Strangers in a Strange Land: Isaiah 40:1-11

The reading that we heard from Isaiah this morning is one of the most well known passages in the Hebrew Scripture.  For many of us, myself included, hearing the words of this passage conjures up memories of listening to Handel’s great oratorio— The Messiah.  “Comfort, comfort ye my people—  the famous tenor aria declares—every valley shall be exalted, every hill made low.”  “All flesh shall see it together”— the choir sings out with joy.  But before these words were ever set to such beautiful and inspiring music, they existed first and foremost, as a lament.

These words were written during a period of Jewish history called the Babylonian captivity.  At the dawning of the 6^th century BCE, Israel was at the height of its glory— coming out of the days of the great kings.  But when Babylon invaded, they destroyed much of Jerusalem, deported many of its citizens, and the Israelites saw their days of glory come crashing to an end.  For over 50 years the people of Israel lived under Babylonian rule.  “How long O Lord”— they cried, “How long?”  They were banished from their beloved city to a strange land, full of strange customs, and stripped of the institutional structures that had shaped their lives and identities.  Feeling lost, alone, and uncertain about the future, they cried out to their God— “How long O Lord, how long-- before we can come home?”  And so the words we hear today from the prophet Isaiah—“comfort, O comfort my people”-- are a response to this cry— a word of solidarity to a people in the midst of mourning and exile.

Now for many of us, this definition of what it means to be an exile may seem rather distant from our everyday life experience.  To be forced from one’s homeland because of war or political strife-- to find oneself in a foreign land— not knowing the language, unable to express oneself or one’s beliefs--  is not really a reality most of us have ever had to face.  Most of us here-- though not all of us— live in the country in which we were born, we are free to express our beliefs as we like, and we are surrounded by much that is familiar and comfortable.  We may not readily claim the label of exile.  But of course that doesn’t mean that we can’t relate to the words of this passage— that we don’t also have times when we long for God’s presence and comfort.  Because at the heart of these words— and indeed at the heart of what it means to be an exile-- is quite simply this: to be a stranger in a strange land.  To feel alone or alienated.  To feel somehow disconnected from God, from ourselves, or from the world around us.  And how many of us can’t relate to that?  How many of us, at one time or another, has not looked toward God and asked, “how long, O Lord, before we can find our way home?”

This past Thursday was World AIDS day, and as I was reflecting on this passage, I thought of all those living with disease— not just with AIDS-- but any disease.   And I thought about how people struggling with illness can so often feel like strangers in a strange land.  In a culture that so glorifies the body-- that lifts up the ideal of physical strength, outward beauty, and perfection-- how strange and lonely it must feel to be battling one’s own body.  For those living with illness or disease, sometimes even the simplest tasks that most of us take for granted can seem like mountains to climb.  “How long O Lord”, asks the person struggling with illness, “before I can live a normal life?”

I think about those who struggle not with physical disease, but with the pain of mental illness or depression.  How they must feel like strangers in a strange land in the midst of the crowds of happy people during the holiday season.  I think about how lonely it must feel-- in the midst of all the messages telling us to rejoice and be glad-- to struggle to find even one small thing to be joyful about.  “How long. O Lord”, asks the soul in depression, “before I can feel joy?”

I think about those who live amidst violence.  I think about children who live in broken homes, and those who suffer domestic abuse.  How they must feel like strangers in a strange land, as all around them, they hear people proclaim: “Peace on Earth! Goodwill towards men!”  As congregations all across the world this morning light the candle of peace, others struggle to find peace in their lives even for one moment.  “How long, O Lord”, the child asks, “before I can know peace?”

Finally, as I reflect upon what it means to be strangers in a strange land, I think of the church in our 21^st century culture.  Now I want to be clear that there is certainly NOT a one-to-one correspondence between what the Israelites experienced in captivity and what we face now as Christians living in a post-Christian world.  Nor is there any comparison between the suffering of people living with disease or violence and the uncertain times that many churches find themselves in these days.  We are not victims.  We live relatively comfortable lives-- free of political or religious oppression.  That being said, there is no doubt that many churches, and many Christians, do find themselves feeling like strangers living in a strange land.  How many of us— after all— have friends who don’t understand why it is we continue to show up in church week after week?  Gone are the days when membership at a church was about as mandatory as being a member of a political party.  Gone are the days when being American was practically synonymous with being a Christian.  We live in a much more secular and pluralistic world.  And even for those who still consider themselves Christian, the church seems to have lost the kind of power and influence it once had.  

Now to be sure, there are many church leaders out there who mourn this fate.  They ask, “how can we sing the Lord’s song in this foreign land?”  But for my part, I don’t know that it’s such a bad thing to have to let go of a little bit of that institutional power.  I don’t know that it’s such a bad thing to find ourselves as strangers in a strange land.  I think it makes it easier for us—particularly at this time of year-- to remember that God came to us not in great power or splendor— but in the most humble form possible— a weak, helpless, infant child.  Additionally, being strangers in a strange land ourselves makes it easier for us to identify with the other strangers living among us.  It makes it easier for us to understand how it feels to be disconnected, lonely, or afraid.  And to then to be able to extend the hand of genuine Christian welcome and friendship— knowing the power that such a gesture can have for the soul crying out to God in exile.

At the end of the day, there are countless examples we could name of what it means to be a stranger in a strange land.  I’m sure that amongst all of us, we could come up with a long list of what it means to be an exile in our modern world.  It’s a question that can serve as an important reminder as we continue the journey of Advent.  As all around us our culture hurdles towards Christmas, it’s a reminder to us that before Christ comes, there is work yet to be done.  There is more light yet to be shared.  

In the midst of Israel’s cries, the prophet Isaiah offered words of comfort.  But he also offered them a challenge.  In the midst of their pleas to come home, Isaiah challenged them to make a pathway in the wilderness so that God could come home to them.  The author of Isaiah is telling the Israelites that they don’t need buildings of brick or stone to worship the God they love.  That even as they live in a foreign land, they can still sing the Lord’s song.  Isaiah has a similar challenge for us this Advent season.  In a culture that may call into question our continued commitment to what some would call a fading institution, we can still prepare a way for God in our world.  We can prepare a way for God by making our churches homes for all those who find themselves exiles— who find themselves strangers in a strange land.  Because more than it is an institution, the church— in the words of Bill Coffin— is a place “where we try to think, speak, and act in God’s way, not in the way of a fear-filled world.  The church is a home for love, a home for brothers and sisters to dwell in unity, to rest and be healed, to let go their defenses and be free.”  The church is a home for God’s spirit, and it is a place for all those whose restless spirits seek to come home.

In the season of Advent, we hear the timeless words of the prophet— “Comfort, O comfort my people.  Lift up the valleys and make low the mountains.  Level the uneven ground and make the rough places plain.  Isaiah spoke these words to the exiles of Jerusalem, John the Baptist spoke them to first century Jews in Palestine, and the Holy Spirit continues to speak them to us now.  Faith communities, the Spirit says, find your voice.  Overcome your fear.  Speak to the heart of a culture that is increasingly defined by the valleys of isolation and anxiety— that is increasingly divided by the mountains of partisan politics and ideology.  Proclaim compassion and charity over the rough places of consumerism and consumption.  Speak words of comfort and assurance to all who feel separated or abandoned by God.  Sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land, because we live in a world that is hungry to hear it.

How Long, O Lord?

Not Long.

Because now is the time-- ours is the voice-- and God is our home.

An Advent Conspiracy

It’s around this time of year-- the end of November and the beginning of December-- when I always start to get a little exasperated by the fact that before we are even able to finish the leftover turkey and cranberry sauce in our kitchens, the onslaught of Christmas marketing begins.  I get exasperated because, as Christians, the amount of marketing around Christmas can sometimes distract us from the fact that before December 25^th roles around, there is actually another very important season to celebrate—the season of Advent. 

The word Advent literally means “coming,” and it is a time when we prepare our hearts and spirits for the coming of God’s love into the world.  Yet in the midst of family obligations, travel plans, school Christmas concerts and all of the other events of the holiday season, it’s easy to forget that our primary focus during Advent should be on God.  We certainly wouldn’t know this from all the slick ads we see online, in the newspaper, or on TV—all of which are geared towards encouraging us to spend more time at the mall and buy more things we don’t need.  Therefore it’s up to us-- as Christians living in a post-Christian culture—to be intentional about living our lives a little differently than the massive consumer frenzy would have us do. 

That is in fact the mission of an internet campaign entitled “Advent Conspiracy.” They put it this way: “What was once a time to celebrate the birth of a savior has somehow turned into a season of stress, traffic jams, and shopping lists.  And when it's all over, many of us are left with presents to return, looming debt that will take months to pay off, and this empty feeling of missed purpose. Is this what we really want out of Christmas? What if Christmas became a world-changing event again?”  

And that is why, this Advent season, I would like to invite everyone to join with me in an experiment.  I would like to invite everyone to join the Advent Conspiracy.  Rather than letting ourselves get carried away with the superficial trappings of the holiday season-- rather than letting ourselves get overwhelmed by all the tasks we have on our to-do list-- let’s live differently this holiday season.  Let us embrace the true meaning of Advent and Christmas by worshiping more fully, spending less but giving more, replacing consumption with compassion, and actively sharing God’s love with all.  There are many ways to do these things, but here are some suggestions.  To worship more fully, consider spending time in contemplation, prayer, or scripture study rather than taking that extra trip to the mall.  To spend less but give more, consider making a small portion of your gifts be contributions to organizations like Heifer International, whose gifts can help poor families rise out of poverty.  Or simply spend less money and give more of yourself to the people you love.  For even more ideas about how to join the conspiracy, visit the campaign’s website at www.adventconspiracy.org  

The season of Advent is meant to be a time of spiritual renewal and active expectation as we celebrate “God with us.”  We are meant to watch, wait and pray, and to be alert for the movement of God’s spirit in the world.  Join me in the conspiracy, and let’s see if Christmas can once again change the world.

The Risky Business of Sharing Our Gifts: Matthew 25:14-30

Generally speaking, when it comes to the parable of the talents, I find myself in agreement with biblical scholar Phyllis Tickle, who has written in regards to this parable: “Welcome to one of the most difficult and contrary passages in our entire canon. One which, on the surface at least, is fraught with unattractive paradox.” It’s not too difficult to understand why she says this. To begin with, the harsh judgment that is carried out upon the third servant seems so unlike the merciful and forgiving God that we so often proclaim. Furthermore, it’s hard to understand why the servant is punished so harshly for simply trying to keep his master’s property safe. After all, a “talent”, in Jesus day, was no meager amount of money. For the average daily worker, it was the equivalent of about 15 years worth of wages. It was the largest unit of currency imaginable, and thus for a servant, it was an incredible amount of wealth to be responsible for. Who can blame him for wanting to keep that money safe? It’s not as if he spent the money— squandering it on fine clothes and food for himself. So why is he punished so harshly?

And then finally there are those troublesome last few lines—“For all those who have, more will be given; but for those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away.”

I would imagine that by now, most of you have heard of the Occupy protest movement which began on Wall Street several months ago and has since spread to almost every major city in the country. The protesters call themselves the 99%-- referring to the growing income disparity between the richest 1% in our country and everyone else. One sign that I have seen quite a few religious protesters carrying is one that says: Jesus is with the 99%.

That seems easy enough to understand-- after all Jesus stands with the poor, the outcast, the common man… right?

But if that is true, then what is the last line of this parable all about? It almost sounds as if Jesus is positioning himself with the 1%. It sounds an awful lot like the reality of our current economy— the rich get richer, and the poor get poorer. For those who have much, more will be given. For those who have little, even what they have will be taken away.

So what do we make of all this? How can we possibly make sense of this parable?

To answer that question, there are some who would argue that it is merely a story about how we should always be willing to share the skills and talents that God has given us. That if we don’t use those skills and talents, they might grow stale or wither away. Now I don’t necessarily disagree with that idea, but I’m not sure that message alone really gets to the heart of what Jesus is saying. Remember that a “talent” in Jesus’ day was not a reference to gifts or skills, but was in fact a ridiculously large amount of money. Jesus consciously chose to use as an example the largest unit of currency he could think of— he must have done so for a reason.

Knowing this, there are others who argue that this really is a story about money--about the responsible investment of material wealth. Indeed, this is a popular parable for annual stewardship campaigns, and it does contain a valuable message about the need to use our resources in service of the gospel, rather than simply store them up to protect them. As today is stewardship Sunday, it would be very easy for me to tell you that this parable is about taking our financial resources and investing them in the church. But I’m not going to do that, because I don’t think that tells the whole story either.

To really get at the core of what Jesus is trying to tell us here, I think it’s first helpful to look at where this parable occurs in the larger narrative. This is in fact the last parable that Jesus ever told. Jesus tells his disciples this story right before heading into Jerusalem, where he knows he will likely be arrested and condemned. He knew he would be leaving them, and he wanted to give them something that would prepare them for the journey ahead. At the heart of this message to his disciples was a deep and profound challenge. I am going away, he is telling them, but I am leaving you with the great responsibility of carrying on in my name. I am leaving you with a gift greater than any you could imagine-- good news for the poor, salvation for all people-- in other words— the gospel— and I’m entrusting you to do something with it.  That is why Jesus uses the example of the “talent”—a measure of wealth that is practically unimaginable. Because the gift that he is really talking about— God’s grace and love— is also a gift that is immeasurable. And as recipients of such a gift, we are not meant to hide it away or keep it to ourselves, but to do something with it. 

And so at the end of the day, this is indeed a parable about stewardship. But it’s not just stewardship of our money. It’s stewardship of the gospel itself. And I suspect that for many of us, this is actually a lot harder than simply putting money in the offering plate every Sunday.  As our parable suggests, there is a certain amount of risk involved in sharing God’s greatest gift. Indeed, if it was easy and risk-free, I don’t think we would be living in the kind of world that we do-- a world where so many people are concerned more with their own security and comfort, than they are with the millions of people who live in poverty all over the world. A world where instead of sharing what we have and contributing towards abundant communities, we safeguard what belongs to us. We draw lines to delineate between what’s mine and what’s yours, what’s ours and what’s theirs.  We create boundaries to say who's in, and who's out.  This is a world that is desperate for a gospel of grace and hope.  This is the gospel we have been given, and we are meant to share it.  Indeed, we have a responsibility to share it.

Make no mistake--what Jesus is asking us to do here is not easy. And it can be scary to recognize the enormity of the gift that God has entrusted us with, and the responsibility that gift carries with it. Indeed it is fear which causes the third servant to bury his talent instead of using it. It is fear which has the potential to paralyze God’s gift within each of us-- fear that we don’t have enough, that we can’t make a difference, or that we are powerless. Fear of what other people will think of us, that we may be rejected, that we may fail. But if we draw back in fear, we lose our moral imagination for what is possible, we become timid, and we lose hope. We lose the ability to believe that God’s grace can truly transform lives. And at that point, it is we—not God-- who have consigned ourselves to the darkness.

In contrast with the fearful reactions that can hold us back, however, I want to share with you one illustration of what can happen when we are willing to put ourselves on the line in order to share God’s love and grace.

A few years ago, a group of homeless families in North Philadelphia decided to take up residence in an abandoned church. They had been living in a tent city a few blocks away, but the conditions outside had become unlivable— with rats and flooding making it especially dangerous for children. The church had been vacant for years, and so, the families moved in. Unfortunately, the denomination that owned the building was more concerned with protecting its property than caring for the homeless. As soon as they got wind of what was going on, they announced that the families had 48 hours to get out, or get arrested.

Well, a handful of Christians heard about this. They didn’t think that the church should be kicking homeless people out of a building that they weren’t even using. And so they decided to do something about it. At first it was maybe a dozen people who came to the church with sleeping bags and food. The said “we stand with you, and if they arrest you, they’ll have to arrest us to.” They took a big risk. It could have been a total failure. It could ended the next day, with the protesters getting arrested and the homeless people back out on the street. But that’s not what happened. Here is what did. 

The media found out what was going on, and word slowly started to get out that a church was kicking out homeless people. People from the neighborhood came by with donations of food and blankets. College students got involved and started camping out with the families. The fire department came by with smoke detectors, and helped the families make the building safe so they wouldn’t be evicted for violating fire codes. The church, once abandoned and locked up on Sunday mornings, became alive again. Sounds of music and laughter and praise rose up out of the building. People from all walks of life worshiped side by side-- homeless people and college students, activists and businesspeople. Eventually, after many weeks of continued action, the families held a press conference. And having watched all of this unfold on the news, people were moved by compassion and wanted to help. Some people donated homes. City agencies helped others find permanent housing. People pulled together to make sure everyone was taken care of.**

This is a true story. And it’s an incredible example of how grace can multiply and transform lives, if only we are willing to risk giving it away.

And so, the question we have to ask ourselves this morning is this: is our faith life about safety and reassurance and security? Or is it about risk-taking and openness and courage? Are we willing to let the gospel loose in the world—to invest our gifts in others, to make the invisible God visible? This morning, as we celebrate Stewardship Sunday, do we see ourselves merely as stewards of an institution? Or do we see ourselves as stewards of the gospel?

As we ponder these questions, I ask you to ponder one more. God has entrusted us with unimaginable gifts— the gifts of love, grace, and indeed the gift of life itself. God has entrusted us— despite all of our imperfections, and faults, and failings— with the ministry of grace and reconciliation. God has made us partners in that work. And so it would seem that the biggest risk taker of all, is in fact God. God has given us the gifts of life and grace so that we might begin to use those gifts to create more life, to create more grace. And if God is willing to take that risk with us, well then, what is stopping us from doing the same?

 **Read more about this story in "The Irresistible Revolution"  by Shane Claiborn.  Buy it here!

Becoming Pilgrims: A Meditation on Mark 1:14-20

In the far northwest corner of Spain there is a path which dates back to the 8th century-- it is a path that has been traveled by hundreds and thousands of men, women, and children. They come from all over Spain, France, Italy, and in fact from all over the world. These travelers walk for days, sometimes through blazing sun and dust, other days through rain and mud. At nightfall they stop to share bread and a simple meal with other travelers that they have met on the road. They nurse their sore and blistered feet, stretch their aching backs, and prepare to do it all over again the next day. They are pilgrims. Pilgrims traveling to one of the most famous pilgrimage sites in the world— the Cathedral of Santiago de Campostela. They come for many reasons-- some desire a miracle for themselves or a loved one, others feel the need for atonement over some past wrong. Most however, simply come to experience God on the journey. They come to connect to something larger than themselves, and ultimately, they come to be transformed.

Here at Park Church, you are also pilgrims-- though perhaps not quite in the same way. 500 years ago, to speak of pilgrimage was to speak of a physical journey to a sacred site— a cathedral or a shrine-- a physical place that was thought to be of special spiritual significance. In today’s modern world, however, we don’t necessarily attach the same kind of spiritual power to buildings or shrines. To be a pilgrim in today’s world has a much broader meaning. Writer Gregg Levoy defines pilgrimage as: “spending time searching for the soul— moving towards something that represents to us an ideal— truth, beauty, strength, or transcendence. For religious people, it is a journey towards deeper knowledge of God-- towards an understanding of God’s direction for our lives and discernment of where the Holy Spirit is leading us next. At its core, the word pilgrimage means simply a crossing place, or a point of transit.

Here at Park Church, you are also pilgrims. You are at just such a crossing place. You are pilgrims who have just completed one journey— that of seeking a new pastor- and are on the brink of beginning yet another. A journey of discovering who God is calling you to be as you move forward into the future. In many ways, it’s exciting to be pilgrims— on the brink of new adventures, full of hope and possibility about what is to come. But it’s not always easy to be a pilgrim either. Being pilgrims on a journey implies that there is work to be done, hazardous roads to be navigated, and uphill struggles to be overcome before one can arrive at the destination. Consider Jesus’ disciples— whom we hear about in this morning’s gospel message. Responding to Jesus’ call to leave their nets, they get up out of their boats--not knowing where they are going-- but willing to start their own pilgrim journey. A journey that would prove to be sometimes joyful, often bewildering, and occasionally even treacherous. In the end, however, it was a journey that brought them up close and personal with the living God in their midst.

Now there are times, upon hearing this remarkable moment in the gospel-- this moment when the disciples decide to leave everything behind to follow this man named Jesus, when I start to feel a little unsure of myself. If it had been me— I wonder-- would I have had the courage to do what they did? To leave everything behind to follow a man I barely knew? Is it all or nothing, we may ask ourselves? Can we really do this?? It’s natural, I think, before embarking upon a pilgrimage, to doubt ourselves. To doubt whether we have the capability to follow through with the journey. Maybe we don’t believe we are capable of the kind of total transformation and devotion that we read about in these old stories. Maybe we think our lives are just too full of other things-- work, family, financial obligations. And so we hesitate. But it’s important to remember that the disciples didn’t become perfect followers of Jesus overnight. Many of the stories that follow this one are not nearly as inspirational or impressive. There are stories in which the disciples misunderstand Jesus, question him, disappoint him, and even betray and deny him. It’s not until much much later in the story before the disciples really understand what they are meant to do. They didn’t know where they were going or how they were going to get there. And just like any pilgrims, they encountered plenty of obstacles, and made more than their share of mistakes along the way. But the important thing for us to keep in mind as we stand at the crossing point of our pilgrimage, is that they took that first step. They got up out of their boats and started the journey. One step at a time. So it is with us. We may hesitate before setting out on the path before us, but we can always find confidence in the knowledge that we don’t have to get there overnight. We don’t have to be perfect. We don’t have to have it all figured out. That, in fact, is what the journey is all about. And so, the crucial question we must ask ourselves— having stepped out onto the road-- having recognized that we too are pilgrims on this journey-- is what exactly are we journeying towards? What is it that we are seeking? This morning I would like to suggest two things that I believe are at the heart of Christian pilgrimage-- vocation and transformation.

First, in seeking vocation, we are seeking answers to two very important questions: “Who are we?” and “What is God calling us to do?” In the words of one scholar, seeking vocation means to attempt to discover “our place in the world, what God desires us to do, and the ability to do that work with passion, purpose, and pleasure. Seeking vocation means moving towards God’s direction for our lives.” Now of course this doesn’t mean that we give up all of our own dreams and aspirations in order to pursue someone else’s agenda for our lives. Being pilgrims seeking vocation means discovering (and perhaps sometimes rediscovering) and cultivating all the unique gifts that God has given us, and finding ways to share those gifts with others. My favorite definition of vocation comes from theologian Frederick Buechner, who said that vocation is where “our greatest joy meets the world’s deepest needs.” It’s about finding those things that bring us the most fulfillment and satisfaction, and then discovering where that lines up with the needs we see in the community and in the world around us.

Which brings me to the second thing that we seek as Christian pilgrims—transformation. On the road to finding our vocation, we open ourselves up to deep and meaningful personal transformation. Asking who we are as Christians, and seeking to discover God’s purpose for our lives, will bring us into closer relationship with God and with ourselves. But that’s not all we are after. Seeking vocation is not just a journey towards self-discovery and personal meaning— though it surely is that. To truly become a pilgrim, following in the way of Christ, our identity becomes rooted in something so much greater than just ourselves. We become part of a larger story— a story of people whose vocation includes the work of transformative work of hospitality, welcoming the stranger, binding up the brokenhearted, feeding the hungry, seeking peace and hungering for justice. It means looking at the world as it is, and understanding how we, with the gifts that God has given us, can work towards transforming it into the world as it should be.

The people of God have always been a pilgrim people. From those first disciples, to the pilgrims of Campostela, to you and me. We are called to continue the tradition of all who have gone before us-- striking out on new adventures, seeking God in new ways and taking risks in order to get a little closer to who God is calling us to be. We may not know exactly what lies ahead, but we are called to get up out of the boat— to follow where God’s spirit leads, to find where our greatest joy meets the world’s deepest needs, and to seek transformation of ourselves, our church, and our world.

God and Politics

I've heard from quite a few religious people that one thing they don't want is to hear politics preached from the pulpit. I don't blame them. Especially when one considers the kind of super-charged, divisive rhetoric that comes out of the mouths of politicians these days. Or perhaps they are thinking of the kinds of half-truths and flat out false statements that politicians make in order to push their own narrow agenda, and they are worried that preaching politics from the pulpit would mean that their pastor has some other agenda to push other than the gospel. Or maybe they don't want to hear politics preached from the pulpit simply because quite frankly, they hear it everywhere else. Turning on the news at any time of the day or night we hear about politics. Families and friends discuss it over meals-- sometimes leading to conflict and anger. We hear it on the radio as we drive to work in the morning. Politics is everywhere. And so perhaps some people just want a place where they don't have to hear about politics. All of the reasons listed above are understandable, and are actually great reasons for any pastor not to touch politics with a 10 foot pole.

And yet, listening to the current candidates for president talk about everything from how we care for the sick to how we treat people from other countries, it strikes me that so much of the political debate is touching on issues that are deeply moral, and deeply connected to the question of what it means to love God and love our neighbor as ourselves. And truly, the last thing I want to do is preach politics. But I do want to preach the gospel, and as it turns out, things like caring for the sick, how we care for the least in our society, how we take care of our children, and how we treat people from outside our borders-- well, those are all political as well as moral issues. They are all topics that are addressed in not only Christians scriptures, but Jewish and Muslim scriptures as well. Our command to love God and love neighbor means that we must engage on these social issues. The challenge then, is to engage in a way that does not fall into partisan bickering or political rhetoric, but rather, to engage in such a way that is faithful to scripture and faithful to Christ's commandment that we love one another as he first loved us.

It's not an easy thing to do, because morality and politics have become so intertwined. But to get started thinking about these things, I will be writing a series of blog posts about God, politics, and moral issues. Included will be posts on the economy and taxes, health care, immigration, and social concerns. Each topic will include a reflection of what it would look like to love our neighbor as our self on that particular issue. Comments and further discussion are welcome! Stay tuned!

The Fairness Factor: A Sermon on Matthew 20:1-16

I suspect it’s happened to all of us at one time or another— we are going about our lives, diligently and thoughtfully, working hard to care for our families, making sacrifices for those whom we love-- and we see someone else— perhaps it’s a less than hard-working co-worker, or maybe it’s a sibling or family member who doesn’t always pull their weight, or a friend that tends to shirk responsibility-- we see them receive something that we don’t think they deserve. The lazy co-worker gets a raise. The flaky family member receives an extra large inheritance. The irresponsible friend is promoted at their job. I would imagine that something like this has happened to all of us at some point in our lives. And at one time or another, we’ve all had the opportunity to utter those three little words--

It’s not fair!

This morning’s parable from the Gospel of Matthew is one of those stories which causes us to stop in our tracks. It causes that little fairness barometer to go off in our heads as we detect that something is not quite right. Many of us— I suspect-- can easily sympathize with the workers who cry out to the landowner,“these last ones worked only one hour and you have made them equal to us who have borne the day’s burden and heat.” It just doesn’t seem fair, does it?

One particular preacher has nicknamed this story the “Why Bother?” parable— for if all are going to be paid the same wage regardless of how long or how hard they worked, well then, why bother? It’s a particularly vexing parable for us, I think, because we live in a society where fairness is a value that is deeply ingrained in who we are as a culture and as a country. We have built this country around notions of justice and fairness, of concepts like equal pay for equal work. Taken at face value then, this parable would seem not only to be unfair, but would also seem to fly in the face of everything we value. And what are we supposed to do with that?

Fortunately, parables are not meant to be taken at face value. Parables play on themes of ordinary life-- such as workers in a field, wayward sons, or seeds planted in the ground— and introduce some element of the extra-ordinary— some element of the unusual or unexpected-- in order to reveal something about the nature of God. And so while our natural reaction to this story might be to feel outraged over the injustice of the situation, it’s important to pause for a moment and consider what else might be going on in this story.

When it comes right down to it, many of us in the church have probably heard enough sermons on this parable to know that what Jesus is really talking about here has nothing to do with labor rights or fair wages. The parable of the workers in the vineyard is really a tale about the abundant nature of God’s grace and the generosity with which it is extended to any and all who wish to receive it. Whether they come to the table early, or whether they arrive at the very last minute, it is available to all.

Now when it came to Jesus’ original audience, this was a particularly radical claim to make because for a number of 1st century Jews, theirs was a religious system in which those who obeyed God were rewarded with health and material prosperity, and those who strayed from God ‘s law were punished with illness or misfortune. It was a merit-based system— you either earned God’s favor or you incurred God’s wrath. It’s the kind of thinking that prompts Jesus to tell this parable in the first place. The passage leading up to this parable in the gospel of Matthew is the famous story of the rich man who asks Jesus what he must do in order to enter the kingdom of heaven. When Jesus replies that he must sell everything he owns and give the money to the poor, the man walks away dismayed, and Jesus’ disciples are astounded— “who then can be saved?” they ask. But the disciples also take a certain amount of pride In just how much they have sacrificed to follow Jesus.

“Hey Jesus,” Peter says, “we’ve left everything to follow you-- aren’t we so much better than that guy? What will we get for being great disciples? How much better is it going to be for us when we get to heaven?”

In response to this line of questioning, Jesus tells this parable. Ostensibly saying to his disciples, yes-- God will pour out blessings for you in the kingdom. You will receive God’s abundant grace. But guess what— so will that other guy— so will all those people out there to whom you have been comparing yourselves. It’s not so different from this morning’s reading from the Hebrew Scriptures-- the story of Jonah’s journey to Nineveh, and his anger at God’s generous act of forgiveness.

“Is it right for you to be angry?” God asks Jonah.

It’s a question that is mirrored in the parable when the landowner asks the workers, “are you angry because I am generous?”

These stories do reveal something about the nature of God. But they also reveal something about ourselves. To Jonah, God revealed his sins of jealousy and self-righteousness. To the disciples, Jesus revealed a flaw in their merit-based system of religion. And so the question for us then becomes, what does this parable reveal about us, about the world we live in, and about who God is calling us to be?

As 21st century Christians, we may no longer adhere to a merit-based religion. We may very well agree with Jesus that God’s grace is generous, unconditional, and available to all. But we do still live in a merit-based culture. One that encourages us to establish our worth based on how we measure up-- how we compare with co-workers, friends, family members, or siblings. And no matter what we believe about God’s unconditional grace, it can be difficult to completely isolate ourselves from the culture around us. We may hold the belief that all are equal in the sight of God— but that doesn’t stop us from thinking to ourselves every now and then-- well at least I’m a better worker than so and so… a better daughter, a better son, a better American, a better Christian.

The truth is, it can be exhausting, living in such a competitive environment. It can be exhausting, always comparing ourselves with others. Maybe there are times when it puffs us up and makes us feel good about ourselves. But the flip side of that is there will always be people who are smarter, more attractive, more charitable, more deserving than us. And the more we seek validation by comparing ourselves with those around us, the more we will tend to put ourselves above others in order to maintain our sense of worth.

So what does Jesus’ parable have to say in the midst of our competitive world? Where is the good news in all of this? Well the good news is this: we can stop the endless comparisons-- because our worth lies not in how we compare to others, but in the fact that we are created by God—wonderfully, and fearfully, and uniquely made. And whether we deserve it or not, whether we earn it or not, we were created to receive God’s grace. And that’s good news for all those times when we aren’t the ones working from dawn till dusk. All those times when we mess up, slack off, or act selfishly. It is in those moments when we can be thankful that God’s ways are not like our ways, that God is perhaps not always fair, but God is always generous.

Now of course, this line of reasoning always brings us back around to the question asked at the outset— “Why bother?” If God is going to pour out love, grace, and forgiveness to anyone— regardless of what we DO— then why does it even matter how we live? Why bother going to church? Why bother worrying about the poor? Why don’t we just live our lives the way we please? Then we can come before God at the end and ask for forgiveness, and all will be well. Right?

Well, not quite. And here’s why: at the end of the day, parables are not just riddles meant to be decoded. Parables aren’t just about knowing. They are also about doing. Jesus confronts us in the parables with a new way of perceiving reality, a new way of thinking about God, and then challenges us to do something about it. In the case of the parable of the workers in the vineyard, we are called not only to recognize the truth about our generous and gracious God, but to be imitators of that truth. Just like the parable takes elements of ordinary life and turns them around in order to teach us something about God’s extravagant love, so too are we called to look at ordinary life going on around us and turn it upside down-- infusing the status quo with extra-ordinary grace, compassion, forgiveness, and love.

In other words, in a world that so often says that there may not be enough to go around— we are called to be generous, extravagant, perhaps even a little reckless, in the way we share our time, our resources, and indeed our very selves.

In a world that so often says that certain people are less than worthy of our time and attention, we are called to welcome those people. To give them not only a place at the table, but to give them places of honor.

In a world where we so often compete against one another to determine who is most worthy-- in a world where we have to strive so hard in order to earn the attention and respect of others-- we are called to recognize that all are equal in the eyes of God.

Stepping through the doors of the church, it doesn’t matter if you are the CEO or if you are struggling with unemployment. It doesn’t matter if you are the most respected member of your community or if you feel like you’ve screwed up one too many times to be worthy of anyone’s love or forgiveness. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been a church member all your life or if this is the first time you’ve been to church in 20 years. In this place— we all have a place.

I think this is so important to remember in the midst of a culture that often separates and divides us based on how we measure up. As the church, we have something important to offer to all those who seek an alternative to the endless power struggles of secular culture. The church has a message for those who are weary of the competition, weary of constantly trying to climb the ladder, weary of always needing to define their worth in comparison with others. It’s a message that says that even though we live in a competitive world, we do not have to compete for God’s love. Indeed, we cannot compete for God’s love. And what’s more-- in this place-- nor should anyone have to compete for ours.

The apostle Paul writes in his letter to the Corinthians that through Christ, we have been transformed. We are no longer to see the world through our limited human point of view. We are to be ambassadors of Christ in this competitive world. Therefore, the work of extravagant grace and gratuitous mercy is not just God’s work. It is our work as well. And one of the biggest challenges about that is that oftentimes, it has nothing to do with what’s fair. At least not by worldly standards. It’s not about what’s fair. It’s about grace. Undeserved, and unconditional.

Finding our Modern Day Mustard Seeds

Weeds. The gardener’s worst enemy. An undesirable plant breaking into an otherwise orderly plot of perfectly planned out flowers or vegetables. A nuisance to be kept out of any garden in order to maintain the purity and integrity of the land. Plants that make their way through cracks in the concrete and come up through the patio with no regard for our well thought out and carefully crafted landscaping. A distraction from the beauty of our rose bushes and a threat to the well-being of our perennials. Unappealing, unattractive, and as any gardener knows, undeniably irritating. An interruption of chaos into our well-laid plans for beauty and order.

This morning’s parable of the mustard seed comes at the conclusion of several parables having to do with gardens seeds—and yes—weeds. Many of us, especially those of us who have grown up in the church have heard this parable a million times. And most of us could say with a relative degree of certainty that we know that this parable is about. Even if we have never laid eyes on a mustard seed or a mustard plant, we can nod our heads and say we know what it is that Jesus is talking about here. We can liken this parable to stories of the underdog like David and Goliath, or see it as a metaphor for the church— which started as a small movement and transformed into a vast, world-wide church with millions upon millions of members. Great things come from humble beginnings— that is the conventional wisdom about this text. And while this is certainly a worthy message to take away from this parable, I would suggest that there is a lot more going on here than merely a simple story about the potential hidden in humble packaging. Furthermore, like any of Jesus’ parables, if we simply rely upon conventional interpretations to carry us through the week, we may just miss out on the true power and depth of what the Spirit is saying to us here and now. And so I would like us to take a closer look at this familiar text, beginning with the imagery of the mustard seed itself.

When it came to gardening, first century Jews had very strict rules about what kinds of seeds could be planted together. And as far as the mustard seed was concerned, the rules were very clear. According to the mishnah— which is the Jewish code of oral law, it was actually forbidden to plant mustard seeds in a garden with other plants because of how quickly it could spread and overtake anything else that might be growing nearby. Some actually considered mustard to be like a weed— once planted, It was likely to become a nuisance and a threat to the integrity of any well ordered garden. And so the fact that Jesus was comparing the kingdom of heaven to this wild and unpredictable-- even somewhat undesirable plant-- would have, at the very least, caught the crowd’s attention. I can’t help but wonder how they would have reacted. Were they surprised? Confused? Perhaps they were even a little bit offended? After all, it’s not often that we compare the things we value most— our most sacred ideals-- to a nuisance or an undesirable weed.

So why does Jesus do this? Why does he use a metaphor that might have confused or even offended his listeners? Many biblical scholars believe that Jesus may have been using this parable as a reference to himself-- after all- he was not the messiah that most early Jews wanted or expected. 1st century Jews expected their messiah to take the form of a great king, akin to the likes of David or Solomon in all their military might and royal splendor. They did not expect a poor carpenter’s son and his band of misfit disciples. Not to mention the fact that Jesus was considered by many in the religious establishment to be a nuisance and a threat. And so perhaps, by using the unexpected imagery of the mustard seed, Jesus was inviting his listeners to re-imagine their ideas about God and how God works in the world. It was a challenge to seek God in unexpected places, and by doing so, participate in the building up of the kingdom of God. Jesus’ first disciples were able to do this. They looked at Jesus— a weed by many other people’s standards— and they saw God incarnate. And look what they built.

But what about us? Jesus’ 21st century disciples? How are we meant to receive these words?

I think we can begin to find the answer to that question by asking ourselves this: what are our modern day mustard seeds? Where are those places we wouldn’t normally expect to find God? The cracks in the concrete where weeds sprout up without warning and show us new and unexpected things about ourselves, about God, and how God works in the world?

There are many ways to answer this question, but I think one place we may begin to look is in the faces of those whom we-- as a society and as a culture-- tend to write off. Either because we see them as deficient, or troublesome, or otherwise undesirable in some way. In our politically charged and polarized society, for example, we are awfully fond of putting labels on people— Democrat, Republican, Conservative, Liberal, Rich, Poor, Legal, Illegal, Gay, Straight-- the list could go on and on. And it can be tempting sometimes to use these labels and categories as a way to make judgments about who are the worthy and who are the weeds. But Jesus is telling us to take a second look, especially when it comes to the so-called weeds-- those so-called undesirables.

I couldn’t help but think of the character of Zacchaeus as I was preparing this sermon-- the corrupt tax collector that we read about in the Gospel of Luke who nobody seems to notice until Jesus singles him out in order to insist on dining with him. The crowd around Jesus and Zacchaeus in that moment grumbles with discontent—

“But he’s unworthy!” they say.

“He’s a tax collector! A burden on society! A bad person!”

But Jesus sees something in Zacchaeus other than a weed. And that small bit of mercy is what inspires Zacchaeus to make amends for his dishonest ways. Jesus’ action of recognizing that seed of goodness— however small— however unlikely—is what opens the door for God’s transformation to take root.

Perhaps Jesus would have us learn a similar lesson in our society today.
“The kingdom of God starts with you,” he might say to us, “and while you may not always think much of those other people out there-- you might think they’re a nuisance, or a threat, or a burden-- here’s the thing-- they are part of it too. And you can only build the kingdom if you are willing to do it together.”

I believe that any time we draw lines of division and exclusion— for any reason-- we inhibit the growth of the kingdom of God. I believe we are called to look at each and every person we meet and see them as an equally beloved child of God— one who has within them seeds for transformation. If we are willing to take a risk, to reach out to all who might cross our path, and allow that little mustard seed to be planted in the well-ordered gardens of our churches and communities, we may just find ourselves planting the seeds of extraordinary transformation-- allowing the kingdom of God to spread in ways we could never have imagined.

A second thing to keep in mind as we look for our modern-day mustard seeds is the importance of keeping Jesus himself as our primary example. We are a society that values perfection, power and prestige. But it was not the powerful and prestigious that Jesus kept company with. It was the outcast, the sinner, the poor, and the lame. It was in and amongst the margins of society where Jesus chose to spend his time. Likewise, if we want to be able to recognize all the places where God is present in our world, we have to be willing to look into the margins of our own society— those places of poverty and injustice—those places where we may at first glance see nothing but weeds of pain and hurt. This can be difficult to do, particularly because when we are confronted with things like disease, or poverty, or injustice, we can so easily feel overwhelmed and powerless to do anything about it. But this is precisely where the conventional wisdom about this text is most crucial to remember. To remember that it doesn’t take mighty or extraordinary deeds to bring God’s love and grace to the hurting places of the world. It takes only one small act of kindness or compassion to plant the seeds of God’s kingdom in the world. Imagine our little acts of compassion being like that mustard seed— once planted, they quickly spread, and crowd out the pain and darkness that once surrounded them, in order to make way for hope and new life.

Finally, I think it is worth bearing in mind that our modern day mustard seeds are not just those places to be found outside ourselves. We also have those places of hurt or brokenness within us-- those inner weeds that we wish we could uproot and toss aside. It could be bitterness over a hope that has not yet come to pass, it could be anger over a failed relationship, or conflict between loved ones. But the healing power of God is such that God can turn even the most bitter of weeds into seeds of hope and healing. Remember the words from Paul’s epistle that we heard this morning— there is nothing— not hardship or distress, not things present nor things to come, not life or death, or anything else in all creation-- that can separate us from the love of God. If we allow God to enter into those places of pain and conflict, if we can recognize where God is present in those situations, perhaps we can begin to open up space for healing.

This parable is so complex because it isn’t just about where we look for God— though it is about that. But it’s also about how we can participate in God’s ongoing work of transformation in the world. It’s about recognizing beauty in the weeds, but it’s also about planting our own seeds of heaven in the world around us.

And so the challenge and the invitation for us is to ask ourselves: if we are able to recognize God in the midst of imperfection— to see beauty where others see only weeds-- what could we build?

If we saw God in one another despite our differences— despite the lines in the sand that we may have drawn in the past— if we recognized the seeds of goodness in even the most unlikely places-- what could we build?

If we allowed ourselves to encounter God in the broken places of the world and the broken places in our own lives, and planted seeds of compassion and justice where others might have given up hope-- what could we build?

Away with Him: A Sermon for Holy Week

Reference is made in this sermon to a Lenten study on the story of the Good Samaritan. Our congregation spent the six weeks of Lent reflecting on a video series that looks at the story of the Good Samaritan in relation to contemporary social justice themes. To learn more about the series, visit www.juststart.org.

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Away with him!

This was the sentiment expressed by a hospital administrator in Los Angeles after Gabino Olvera was treated there for injuries related to a minor traffic accident. Gabino was a parapalegic-- paralyzed from the waist down. He was also homeless, and had lost his wheelchair in the accident. He had nowhere to go. But he also had no insurance. And so the hospital put him in an ambulance and dumped him back on skid row. According to the hospital, he was an inconvenience.

“Away with them,” cried the sheriff of Los Angeles County.

After the effort to clean up LA’s skid row back in 2005, I was taken on a tour down the street that was formerly home to tents, boxes, tarps, and other make-shift shelters. As we drove down the street, it looked as if the effort to clean up skid row had been successful. Aside from a few people loitering about, the street was basically clear. But then the driver of the van took me several blocks away. I started to see tents, tarps, and shopping carts filled with belongings.

“They said they cleaned up skid row,” the driver told me, “but all they really did
was move the homeless to a place where fewer people would see them.” According to the city of Los Angeles, the homeless were an inconvenience.

“Away with them,” was the cry of the diocese of Philidelphia, after a group of homeless families— mostly women and their children-- took up residence in an abandoned cathedral downtown.

They had been living in a tent city, but conditions had been getting unbearable, with flooding and rats making conditions unsafe. That’s when they noticed St. Edwards, one of many urban churches that had been closed down and abandoned by the Catholic Church. And so, the families moved in. But when the archdiocese which owned the building got wind of what was going on, they announced that the families had 48 hours to get out, or get arrested. Even to the church, these homeless women and children were an inconvenience.

“Away with him,” was the cry of the crowd in Jerusalem, when Pilate brought Jesus before them once more, asking them if they wished to reconsider his fate.

A few weeks ago, we reflected on Jesus’ trial and all of the political maneuvering that may have contributed to his condemnation. It was a hostile and volatile political climate. Jesus was a controversial figure. And let’s face it, the demands he made on his followers and would-be followers were pretty darn inconvenient. He preached that the last would be first and the first would be last-- that the rich and powerful would be cast down from their places of honor. He hung around with tax collectors, prostitutes, lepers, and sinners. He defied the religious leaders and their traditions. He healed on the Sabbath. He told people to love their enemies, and threw the moneychangers out of the temple. He told his followers to sell everything they owned and give the money to the poor. He said, “take up your cross and follow me.” Jesus was inconvenient. Jesus complicated things. And that is perhaps yet another reason why Jesus found himself on the brink of condemnation by his own people. They did not want to see him for who he really was. They did not want to hear what he had to say, or have to deal with the implications. And so they cried out to Pilate to take him away, to get him out of their sight. Away with him.

Perhaps it’s easy for us, with our knowledge of how this story eventually ends, to feel a little bit removed from the religious leaders who condemned Jesus to his fate. We know the truth about Jesus, we have the advantage of hindsight, they did not. But the question I always find myself asking when wrestling with this part of the gospel narrative is-- would we have acted any differently? Would we have seen Jesus, if he was presented to us in the flesh? Would we have heard what he had to say? Would we have followed him to the cross? Even today, knowing what we know about how this story eventually ends, do we truly let ourselves see Jesus? Do we let ourselves hear him and be changed by him? Do we let our lives be inconvenienced by the gospel? Do we take up our cross, and follow?

These are just some of the questions we’ve been exploring in our Lenten Good Samaritan study over the last few weeks. Last week, one participant commented to me that although they thought the study was very good, that it was almost too much. Over the past four weeks we’ve heard about everything from extreme poverty, to global disease epidemics, to exploitation and modern-day slavery. Week after week, participants are encouraged to pray that that God would open our eyes to a world in need-- to show us where we can be Good Samaritans. Not to say “away with them,” when we see people in need, but to answer Jesus’ call towards radical love and compassion-— to let ourselves be inconvenienced.

This is a risky endeavor, because when we do open our eyes and look around, when we do make an attempt to respond to the call of the gospel, we begin to see need everywhere-- from the streets of skid row in Los Angeles to the soup kitchens of Stamford, Connecticut. From the pictures of AIDS orphans in Africa, to the exploitation of workers all around the around, including right here in this very city. We see need, brokenness, and injustice everywhere. And all of a sudden, our natural impulse to want to respond, to want to help, begins to shrink in the face of all that need. There are so many demands on those of us who care deeply about the world. And we start to feel paralyzed by the immensity of the problems. And so when we really let ourselves see all of the brokenness in the world around us, our first reaction can sometimes be to retreat, to try and push it all back under the rug, to pretend we didn’t see. Not because we don’t care, not because we are bad people— but because we don’t know where to start. It seems too hard, and we don’t see how we can even make a dent in all that’s wrong in the world. And perhaps, just perhaps, we also realize that to really change things, to really begin to break down systematic injustice, we might have to change the way we live. And that scares us. It’s uncomfortable. And it’s inconvenient.

But here’s the thing about following Jesus: no one ever said it would be easy or comfortable. There is nothing in the gospel that should lead us to think that following Jesus is the path of least resistance. If it was, I have a feeling that the end of the story would have turned out quite differently. Jesus calls us to a life of radical discipleship, a life that is in glaring contrast to the status quo, one in which we see the need in the world around us and we refuse to sweep it back under the rug. One in which see injustice and we refuse to let it be ignored. This kind of life may not be the one that is most comfortable or familiar. It might require taking some risks, trying something new, stirring things up, and God forbid-- ruffling some feathers. But when we look back over the history of the church— it has always been the folks who aren’t afraid to let things get a little messy, a little inconvenient-- who have taken both the church and society forward in the movement towards peace and justice. People like Martin Luther King Jr and Dietrich Bonheoffer, Dorothy Day and William Sloan Coffin. People whose lives show us that following Jesus might be difficult, and awkward, and scary, but it leads us towards a better world and better versions of ourselves.

Now, lest all of this talk about inconvenience and the difficulty of following the gospel be too discouraging, it’s important to remember that there is good news in all of this. There is good news for us, and there is good news for the church. The good news is that every time we open our eyes to the poor, every time we volunteer our time at the soup kitchen or the food bank. every time we write a letter to congress, or donate food and clothing to someone in need-- every time we let ourselves be inconvenienced by the gospel, we are that much closer to the kingdom of God.

Tony Campolo, an evangelical preacher and writer, makes a point of saying that "Jesus never says to the poor: ‘Come and find the church’. Rather, he says to the church: ‘Go into the world and find the poor, hungry, homeless, and imprisoned.’ Because that is Jesus in disguise.”

Jesus says to us, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. If you know me, you will know my father also.” To open our eyes to the needs of the world, is to open our eyes to Jesus Christ— and to open our hearts to God.

Every week in church we pray that God’s kingdom might come, that God’s will would be done, on earth, just as it is in heaven. Every time we let ourselves be inconvenienced by the gospel, every time we let ourselves imagine that another world is possible, we are living out that prayer. And I believe that what the church truly needs right now, in the midst of all the brokenness in the world, are Christians who believe so deeply in the truth and power of that prayer that they can’t help but begin enacting it here and now. That would be good news indeed.

What is Truth: Part Two

In my last post, I wrote about how the cultural noise in our society can distort truth to the point that grave injustices occur. It's always important to keep this in mind, especially as we head into another presidential campaign season. However, I recognize that there is more to this question of truth than the truth about our external reality. And there are more distractions than those that come at us from the outside. As much as we’re bombarded with news, opinions, editorials, and conflicting accounts of what’s true from outside sources-- the fact is-- it can be pretty noisy in here as well. Sometimes all that outside noise can actually be a preferable distraction to our own insecurities, doubts, and anxieties about our lives. We all have times in our lives when we feel like the Israelites, wandering through the wilderness of this world. Or maybe we feel like Jesus, praying alone in the garden, wondering if God has abandoned us. Or pleading with God to take our burdens from us. At times like that, we can tend to ask ourselves, what is really true about God? What is really true about God’s will--- God’s purposes for our lives? Is there even a purpose? Is God even still listening? What is truth, we ask ourselves, when our lives get turned upside down?

It’s appropriate, I think, to be reflecting on this idea of truth as we journey through the 40 days of Lent. Lent is traditionally a time to turn down the noise-- both inside and out-- to tune out all of the voices of fear, all of the voices of self-doubt, and any other voices that might be overpowering the truth of God’s love in our lives. Lent is a time for discernment— a time to discern what is really true about ourselves, our lives, and about our relationship with God. St. Paul wrote in his letter to the Romans that we are “not to be conformed to this world, but to be transformed by the renewing of our minds, so that we may discern what is the will of God.” It is through our times of solitude and quiet reflection that we find the wisdom necessary to discern truth about who we are as beloved children of God.

While reflecting on this question of truth, I want to offer a metaphor used by theologian Karen Baker Fletcher. It’s a metaphor that she uses to talk about how we do this work of discerning God’s truth in our lives. She writes that discerning God’s truth is a little bit like a dance. It requires us to remain nimble— to be able to respond to God’s ever-present and always active Spirit in our lives. She says that if we let our views become too narrow, if we let our ideas become too static, we might miss out on the dance. We might miss out on the next step that the Spirit is nudging us to take. We might miss out on the help that God is sending to guide us in our journey through the wilderness. I love this metaphor because it challenges us to embrace a concept of truth that is dynamic and living. It challenges us to look beyond the sound-bytes and easy answers, because at the end of the day, this kind of Truth is not something that someone else can tell you. It’s not something you can get from Fox News, or MSNBC, or CNN. You won’t find it in the New York Times, or on a blog. It’s not something you can read in a book. It’s something you can only know if you allow yourself to be open to, and transformed by God.

This Lent, and even as we move out of Lent into the Easter season, we are called to be participants in this dance with God. In our times of quiet reflection, in our moments of discernment that happen throughout our day, we are called to listen. We are called to listen for the still, small voice of the Spirit as she moves us towards the next step in our search for truth. I suppose if there is an answer to our question this morning— what is Truth— it is to be found there: Truth is a journey. It is the journey that all of us are on— throughout these 40 days of Lent, and throughout our lives. We don’t ever really stop looking for it. But every step we take on that journey brings us deeper into relationship with God, and brings us to deeper understandings about ourselves and the world that we live in. This Lent, let’s take that journey, let’s enter into that dance, together.

What is Truth: Part One

What is truth?

These three little words, uttered here in John’s gospel, have fascinated and provoked all sorts of people-- from religious mystics, to biblical scholars, to secular philosophers, to everyday people like you and me.

What is truth?

This little question has been the source of much speculation (and much consternation) both inside and outside of the church. It’s a question that— particularly in this context— seems to lead us to even more questions. For example: Why does the text so abruptly break after Pilate asks this question? Why do we get no response from Jesus after this seemingly important and profound question? Did Pilate even expect an answer, or was it merely a rhetorical question? Some scholars suggest that it’s not really a question at all— that it is more of a sarcastic response to Jesus’ claim to be an agent of truth. “What is truth, anyway…” Pilate says, before giving Jesus up to be crucified. Other scholars believe that it’s not meant to be read in a historical sense at all, that it is really a question addressed to the readers. After 18 chapters of John’s gospel, the truth about Jesus has been laid out for us over and over again. Perhaps John inserts this question here in order to provoke his readers— to get us to think back over the previous 17 chapters and decide for ourselves what we really believe the truth to be about Jesus Christ.

Unfortunately, it’s impossible to know for certain what John intended when he wrote these three little words. One thing we do know, however, is that in the midst of everything going on around Jesus during his last days, there was an awful lot of noise. Lots of people, saying lots of things, about what was true, and who was right.

On the one hand were the religious authorities. The chief priests who handed Jesus over to Pilate, insisting that his crimes were worthy of the ultimate punishment. The religious authorities were fearful because up until this point, the Roman Empire had been fairly lenient towards the Jews in Palestine-- allowing them to maintain much of their communal identity and religious freedoms, even though they were subjects of the Roman Empire. But that religious freedom came at a price. If the Roman Empire ever got wind that there was rebellion brewing— if they ever had reason to believe that the loyalty of the Jews belonged to anyone but the emperor, those freedoms would come crashing down with the force of the Roman army. And so there was an agreement between the Roman government and the Jewish authorities: Practice your religion freely— as long as you don’t threaten our political power. Well, that balancing act was becoming more and more precarious, and the religious authorities were getting nervous. Jesus was calling a little too much attention to their little corner of the world, and all of this upset about Jesus of Nazareth— being hailed by some as a king and some a messiah-- was not something they wanted to reach the ears of the emperor.

On the other hand, Pilate also had reason to be nervous. He also maintained a precarious position. As governor of Judea, his subjects were Jews, but his power came from the emperor. If ever the Roman government sensed that his sympathies strayed from the throne, consequences could be dire. At the very least, he would be deposed. At worst, he too could find himself executed for treason. Pilate faced the possibly of rebellion and violence from his subjects on the one hand, and punishment from Roman authorities on the other. Now certainly I don’t want to mischaracterize Pilate here as the victim— some hapless governor who wanted to do the right thing but merely lacked conviction. Historical sources tell us that Pilate was as brutal and merciless as any other Roman governor of the time. But it’s important to recognize that that brutality was one borne out of a system where truth often fell silent in the face of political maneuvering.

And so in the midst of all that noise, in the midst of all the fear and anxiety of the time, we can perhaps imagine that Pilate’s question—what is truth-- was as much a real question about where to find truth in the midst of political games and power struggles as it was an existential or philosophical question. One can imagine the doubt and fear that filled the minds of many of the characters in this story. Even the disciples had lost their footing, most of them had fled, Peter had denied even knowing Jesus. The world seemed to be turning upside down.

Where was truth to be found in the midst of all that noise?

Much has changed since this story was written down. We live in a different world now— a different culture, with a very different understanding of how the world works, and our place in it. One thing that does remain the same, however, is that there is still an awful lot of noise. There are still an awful lot of voices competing for our attention, claiming to tell us the “truth” about the world—the truth about politics, economics, poverty, war, or disease. Name the issue, and odds are, there are people on both sides claiming to know the truth. But the story of Jesus’ trial and condemnation is a cautionary tale for us. The distortion of truth, in this case, led to the condemnation and execution of an innocent man. In modern history, the distortion of truth has led to any number of major social problems, including racial prejudice, the oppression of ethnic and religious minorities, sexism, and a decline in the civility of our public discourse that allows for the demonization of anyone who thinks differently than us. Make no mistake, the distortion of truth for political purposes is alive and well in our world today. And for those of us who genuinely want to know what is true about the issues and problems that confront us— economics, politics, poverty, war, disease— sometimes all that noise can be overwhelming. It can make us want to throw in the towel and say, “I give up! I don’t know what’s true; I don’t know who to listen to. I’m just going to disengage.” But as Christians, that’s not what we are called to do. We are called to engage, not disengage. As Christians, we are called to confront fear based untruths, particularly when those untruths lead to injustice or oppression, or when they hurt the most vulnerable people in our society. We are called to search for truth— seek it out, and proclaim it. Even if it’s hard, even if it’s frustrating sometimes.

What is truth? It's not always easy to know the answer to that question. But one thing is for sure: if we keep listening to all the noise, we'll never know.