faith, sets us free to accept ourselves and to love God and neighbor, 
and binds us together with all believers 
in the one body of Christ, the Church.”

“The same Spirit 
who inspired the prophets and apostles 
rules our faith and life in Christ through Scripture, 
engages us through the Word proclaimed, 
claims us in the waters of baptism, 
feeds us with the bread of life and the cup of salvation, and calls women and men to all ministries of the church.”

“In a broken and fearful world 
the Spirit gives us courage 
to pray without ceasing, 
to witness among all peoples to Christ as Lord and Savior, 
to unmask idolatries in Church and culture, 
to hear the voices of peoples long silenced, 
and to work with others for justice, freedom, and peace.”

Here’s how I like to think about it: anything we do that in any way enables us to more fully and authentically love God and to love our neighbor is the work of the Holy Spirit. That means that the Spirit is busy, busy, busy at work, in us, around us, through us. That means that everything we do that is good—whether it is praying, or reading scripture, or reaching out in kindness, or bearing witness to our faith, or hugging our children, or listening to our beloveds, or visiting someone who is lonely, or helping someone who is in any way in need—everything that we know is good and pleasing to God, we are empowered to do by the Holy Spirit.

And here’s where the problem of Pentecost comes in. As one working preacher has put it:

“The Holy Spirit does not come to solve our problems but to create them. Think about it: absent the coming of the Holy Spirit, the disciples could go back to their previous careers as fishermen. I can almost hearing James and John explaining, "Sure, it was a wild and crazy three-year-ride, and that Jesus sure was a heck of a guy, but maybe we needed to get that out of our system before we could settle down and take on Dad's business." Once the Spirit comes, however, that return to normalcy is no longer an option. They will now be propelled throughout the ancient world to herald the unlikely message that God has redeemed the world through an itinerant preacher from the backwaters of Palestine who was executed for treason and blasphemy. The Holy Spirit, take note, doesn't solve the disciples' problems, it creates them.[ii]

The mighty wind of the Spirit does fill us with inspiration, but it also takes down tree branches and power lines, blowing away old structures and requiring us to create new ones. The flames of the Spirit do set us on fire for God, at the same time they expose us to the risk that we will be burned by the passion of our love. The ability to speak a new language will mean that we find ourselves sharing the love of Jesus with new friends, but that can result in all kinds of complications with our old ones. Allowing the Holy Spirit to work in us and through us is not a guarantee of a life free from complication, or pain, or difficulty. It is just the opposite. Case in point: Jesus.

Jesus let the wind of the Spirit blow through him, and in everything he did, he was at one with the will of God. And that ended in a spectacular defeat, failure, ignominy. In Jesus’ day, it just didn’t get any worse than crucifixion, because it was not only death, it was a painful, humiliating death at the hands of an oppressive state. But God raised Jesus from the dead. God vindicated him. God created the most spectacular victory from the most horrifying defeat, because that is how God works. As a dear friend of mine likes to say, in God’s economy, nothing is wasted. The question is not whether we are successful. The question is whether we are faithful.

The problem of Pentecost boils down to this question: are we willing to be faithful? Are we willing to be punch-drunk with love for God, so much so that people start looking at us a little funny? Are we willing to throw ourselves into new ventures on behalf of God’s hurting people, create new structures from the wreckage of the old—even if we risk failure in doing it? Are we willing to listen for the voice of God in the words of those it is all too easy to ignore or discount? Because that is where God has told us he will be speaking—in the completely powerless, and those who are too young, and those who are too old, the ones who will prophesy, and see visions, and dream dreams. Are we willing to listen to them?

Here we are, all gathered together in one place. The wind of the Spirit is already blowing through this place—stirring up new ideas in one, setting another one’s heart on fire with conviction, teaching another a new way of speaking. The Spirit comes, ready or not, to upset, complicate and, in the end, remake our lives in strange, unexpected and beautiful ways. So many beautiful things are happening already! Those who were hidden away in fear are filled with courage, and come out into the open. Those who were silent are speaking. Those who were divided, separated, are united, they have become one. So many beautiful things, as the power of the Spirit is unleashed. Thanks be to God. Amen.

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[i] https://cakeordeathcartoon.wordpress.com/2010/05/21/pentecost-cartoon/.

[ii] David Lose, “Pentecost Paradoxes,” Working Preacher, June 5, 2011, http://www.workingpreacher.org/dear_wp.aspx?article_id=481.

Hand-Made Shrines: Sermon on Acts 17:22-31

In the spring of 1979, while the pain of the Vietnam War was still fresh in the minds and hearts of Americans, a penniless veteran named Jan Scruggs helped to form a non-profit corporation. Its purpose was to fund and build a memorial to the men and women who served their country in Vietnam. Within a few years, the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial Fund had successfully petitioned Congress to designate a location for the memorial in Washington DC, in view of both the Washington and Lincoln Monuments, and raised $8.4 million in private donations. Then they then held a contest to determine the design.

A 21-year-old architectural student from Ohio named Maya Lin submitted the winning design. Her vision was simple and striking. The memorial is made of two stone walls, each 246 feet and 8 inches long. They are joined at a 125 degree angle and sunk into the earth, so that where the walls join they are about 10 feet tall, and at the outer ends, they are about 8 inches tall. On the wall, in chronological order from East to West, are inscribed the names of every service man or woman who died or went missing in action throughout the more than 20-year conflict. Visitors to the memorial see their own reflections in the dark and polished stone at the same time they see the etched names, bringing past and present together. When the design was first announced, it caused almost immediate outrage—perhaps the greatest controversy over a hand-made shrine in our lifetimes. Early on someone dmismissed it as a “black gash of shame,” and people at the highest levels of government got involved to insist on a statue of three servicemen being placed nearby.

As soon as the wall was dedicated, though, and people began to visit, the power of the shrine became clear. To go there and look at the names, to pray, to cry, to make a rubbing of the name of your loved one—countless people have done so over the past 29 years, and described it as a deeply spiritual and even healing experience. This puzzling shrine that initially sparked so much anger ended up unifying its supporters and critics; it has even, to an extent, unified supporters and critics of the war itself. It has visualized in stark and beautiful terms the enormity of the sacrifice made by those who fought and those who died and those whose fate remains unknown.

In today’s passage from the Acts of the Apostles, Paul is preaching the gospel by responding with eloquent and persuasive language to hand-made shrines he sees throughout the city of Athens. But in the passage just before our passage, when Paul first lays eyes on those shrines, he is not nearly so genteel. Paul is outraged.

I’ll just come out and say it. Paul has been having a bad week. Paul comes slinking into Athens alone after having been kicked out unceremoniously from Thessalonica, and then from Berea, where he has been traveling with Silas and Timothy. When Paul first arrives, he is deeply distressed to see the many, many idols throughout the city. He is apoplectic. So, his first move is to argue. He finds some philosopher types, some Stoics and Epicureans, and he has at it. They are confused, to say the least. They wonder, “What is this babbler saying?” They think Paul has come to preach two foreign gods named “Jesus” and “Resurrection.” Finally, they take him to the Areopagus, which is Greek for Mars Hill. The Areopagus was both the name of a hill and the name of a council that met on the hill. There they question Paul, firmly but politely. And at this point in the story, the narrator decides to give us a crucial piece of information: “Now all the Athenians and the foreigners living there would spend their time in nothing but telling or hearing something new.” Athens is THE place for philosophers and thinkers. It’s the home of Socrates! And that should ring at least one little bell of caution, as Socrates was put to death for “corrupting Athens with strange new gods”—which is just what the Athenians think Paul is doing.[i]

This is where we come in on the story. Paul begins to speak. But instead of decrying the Athenians for their many, many shrines to many, many gods, Paul focuses on just one—an altar that bears an inscription, “to an unknown god.” We know that Paul is actually quite upset at the many varieties of religious expression he finds in Athens. But now Paul realizes what his priority is: his priority is to share the gospel in a way that allows people to open their hearts to it. He comes to understand that, in order to open hearts and minds to the good news of Jesus, he needs to control his impulse to criticize, fight and focus on differences.

How do we respond to those whose faith is different from ours? At a certain point in my life I had lunch every day in a cafeteria with a young woman who told me that my church worshipped idols, and so it wasn’t the true church. I didn’t find her persuasive. I was never moved to visit her church or to find out anything about it at all. On the other hand, I was invited, once upon a time, to talk about my faith with an acquaintance who was a Presbyterian minister. She asked me a lot of questions about what I believed. As I answered her, I started to look at my own faith, and hers, with new eyes. A few years later I found myself standing in front of her congregation as I became a member.

Critics of the initial Vietnam Memorial design had to encounter the Memorial in order to have a change of heart about it. They had to visit it, to go there, and experience it. And when they did, their hearts were opened. They had a transformative experience.

I wonder if that is what has to happen to us in order to be able to connect to people of other faiths? Paul, in the end, was able to look at the shrine to an unknown god and say this: “The God who made the world and everything in it, he who is Lord of heaven and earth, does not live in shrines made by human hands, nor is he served by human hands, as though he needed anything, since he himself gives to all mortals life and breath and all things” [Acts 17:24-25]. Paul was able to conclude that, for whatever reason that shrine was built, he could, in good conscience, see it as a shrine to the God of Jesus Christ. In our conversations, my friend the minister was able to open up a space where I could see her faith and she could see mine, and we could recognize where they met. Part of that recognition had to do with understanding what is the human-made part of that faith expression, and what is the eternal part.

About 11 years ago the Rev. Dirk Ficca, a Presbyterian minister, addressed the PC(USA) annual Peacemaking Conference with a speech about religious diversity and pluralism. In his speech he included an image that became the Presbyterians’ own big controversy of that decade. This is what he said:

Imagine a holy place ringed with windows, and light is shining from outside this holy place through stained-glass windows into the holy place. Do you have that image in your mind? Well in this analogy, the light is the truth, the windows are religions, and the holy place is the world. Light shines from outside through the windows into the holy place in the same way religions are a vehicle by which truth comes into the world. If you take anything of what I say today, take this next thing. The window is not the light. The window is not the light. And religions need to be distinguished from the truth that they let into the world.[ii]

Every church, every religion, every expression of the truth, whether it be molecular biology or the air-speed velocity of the unladen swallow, is connected in some way to God—the God of Jesus Christ. If God is truth, then all truth is derivative of God in some way. And at the same time, every church, religion and expression of the truth is mediated by people, fallible human beings, describing their own experiences. The truth of God is more enormous, more overpowering, more glorious than any human vessel can hold, be that a church or a lab experiment. Rev. Ficca did not deny that Jesus was the way or the truth or the life; he merely said, as Paul said, that God cannot be confined to shrines made by human hands, that we should not confuse the human-mediated expression of religion with the eternal truth it reveals. And, of course, Rev. Ficca and Pastor Paul came to their tasks with different objectives: Ficca’s goal was to promote peace between diverse cultures. Paul’s was to share with one culture, the culture of Athens, a gospel he knew they had not yet heard before.

In the end, Paul was persuasive, and he lived to preach another day. By opening himself to the truth he recognized in a pagan shrine Paul was able to preach the gospel in all its particularity and power. And at the same time he was able to recognize that perhaps it was the God of Jesus Christ who had moved the Athenians to create that shrine in the first place.

Each one of us, every person who wants to follow Jesus, is a minister of the gospel. We are called to give witness to our faith, to point up at the particular stained glass window through which God has shown us the truth. And one way to share our faith is to recognize that, truly, in God, we all “live and move and have our being”—a line we all recognize as scripture, which came to us through Paul from an anonymous non-Christian poet.

At the same time, every person who wants to follow Jesus is called to remember that he called peacemakers “blessed.” We are called to be people of healing and peace, within ourselves, and within our communities, and throughout God’s beautiful and broken world. Thanks be to God. Amen.

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[i] C. Clifton Black, “Commentary on First Reading: Acts 17:22-31,” Working Preacher, April 27, 2008 [http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?lect_date=4/27/2008&tab=1].

[ii] Rev. Dirk Ficca, “Uncommon Ground: Living Faithfully in a Diverse World,” 2000 Peacemaking Conference, Orange, CA [http://www.witherspoonsociety.org/ficca_address.htm#diversity%20as%20conflict].

The Way, The Truth, The Life: Sermon on John 14:1-14

I have a neighbor who has invited me to many lovely Christmas open houses, where I met her father. Mr. C. was always pleasant, though he had a disconcerting way of making conversation. “Hi Mr. C.! Merry Christmas!” I’d say. And he would respond, “I hope I don’t see another one!” When I asked my friend about it, she replied, “He’s really hoping for the rapture.” At his funeral a couple of years ago, more than one speaker mentioned what they were sure was his bitter disappointment at meeting Jesus at the pearly gates rather than being taken up in the clouds.

How do we read the Bible? It sounds like such a simple question, really, and I’ve heard all sorts of answers to it in my lifetime, as I’m sure you have. And this week we’ve gotten to watch, along with the entire world, an example of someone reading the Bible in a very particular way, and then making some very bold claims based on that reading, which, in turn, has inspired people to watch closely to see whether that claim had any basis. Well, to be more accurate, I’m afraid many people watched in order to be able to pat themselves on the back when those claims turned out to be false. Harold Camping of the Family Radio Network read the Bible this way: he worked out a very complicated system of numerology and mathematical equations, based on what he believed were the dates of the great flood and the crucifixion of Jesus, and with the help of those calculations, concluded that the end of days would commence May 21, last night, at 6 PM, with earthquakes rolling through the time zones. At that hour, according to Mr. Camping, the righteous would be taken directly into heaven, and five months of tribulations—war, famine, disease, and the revealing of the anti-Christ—would commence.

Reaction to Mr. Camping’s claims about the end of the world as we know it has been mixed. The New York Times reported this week on families that were divided by the belief—the ones that stood out to me were Abby and Robert Carson and their three children. Abby and Robert believed Mr. Camping’s claims (perhaps they still do), and so Abby left her work as a nurse to become a full time missionary on behalf of Mr. Camping’s prophecy. The children do not believe the claims, and are dismayed, for example, to see that their parents have stopped saving for their college educations. They are even more dismayed to be told by their mother that they will not be getting into heaven. Their fourteen-year-old son Joseph said, “I don’t really have any motivation to try to figure out what I want to do anymore, because my main support line, my parents, don’t care.”[i]

There was a lot of merriment at the Camping followers’ expense this week. People threw post-rapture parties, and played pranks involving piles of clothing left in conspicuous places, and, I am assuming, playfully speculated at which Christian neighbors’ cars or houses they might like to move into after those Christians were snatched up by the spirit in the sky.

And I am assuming as I write this that as we gather on Sunday May 22, none of it will have happened. Why am I assuming this? Well, it’s not because I simply can’t believe that the world will end. I can believe it, even apart from the proclamation of our faith. I think such a thing is not only possible; given the choices we make as individuals and as nations, I think it’s entirely likely that our planet could cease to be the hospitable home God created it to be. I am assuming that no rapture will have occurred on May 21 because I believe Mr. Camping and his followers employed a flawed method of reading scripture. I believe there are good principles we can employ in reading the Bible that will help us to be guided by it, and be enriched by it, and deepen our relationships to God through it, and that Mr. Camping, at least in his vision of the end times, did not employ these principles.

The latest edition of “Horizons,” the magazine for Presbyterian women, is devoted to the Bible, and among the very good articles there is one called “How Do I Read the Bible?” This article shares seven simple guidelines adopted by the Presbyterian Church (USA) nearly thirty years ago. Take this one, for example: “Seek to interpret a particular passage of the Bible in light of all the Bible.” This guideline could have helped Mr. Camping. It could have reminded him of Jesus’ words in Mark’s gospel, “…about that day or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.” [Mark 13:32] Another of the guidelines: “Let the focus be on the plain text of Scripture, to the grammatical and historical context, rather than to allegory or subjective fantasy.”

Look, for example, at our passage from John’s gospel. “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” Jesus begins. Do not let your hearts be troubled! “Believe in God; believe also in me.” At this point in John’s gospel, Jesus has all but completed his earthly ministry. He has changed water into wine at the wedding feast at Cana. He has talked to Nicodemus at night about life, the universe, and God’s plan for salvation. He has verbally sparred with the Samaritan woman at the well, and explained that he is the Living Water. He has fed the crowd of more than five thousand and explained that he is the Bread of Life. He has healed the man born blind, and explained that he is the Good Shepherd and the gate for the sheep, and that he has other flocks that are not of this particular fold. In other words—Jesus has gone about a program of inviting, welcoming, challenging, feeding, teaching, and healing people—all the people. Jesus has been in the process of giving away his life so that others might live. And now, in this moment of the story, he is looking ahead, and what he sees there is the cross, where his program of giving away his life will be complete.

Naturally, his friends and followers are frightened. They do not fully—or perhaps even partially—understand. And so he seeks to reassure them. “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” Jesus begins. “Believe in God; believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places.” The Greek word for ‘house’ can also be translated as ‘household.’ And ‘household’ implies extended family, friends, those who normally gather in a place. Even more interesting is the word translated ‘dwelling places.’ The Greek word means ‘tent,’ or ‘temporary dwelling’—a far cry from the familiar “mansions” that still resonates in many of our brains. So how about this for an alternative translation of that whole sentence: In God’s extended family there are many places to rest on your journey. Jesus is not making promises here about eternal real estate, as if we can put a down-payment on some kind of condo in the clouds; a quick look at the work he has been about would seem to make that clear. Rather, he is assuring his friends and followers about eternal relationships, about the eternal welcome and hospitality of God.

“You know,” Jesus says to those who have been following him around and watching him heal and eating the bread he’s blessed. “You know the way. You know the road I am on.” And Thomas, the one who is forever saddled with the unfortunate nickname ‘Doubting,’ says something he is not well-known for saying: he says, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” To which Jesus replies, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.” You want to know the way to God? It is the way I am on. It is the way I have been showing you all along. It is the way of inviting, welcoming, challenging, feeding, teaching, and healing people—all the people.

Vietnamese Buddhist Thich Nhat Hanh tells a story that is very much on point for those of us who are hoping to see Jesus face to face one day. He speaks of a devout follower of the Buddha who rushed to see him—and ignored a fellow human being who was in dire need along the way. When he came to the Buddha’s monastery, he was unable to see him. His eyes could not perceive him. The one who can see the Buddha is the one who seeks him in the needy and suffering.

It is a remarkable parallel to Jesus’ words in another gospel. “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me… Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me” [Matthew 25:35-36, 40]. Those of us who want to see Jesus have already been shown the way, and the truth and the life. We know the way. It is the way of spending our lives for others. We don’t need strange calculations, though we do need scripture—the full witness of scripture. We don’t need to leave our jobs, though we do need to follow Jesus’ way while we are in those jobs. We don’t need to ignore our families; we do need to love one another as Jesus has loved us.

How do we read the Bible? What, for example, does scripture suggest to us today, in the aftermath of the rapture that wasn’t? Today I am thinking about those Christians who have been so concerned about the emotional aftermath for Mr. Camping’s followers that they have made it their mission to minister to the May 21^st crowd. They camped out around Mr. Camping’s headquarters to bring a message of hope to the possibly devastated believers, and to help them to begin to put their lives back together. There it is: the way of Jesus in that compassion and hope.

Today is a day for recognizing that we have to take scripture seriously enough to approach it with humility. It is a day to keep in our prayers those who awoke this morning devastated or confused or desperately disappointed, and if we know them personally to reach out with compassion. And it is a day to recommit ourselves as servants of our servant Lord, who poured out his life for everyone, and who invites us to do the same. Thanks be to God. Amen.

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[i] Juliet Linderman, “Make My Bed? But You Say the World’s Ending,” New York Times, May 20, 2011.

* Image: Rapture Cupcakes, Courtesy Unvirtuous Abbey

Lead Me On: Sermon on John 10:1-16

As many of you are aware, I recently celebrated my fiftieth birthday—I believe I saw quite a few of you here at my surprise party! Now that I’m fifty, one of the benefits, I figure, is that I can repeat myself with impunity. So, to that end, some of you have heard this story. Many of you have not.

The year was 1989. My son Larry was not quite two years old, and I was in graduate school , studying for a Master’s degree in Pastoral Ministry. I was planning to go on to study Jungian psychotherapy, or maybe—maybe—try to be a hospital or college chaplain. One warm late summer day I was driving down Route 128, on my way to an interview for a Field Placement position at a Hospital in Quincy, MA. And, even though I didn’t understanding it completely, there was something momentous about this interview for me.

It was going to be the first time that I, born and raised Roman Catholic, had ever laid eyes on an ordained woman minister.

As I was driving I was listening to Amy Grant, singing:

Lead me on, lead me on

To the place where the river runs into your keeping.

Oh, Lead me on, lead me on.

The awaited deliverance comforts the seeking… lead on.

As I drove something converged in me. In an instant everything clicked, and I had what I have since called my “road to Damascus” moment, as if I were the apostle Paul and I had been knocked down by a bright flash of light. I suddenly understood with great clarity that I wanted to be an ordained minister—or, that God wanted me to be an ordained minister—or, that the ordained ministry somehow wanted me. It was piercing and powerful, so powerful that I threw my hands up into the air in utter elation… and then, because I was driving down Route 128 outside of Boston, I quickly put them back on the steering wheel where they belonged. And at that same moment, my elation was sucked right into a vortex of despair, because I knew I could never, ever answer that call. My church, the church that had given me my faith and introduced me to Jesus, wouldn’t allow it.

Sometimes, it seems as if God is trying to lead us places where we simply cannot follow. And then… we have to figure out if it really is God trying to lead us there, or if it’s something else. Like ego, or greed, or a false idol of what we think we’re trying to attain. But in the end, if we think, if we believe, in the core of our being, that it is God who is leading us, what else can we do but follow?

Lead me on, lead me on.

Aside from the image of “Father,” there is almost no image that has captured the Christian imagination so powerfully as the image of the Lord as our Shepherd. To speak of God, or, specifically, Jesus, as Shepherd, is to recognize the ways in which Jesus leads us on. He leads us on a good path, where he gives us food, water, everything we need. He leads us to resting place. He leads us through times of trouble and danger. He leads us through times of indecision and confusion. He leads us on.

And this image comes to us, not only from the beloved Psalm 23, but also from today’s passage in the gospel of John. John’s gospel stands out from the gospels of Matthew, Mark and Luke as being different—its timeline is different, its stories are different, and, most noticeably, its Jesus is different. In the other three gospels, Jesus points away from himself and towards God. But in John, Jesus is constantly talking about himself. He is constantly making these “I am” statements.

I am the living water.

I am the vine.

I am the bread of life.

I am the good shepherd.

I am the gate for the sheep.

Jesus, in identifying himself as both shepherd and gate in the same soliloquy, may, in a sense, be setting us up for some confusion, but somehow it all holds together. The passage we’re reading is from chapter 10. We read most of chapter 9 about a month and a half ago—do you remember the story about the man who had been born blind? And how Jesus healed him, and then the religious authorities were exceedingly distressed, because someone who wasn’t in the union was doing union work? The story ended, or so it seemed, with the formerly blind man being kicked out of the faith community by the religious authorities because of his steadfast insistence on crediting Jesus with his healing. But, in fact, the story doesn’t end there—because this is part of the same story. This is another feature of John’s gospel—the explanations. The theology. John’s Jesus tells us what he’s going to tell us, then he tells us, then he tells us what he told us. And here, Jesus is explaining what just happened in terms of these “I Am” statements. Jesus is speaking to the religious authorities.

And he’s saying, “I know you folks like to think of yourselves as the gatekeepers. But, in fact, you are not the gatekeepers, because I am the gate.”

You know, I used to think of that image, of Jesus as the gate, as being one of protection… and of course, that is part of it. In the ancient near and middle east, it was common for shepherds to sleep across the opening of the fold, so as to literally put their lives on the line for the sheep—any predator who was seeking to snatch a lamb had to get through the shepherd first. So, of course, for Jesus to say he is the gate is for him to give us that powerful image of the good shepherd laying down his life for the sheep. In that sense, the gate and the shepherd are one and the same.

But there is something else as well. The shepherd leads the sheep out through the gate, we are told. Why? Well, because that is how the sheep get to the water, and the grass, and the good fresh air—in other words, that’s where abundant life is. And so the gate/shepherd, in addition to being an image of protection, is also an image of freedom. To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven. There is a time to be protected in the enclosure of the sheepfold by the shepherd who is the gate. And there is a time to leave the fold and seek abundant life—while still, at the same time, following the shepherd. And… I can testify personally that leaving the fold can cause anxiety and fear, at the same time it offers the tantalizing promise of abundant life.

This week, as many of you know, a majority of the presbyteries of the Presbyterian Church (USA) voted to change a passage of our Book of Order. This change expands the understanding of who may respond to God’s call to be deacons, elders and ministers of Word and Sacrament—who, when the shepherd calls them, can say “lead me on,” and then follow. There is a lot of misinformation floating around about what this change will do to the church, so, first, I’d like to share with you the new wording:

Standards for ordained service reflect the church’s desire to submit joyfully to the Lordship of Jesus Christ in all aspects of life (G-1.0000). The governing body responsible for ordination and/or installation (G-14.0240; G-14.0450) shall examine each candidate’s calling, gifts, preparation, and suitability for the responsibilities of office. The examination shall include, but not be limited to, a determination of the candidate’s ability and commitment to fulfill all requirements as expressed in the constitutional questions for ordination and installation (W-4.4003). Governing bodies shall be guided by Scripture and the confessions in applying standards to individual candidates.

This is the new standard for all who hope to serve in one of our three ordained offices. Joyful submission to the good shepherd—following that shepherd, wherever we are led—in all aspects of life. A careful examination of each candidate’s calling and gifts and preparation and suitability. Guidance given by Scripture and the Confessions.

What is left out of these newly ratified standards, is this: there is no litmus test for exclusion. People cannot be ruled out simply on the basis of their sexuality. There is an acknowledgement that the shepherd calls whom the shepherd will call—that the shepherd is, in fact, the gate, and the gatekeeper, too, and it is up to churches and presbyteries to use all their wisdom and discernment to try to recognize that call where they may. No church or presbytery will ever be forced to ordain someone it does not believe to be a good candidate. Presbyteries and churches will seek to discern God’s will in community—as we always have.

It was a little over fourteen years from the day I had my “road to Damascus” moment until the day I was ordained a minister of Word and Sacrament. Our denomination has been struggling with this question of sexuality much longer than that… thirty-three years, by one estimate. And just as I had to leave the church of my childhood in order to follow as God led me, many have left our church, seeking to follow that shepherd who promises abundant life. Sometimes, it seems as if God is trying to lead us places where we simply cannot follow. This is as true for the church as it is for individuals. And then… we have to figure out if it really is God trying to lead us there, or if it’s something else. But in the end, if we think, if we believe, in the core of our being, that it is God who is leading us, what else can we do but follow?

I ask you to join me in prayer:

Almighty God, we give thanks for a rich heritage of faithful witnesses to the gospel throughout the ages. We offer gratitude not only for those who have gone before us, but for all who have sought diligently to discern the mind of Christ for the church in every time and place, and especially in this present time.

May your Spirit of peace be present with us in difficult decisions, especially where relationships are strained and the future is unclear. Open our ears and our hearts to listen to and hear those with whom we differ. Most of all, we give thanks for Jesus Christ, our risen Savior and Lord, who called the Church into being and who continues to call us to follow his example of loving our neighbor and working for the reconciliation of the world. We pray in Jesus’ name. Amen.

On the Road with Jesus: Monologue Sermon on Luke 24:13-35

I have just put the bread in the oven—four beautiful, fragrant loaves. Their scent is beginning to permeate the house. That smell… well, there’s nothing like it, is there? It’s the smell of nourishment, of care, it’s the smell of life! I have always loved this particular part of women’s work, baking the bread and bringing it to the table. But now… it always makes my heart burn with joy, as I remember the day we were on the road with Jesus.

It began as a day of confusion… three days, really. My husband Cleopas and I were staying in Jerusalem for the Passover and of course the news—the terrible news—spread like a raging fire over parched earth. We had learned within hours of the terrible event, of what had happened to Jesus of Nazareth—whom we had believed to be a prophet. Whom we had believed to be the Messiah. We had heard how our leaders handed him over to be condemned to death, and how the Romans had crucified him.

And we had hoped… how can I even convey to you what we had hoped? We had hoped that he, who wandered Galilee free as a bird on the wing, would lead our people to a life of freedom. We had hoped that he, who spoke of putting away the sword, would lead our people to a life of peace. We had hoped that he, who healed every kind of disease and malady, would lead our people to a life of wholeness. And how our hopes were no more. They were nothing but foolish wishes. Those in power had shown us what happens to those with dreams of freedom, peace and wholeness.

And so we had planned, on the first day of the week, to leave Jerusalem, to return to our village, Emmaus. We couldn’t bear to stay in that place where our hopes and dreams had been killed. We needed to return to family, and familiarity. We needed to go home.

But then another story started to spread—and this one wasn’t fire, it was wind, it blew into the place we were staying early that morning. Some women of our group astounded us. They had gone to the tomb early that morning, and they did not find his body there. They came back and told us that they had seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.

Cleopas and I whispered together in a corner. “What shall we do?” I asked. “What can we do?” he said. “There’s nothing for us here. There’s nothing but cruel taunts, inviting us to hope again and be crushed again. There’s nothing to do except to go home.” And so that is what we did. On that day of confusion we set out for our home village.

I love to walk with my husband. He is unusual, I think, in that he likes to talk. And that is what we do, when we take a journey of several hours or more. We talk about all the things we don’t have time to talk about in the day-to-day busyness of our lives. We talk about what matters to us. That day, we talked only of Jesus.

We talked of the day Cleopas first saw him. He had been working with his brother hauling rocks from a quarry to build a pavilion for a wealthy man in our town. Emmaus is known for its hot springs, which means those with money travel here for their health. Cleopas and Markus paused in their work, in the heat of the day, and saw a man sitting by a well, surrounded by people who were jostling one another to get closer to him. When they too moved closer, they heard him tell the most remarkable tale—a tale about a Samaritan and some Jews and a man who had been beaten by robbers and left for dead, and how the Samaritan saved him, while the Jews did nothing. Markus scoffed and turned back to his work, but there was something in the words that captured my husband’s attention. “Is it possible?” he’d asked me that night, as we leaned together over our supper. “Is it possible that not all Samaritans are evil and godless? I’ve never thought about it before.” The next day Cleopas took me to see him. I was skeptical. But Cleopas was insistent. He had learned his name—Jesus, of Nazareth—and he had heard that, not only was he a teacher, but also a healer.

As Cleopas pulled me through the village, I felt my face burning with shame. I knew why he was taking me to see this healer. We had been married for more than three years, and I had yet to bring forth a child. The other women were starting to look at me with that terrible pity they get when they decide one of us is barren. A woman who is not a mother in my village—well, she may as well be dead. She has no value. Not to my Cleopas, though. I knew my husband treasured me. I knew that I had value to him. But it still pained me that he thought I needed to be healed.

When we arrived, there was a great commotion. The crowd gathered around Jesus was full of men shouting, and arguing. At the center of it all, a man sat on the ground at Jesus’ feet, talking quietly with him. But when we drew near enough to see who man that was—Cleopas and I clutched one another in shock. It was Jacob, the beggar. Jacob, cousin to my cousin. Jacob, who had never been able to utter a word. Jacob, who now was conversing with Jesus as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Jacob had been mute, and Jesus had opened his mouth.

Cleopas turned to me and said, “Mariam, what more evidence do we need? This man—he is the Messiah. He is the one who will save our people. I don’t understand everything he says, but the power of God is in him.” And that day we became his followers. We didn’t leave our home; we couldn’t. But we followed him from afar. We met others who believed he was the Messiah. We heard by word of mouth when he would be anywhere near, and we went to see him, as far as a two-day walk, just to be near him.

We talked of all these things as we walked toward our home. As we walked and talked, a stranger joined us on our journey. It was not such an unusual thing. Pilgrims were leaving Jerusalem, now that the great Sabbath of Passover was past. It is always safer to travel with company than to go alone on unknown paths.

As Cleopas and I paused in our conversation, the stranger asked what we were talking about. When I heard his voice, it struck me: there was something familiar about it, but I didn’t give it much thought. In our village, everybody was somebody’s relative. Cleopas asked him, incredulous, how it was he knew nothing about Jesus. But then the stranger began to talk, and it was clear: he knew everything.

He began to tell us about the Messiah, and how it was necessary—necessary—for him to suffer, and only by suffering would the glory of God truly be revealed. He explained that the Messiah had been foretold by the prophets—he reminded us of the words of Isaiah, “Surely he has borne our infirmities and carried our diseases… by his bruises we are healed. [Isaiah 53:4-5].”

He told us how God was victorious over death, and that the Messiah truly lived, just as the women had said.

We were silent, and our hearts began to burn with something indefinable, something we would only understand much later. But it was as if we had been walking around in a fog—a cold cloud of misery and grief and crushed hopes—and now, the sun was coming out, on that dusty road, all because of the words of a stranger.

As we approached our village, the stranger bid us farewell, but we couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Cleopas asked him, pleaded with him— “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.” And so he entered our home.

Everything that followed was somehow familiar and brand new all at the same time. I ran to my sister’s house for some bread, and then we sat at table together. My sister had just taken the loaves from the oven for her own family’s meal. The smell of the good grain and the yeast filled our small room, and it was warm in my hands as I carried it home. The stranger took the bread in his hands and closed his eyes in prayer: “Baruch atah Adonai Eloheynu, melech ha-olam ha-motzi lechem min ha-aretz; Blessed are you, Lord God, king of all creation, who brings forth bread from the earth.” And he broke the bread and gave it to us.

That was the moment when we saw. That’s when the fog lifted. That’s when we understood, finally, that Jesus was with us. That’s when we knew him, when he broke the bread and shared it with us. That’s when we understood we had been on the road with Jesus all day long. As I took the bread from his hand, he looked into my eyes, and I knew that I was healed—but not in the way Cleopas had anticipated. I don’t have a child. But I knew in that moment that my value did not depend on being able to produce a child. I knew myself to be loved, by my Messiah and my God. That is how I was healed.

Can you smell the bread now? Every time I place the loaves in the oven I remember that he left us this sign, as an
everlasting reminder. Every time that scent fills our little house, I know that he is with us still, and that we are taking the good bread from his hands.. Every time Cleopas and I walk together, I know that we are on the road with Jesus again. I know that he is, truly, leading us to freedom and peace and wholeness after all. Thanks be to God. Amen.