God's Healing: A Sermon on Luke 13:10-17

One of the hardest things I have ever had to do was a couple of summers ago, when as part of my ordination process, I was required to spend a summer working as a hospital chaplain.  The hospital I ended up at that summer was a large, level one-trauma center, which meant that all of the worst accidents in the area ended up at this particular hospital. As I started the summer, I was terrified by this. I was terrified to be on call— having to respond to whatever came into the emergency room at any hour of the day or night. Gunshot wounds, car accidents, motorcycle accidents— you name it, I saw it. Yet while those first few on-call experiences were indeed terrifying, as it turned out, that wasn’t the hardest thing I had to do that summer. The hardest thing about that summer was actually my experiences working on the oncology and intensive care units-- working with patients who were there day after day after day, and seemingly not getting any better.  Sometimes, their families would ask me to pray for them— to pray for a miracle, a cure. I would comply, yet day after day, despite our prayers, I would watch patients continue to decline in health and their families continue to suffer. At times, the patients themselves would confide in me about their anger with God. Why was this happening to them? What had they done to deserve this suffering? Why hadn’t God answered their prayers for healing? Were they doing something wrong?

These were the questions that haunted me over the course of the summer. These were the questions that challenged me more than anything else I experienced. And this morning’s gospel story— for me— calls to mind those experiences. It calls to mind those questions that I think all of us have, about prayer and healing, miracles and human suffering.

It’s a familiar scene— our gospel reading this morning. Jesus crosses paths with someone who is in need of healing. And despite the restriction of not working on the Sabbath, Jesus doesn’t hesitate to heal the woman of her ailment. I say it’s a familiar scene because time and time again, in every gospel, Jesus does not fail to work anything short of a miracle when he encounters those who are sick and suffering. Every single time, he provides a miraculous cure— one that wipes away any trace of illness or deformity.  For many Christians, these are stories of hope. But I have to admit, that summer, that when confronted with patients and families who wanted to know why God wasn’t answering their prayers, I sometimes found more frustration in these stories than hope. I would think to myself, if only there were a few stories where Jesus didn’t provide a miraculous cure, and instead, offered simple compassion and care to a sick or dying person-- care that didn’t necessarily cure them, or rid them of their physical infirmity, but that comforted them in their time of distress. If only there were such a story I could point to so that these patients and their families didn’t have to feel abandoned by God. So that they didn’t have to feel that their prayers somehow weren’t good enough, or that their faith wasn’t strong enough.  Even the book of Job— the quintessential biblical tale about the nature of human suffering-- has a happy ending. Yes, Job suffers tremendously. But in the end, he regains everything that he had lost.  The very last line of the story says that “Job lived one hundred and forty years, and saw his children, and his children’s children, for four generations. And Job died, old, and full of days.” I’m pretty sure this is the biblical version of “and they all lived happily ever after.”

This leaves many of us asking the question: what about all those times when fortunes aren’t restored? When illnesses aren’t cured? What about those times when disabilities and deformities aren’t taken away? How do we, as Christians who process the healing power of God, make sense of all those times when continued woundedness and brokenness-- not miraculous cures-- seem to be the result of our prayers?

I was in a Bible study once, when the subject came up of the difference between praying for a cure and praying for healing. One member of the group gave an example from a film called “The Robe”— a film which takes place after Jesus’ death and centers around a Roman centurion who wins the robe worn by Jesus during the crucifixion. In one very powerful scene in the movie, the centurion comes across a character by the name of Miriam. Miriam is filled with love and light— she is an inspiration to those around her, and her community sees her as an example of Jesus’ miraculous healing power. Miriam also happens to be crippled. And so the centurion is mystified by Miriam and the claims made by her community.

“How is it,” he asks, “that you claim she has been miraculously healed?! She’s a cripple! Can’t you see that??”

An elder in the community explains to the centurion that since she was paralyzed at a young age, Miriam had been bitter and hateful for most of her life. She had affected everyone around her with her envy and malice. But one day, in their small town of Cana, there was a wedding. Everyone in the town went— everyone except Miriam. She stayed at home-- bitter and weeping— for what man would ever ask to marry her? But when her parents returned home from the wedding, they found Miriam changed. She was smiling, singing, and full of joy.

“Wasn’t Jesus at that wedding?” the Centurion asked.

“Yes,” the elder said, “but he came late.”  He had another stop to make first.

The healing that Miriam receives is no less miraculous than the one we read about in the Gospel story for today. In some ways, it is even more extraordinary. For it is not a healing that takes away her physical limitations.  Rather, it is a healing of her soul.

“He could have healed my body,” Miriam explains to the centurion, “but he did something even better for me. He made me an agent of his word. He left me as I am, so that all others like me would know that their misfortune needn’t deprive them of happiness, or their place in God’s kingdom.”

Now this is, of course, a fictional story.  It’s just a movie.  But in some ways, this is the kind of story that I wish we found more of in the bible. Perhaps then there wouldn’t be so much hurtful theology out there. Theology that tells people with chronic illness or disability that the reason for their continued suffering is that they are weak in faith, or that there is some hidden sin that keeps them from being cured. There are plenty of Christians out there who would argue that if God does not heal people in the visible, dramatic way that is expected, then those people have not prayed hard enough.  Their faith is weak. But I don’t think that’s true. I disagree with that theology, because I believe that God does not always heal in the way we demand or expect. I believe that God’s healing does not always amount to God delivering us from every trace of what ails us.

It is perhaps worth noting at this point that there is at least one character in scripture who has a story that mirrors that of Miriam’s story.  The apostle Paul writes in his second letter to the Corinthians that he was given a thorn in his side— something that plagued him a great deal. We don’t know what this “thorn” was, many have speculated, and many biblical scholars suspect it was some kind of physical disability or deformity.  We don’t know for sure.  However, what we do know is that Paul appealed to the Lord multiple times for it to be taken away. Whatever it was, it was something that burdened him deeply. One can imagine that in the religious culture of the day, in an age when any kind of physical illness or disability was seen as the product of sin, that he may have received quite a bit of grief for this. 

“Look at him,” some might have said, “he talks a whole lot about the power of faith, so why can’t he free himself from this ailment? Why doesn’t Jesus deliver him?  Why doesn’t God just cure him?”

But unlike the woman from our gospel reading, Paul is not cured. The thorn in his side does not leave him. Nevertheless, he remains to this day one of the most powerful witnesses to the gospel of God’s love and grace that there has ever been. His writing on the power of faith in the midst of suffering has offered us comfort to many going through difficult times.

“We do not lose heart,” he says, “because we look not at what can be seen, but at what cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal.”

The thorn— whatever it was-- led Paul to the most earnest kind heartfelt kind of prayer— the kind of pouring out of the soul that requires total dependence on God’s love and grace. A grace that is sufficient, Paul learned, to hold us together in the midst of whatever challenges life may bring our way.

I think perhaps one of the biggest differences between a healing and a cure is that while we tend to think only sick or disabled people are in need of a cure, there is not a single one of us that is not in need of healing. Almost all of us have some aspect of our lives in which a “healing” is needed. Some “thorn in our side” that we wish the Lord would take away. Maybe we suffer from chronic pain, or perhaps we or someone we love has experienced depression or some other mental illness. Perhaps there has been a traumatic event in our lives that has kept us enslaved to feelings of fear, bitterness, or resentment. In some way or another, I suspect we can all relate to the woman from the gospel this morning— bent over, struggling under the weight of what ails us, unable to see the sun. We pray consistently for God to heal us and to take away that which ails us. But it may be that God is already sending healing grace into our lives— perhaps in unexpected ways. And it may be that while there are aspects of our lives that are difficult, we are intended sometimes not to be rid of them, but to allow Jesus to walk with us as we go through them. For only then do we come out on the other side— healed in ways that we could never have imagined.  Paul says that we are to be agents of Christ’s reconciliation and Christ’s healing in the world. Perhaps it is to be that like Miriam, like Paul, and indeed like Christ himself— our own woundedness can often be the very thing which allows us to be a healing force for others.

We yearn— all of us do— for healing and wholeness. For ourselves, for our loved ones, and for the world. I believe that one of the greatest miracles of all, is that God offers this healing to each and every one of us— without exception. I believe that even in the midst of brokenness, there is hope to be found. A hope which can be summed up for me in four words: we are never alone.  God does not abandon us in our suffering— God walks with us. And just as God walks with us in our suffering, we can then find the strength to stand, and walk with others in theirs— allowing the hope given to us by the gospel to heal not only us, but to begin that great and grace-filled work of healing all of creation.

There's Always Room for One More

What do you imagine when you think of home?  Do you picture your house-- a physical place where you live, eat meals with family and friends, and take shelter from the cold?  Do you think of your family? Is home the place where you spend time with your spouse, your children, or other loved ones; is it the place where you gather with family and friends for holidays like Thanksgiving or Christmas? When you conjure images of home of in your mind, do you think of the past-- the house and town you grew up in, with all its nostalgic sights, sounds, and smells?  Or do you think of the present-- the place where you live now, even if you haven’t lived in that particular place very long?

            What do you imagine when you think of home?

Preacher Barbara Brown Taylor writes that ‘home’ can be an elusive concept. It’s something all of us yearn for, hunger for, and spend our lives looking for.  And yet for some of us, it can seem like a hard thing to find, and even harder to hold on to once we’ve found it. Especially when you start to think of home as more than just a physical place, and rather, a place where you truly belong.  A place where you are known, loved, and accepted for who you are and all of who you are—the good, the bad, and the ugly.  A safe place in which you can take refuge from the storms of the world. This kind of home is harder to find.

And to make matters more complicated, our society is becoming more transient, with more and more people who have moved multiple times in their adult life. More and more children now grow up, not just in more than one house, but also in more than one town. People tend to switch jobs more frequently than they used to, and it seems like the days are gone when people would hold down one job for 30 years or more. All of this contributes to a sense that many people have these days-- that of being a kind of professional nomad-- moving from place to place, never quite putting down roots. Given all of this, how do we go about finding our true home? How do we find that place where we are fully known, fully loved, and fully accepted?

Henri Nouwen is a well known and beloved writer on spirituality and prayer, and he has written that for him, the place where we find true home-- no matter what the changing circumstances of our lives might be-- is the place where we can find rest for our spirits in God’s presence. He writes, “home is the center of my being-- a place where I can hear the voice that says: you are my beloved, on you my favor rests… home is the never interrupted voice of love speaking from eternity and giving life and love whenever (and wherever) it is heard.” For Nouwen, home is the place where we are connected at the deepest level to our Creator and source of life.  That is the place where we can be most fully known and most fully loved, no matter where we are in the course of our lives.

In reflecting on this idea of home as we celebrate homecoming Sunday here at Park Church, it occurred to me that Nouwen’s definition of home— that of a place where all can find rest their spirit in God’s love-- that is church at its best.  The church has been its best throughout the ages when it has said to every single person who walks through the door—“no matter who you are, no matter where you come from, no matter your past, no matter your present, you have a home here, and we welcome you as a beloved child of God. No exceptions.” That is the church at its best.

It also occurred to me, however, that perhaps one of the greatest shortcomings of the church throughout the ages is that we often haven’t been that kind of home for people. And while many churches— including ours— have tried very hard in recent years to overcome that deficiency, the truth is, the church has had a history over the last couple thousand years of finding ways to exclude certain kinds of people.  To pass judgment on people who are different and to keep certain people out. For many people, that history is what prevents them from seeing the church as a place to call home. There have been all sorts of surveys done in recent years about the reasons why people don’t go to church anymore. And while there are many reasons given— from everything from the rise of postmodernism to soccer games on Sunday-- an overwhelming majority of people reply that the reason they don’t go to church is because they believe that churches are filled with judgment and hypocrisy. They don’t want to go to church because they are afraid they will be judged rather than welcomed. And given much of church history, I think most of us can recognize that this is not an entirely irrational fear. Maybe even some of you have experienced this at a church at some point in your lives.

There are, however, many of us who are working to change that perception.  There was a video that surfaced about a year ago and went viral on the internet (it’s actually up on our church facebook page right now).  It’s a video in which people name some of the reasons why they don’t go to church. And when someone says, “well, the church is just full of hypocrites,” a man responds, “yes, but there’s always room for one more!” There’s always room for one more. For those of us who have experienced home at a church, for those of us who have experienced the kind of healing that comes with being accepted somewhere for who you are— no matter how many imperfections and quirks you may have— the power of this statement rings true. It’s a statement that is at the heart of what it means for a church to be home. There’s always room for one more. One more sinner. One more hypocrite. One more person who is divorced, remarried, young, old, gay, straight, poor, unemployed, over-employed, under-employed, homeless, filthy rich, flawed and imperfect. There’s always room for one more. I truly believe that this is the kind of spiritual home the church is called to be. That we are called to be the kind of church where all can find a place to belong and all can find a place to be fully known. A place where there is always room for one more.

I know many of you share this vision for the church. And I believe in many ways we are already living that out. We embrace the radical welcome that Jesus himself exemplified, and we deeply desire for others to discover that welcome here in this place. But here’s the thing: finding our home with God isn’t just about how we welcome others. It’s also about how we embrace God’s welcome for ourselves. That’s where it all starts. Because if we do not experience God’s radical welcome ourselves, how can we possibly even begin to offer it to others? And in many ways, this can be a lot harder. It can be a lot harder for us to accept the kind of welcome for ourselves that we desire to give to others, because it’s not just the judgment of others that keeps us from finding our home with God. Most of the time, I suspect, it’s the judgment that we place on ourselves that’s even harder to let go of. It’s the imperfections and faults we see in ourselves that make us feel less than worthy to be called beloved children of God. It’s the inner critic that sometimes shouts so loudly about all the things we don’t do well and all the things we haven’t done right (or haven’t done at all) that we don’t hear God’s still small voice shepherding us and calling us home. We don’t hear that voice that Nouwen was talking about, the voice that speaks to us in the deepest places of our hearts, telling us we are beloved.

And so what it all boils down to is this: do we really believe what we say we believe?  That each one of us is so important to God that we are like the lost coin or the lost sheep whose homecoming gives God more joy than the 99 others who are already there? Do we really believe what we tell others about God’s radical welcome and grace-- that all of us have a home here? That there really is room for one more, and that one more is US? Do we believe it for ourselves as much as we might proclaim it to others?

I’m sure that most of you probably noticed when you walked in this morning, that there is a new addition to our sanctuary. It’s going to be with us for a little while as we work to repair the beam in that corner of the church. And I have to confess something to all of you this morning-- that when the engineers told us that we would have to put up this temporary support beam right before Homecoming Sunday, the Sunday when we are all so excited about moving back into our beautiful and historic sanctuary, my heart sank. “Our beautiful sanctuary!” I thought, “It’s not going to look perfect!”

But then as I was reflecting on the theme of this morning’s service, I realized what a perfect illustration this could be for us. Our sanctuary is not perfect this morning, and in fact there is a rather glaring imperfection. But that doesn’t make God any less present, that doesn’t make this any less our home, and it doesn’t make our worship any less meaningful. Just as our own imperfections— whether they are barely perceptible or whether they are glaring, to ourselves or to others, do not prevent God from being present with us and calling us home as beloved children.

So this morning we are going to do a little experiment.  I told you earlier to hold on to those colored pieces of paper because you would be needing them-- well now I want you to pull those out.  If you have a pen or pencil, I want you to pull those out as well-- there are pencils in the pew pockets in front of you and there are also pens scattered around at the end of many of the pews. If you don’t have something to write with, see if you can borrow something from a neighbor. What I’m going to ask all of you to do in just a moment, is to think about whatever the thing might be that keeps you from being fully at home with God. What are the self-judgments and imperfections that you see in yourself that keep you from recognizing yourself as God’s beloved child? What are the things you need to let go of, in order to find full rest for your spirit in God? Think about these questions, and in a moment, I want you to write your answer down on that card. You’ll notice that there are colored strips of fabric hanging from the beam, and there tables on either side of the beam with bowls of mini-clothes pins. What I want you to do, once you’ve written something on your card, is to stand, and go over to that beam, and pin those imperfections and self-judgments to one of the strips of fabric. And then-- and this is the most important part-- leave it there. Let it go. Leave it there for God, and know that God loves you and welcomes you in this place— that this is your home-- No matter what it is you’ve written on that card.

Let us reflect and pray…

This sermon ended with a congregational action designed to help people begin to let go of the things that get between them and God's radical welcome and grace.  Join the conversation here!  What are the things that get in your way of feeling at home with God?  Can you let them go?

 

Dirty Hands, Clean Hearts: A reflection on Mark 7:1-23

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This morning’s lectionary readings put forth one of the most central questions that has been asked by people of all faiths over many centuries of religious history: what does it look like to live a life that is pleasing to God? 

In our reading from James, we read that a life of faithful obedience to God means that we not only hear the word and believe, but also that we act— that we are doers of the word as well as hearers of the word.  We also read that religion for the sake of religion, or piety for the sake of piety, means nothing if we do not also live out our faith through acts of caring for others. “Religion that is pure and undefiled before God,” writes the author of James, “is to care for orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained by the world.” In other words, it’s not just about what you say you believe, but also how you live out that faith.

Similar themes are found in this morning’s gospel reading from Mark, in what is admittedly—by our modern standards-- a rather peculiar story.  It is a story in which the Pharisees chastise Jesus and his disciples for eating a meal without having first washed their hands in order to be ritually clean.  Jesus, in turn, responds rather harshly, calling the Pharisees a bunch of hypocrites who do nothing but pay lip service to God with all their rules and regulations and religious rituals.  To be quite honest, the whole affair can seem a bit like much ado about nothing. After all, this wasn’t a fight about the appropriate use of sacrifice— a hot topic in that day and age. It wasn’t an argument about how to best care for the poor or widowed among them, the correct use of tithes and offerings, or even proper interpretation of scripture. It was a fight about the importance (or lack of thereof) of washing one’s hands before a meal. It almost seems a little silly, and maybe even trivial.

But maybe it’s not. Maybe this is actually a pretty good illustration of what it looks like— really looks like— when a community of imperfect people are trying their best to figure out the answer to our question of the day: what does it look like to live a life that is pleasing to God? When it comes to religious life— and our common life together in a community of faith-- what are the things that are most important to God?

The Pharisees, in regards to this question, often come across to us as looking rather silly in the gospels, with all their rules and regulations, and their stubborn adherence to tradition. We often think we are so different than them.  We think if it had been us, of course we would have aligned ourselves with Jesus and the disciples, not those stuffy old fashioned Pharisees! But maybe we are too hard on the Pharisees sometimes. After all, how many times do we, even being the modern, enlightened Christians that we are, find ourselves fighting about the little things more often than we engage in discussion and debate about the big stuff? 

The truth is, it’s very easy for us to be just like the Pharisees—to get caught up in the minutia of every day religious life and whatever our modern day equivalent of ritual hand washing might be—and forget about our larger purpose as the Body of Christ.   We are creatures of habit, and thus as human beings we prefer order over chaos, rules over anarchy (most of us anyway).  And when it comes to religion, this is even more the case.  Jesus saw this tendency in the rituals of the Pharisees, and he saw that adherence to tradition was holding them back.  This is why he challenges them, and continues to challenge us today, with the question: what does it look like to live a life that is pleasing to God?

Obviously there are many ways to approach the answer to this question. There is not just one path or one single formula for faithful living. But our Gospel story this morning does offer us one particular way of looking at the matter, which is to say: it doesn’t matter if your hands are clean, if your heart is not.  And, sometimes it’s okay, and maybe even necessary to let our hands get a little dirty if we want to keep our hearts clean before God.

Jesus and his disciples, for example, got their hands plenty dirty, and not just because they didn’t wash them before they ate. When they went from town to town, laying hands on those who were considered “unclean”-- the sick, the lame, the sinners, and perhaps worst of all, the lepers— they got their hands dirty. Back then, to touch someone who was considered unclean meant that you yourself became unclean as well. And those who were ill or unclean for any reason were not allowed in the temple because it was thought they would contaminate the house of God. Such ostracism of those most in need meant that the religious leaders certainly kept their hands clean, but their hearts were hardened.

Jesus and his disciples, on the other hand, in treating others with compassion and care, broke the rules and got their hands dirty. But they kept their hearts clean before God.

I almost wonder if this story about ritual hand washing isn’t really about ritual hand washing at all.  That perhaps it’s something of a metaphor for the larger conflict Jesus had with religious leaders when it came to who was considered unclean, and why. Jesus and his disciples disregarded the rules when it came to who was supposed to be untouchable. They laid their hands on those considered to be unclean as if to say, “we do not see you as unclean, and neither does God.”

These same principles hold true for us as modern day disciples of Christ.  Sometimes we have to get our hands a little dirty if we want to keep our hearts clean before God.

I bet anyone who has ever served a meal at a soup kitchen can relate to this.  When you’re in the kitchen preparing a meal for 80 or 100 people, when you are running from the kitchen to the dining room with heaping bowls of chili or paper plates filled to the brim with baked beans and macaroni salad-- you get your hands dirty.

Or what about those of you who have ever cared for an ailing parent or aging loved one?  I imagine you might be able to relate to this as well. When you care for someone who can no dress or even feed themselves, God knows, you tend to get your hands dirty.

Or consider any situation in which you have aligned yourself with someone who may be considered “untouchable” by some standard of society.  While we may not longer use the language of “clean” and “unclean” in this day and age, we do still have our untouchables.  Are we willing to lay our hands on them—the homeless, the poor, the sick and the aging, the addict, and the outcast—and say to them, “we do not see you as unclean, and neither does God.”  If so, perhaps we are moving a little closer towards the answer to our question—what does it look like to live a life that is pleasing to God?  I say a little closer because at the end of the day, we must recognize that it’s not just about our actions— admirable and worthy as they may be. Our readings this morning make it abundantly clear that ultimately, in striving to live a life that is pleasing to God, it’s not just the work of our hands that matters, but also the state of our hearts.  As honorable as it may be to feed the hungry and care for the sick, if we do these things out of a sense of obligation or even— God-forbid— with resentment, that’s not going to cut it either.  Ultimately, it’s the intent behind the actions that God really cares about. Which brings us back full circle to our Gospel story this morning.

Jesus wasn’t picking a fight with the Pharisees because he thought the tradition of washing one’s hands before a meal was a bad thing. He wasn’t throwing out tradition because he was lazy or disrespectful. He was simply trying to point out that the Pharisees had let adherence to tradition overshadow their commitment to God. There’s nothing wrong with keeping tradition and holding fast to the things our elders held dear, so long as we are willing to sometimes let them go, if at anytime they get in the way of caring for others— particularly for the least of these.  So long as we do not put opinions above people, tradition above the gospel, or ritual above compassion and authentic community.  Every time we gather together in Bible Study, or committee meetings, or even social gatherings as a church, and we enter into conversation about the tasks set before us, and even as we argue— as people naturally do— about the best way to accomplish those tasks, we must never lost sight of who we are and why we are here.  We must always be intentional about keeping our hearts clean before God, so that we are ready at a moment’s notice to roll up our sleeves and get our hands dirty, to do the work we are called to do as disciples of Christ, and to strive at all times to live a life worthy of that calling.

 Amen, and let it be so.

Putting on the Armor of God: A Sermon on Ephesians 6:10-20

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I don’t know about all of you, but this morning’s lectionary text from Ephesians is not one of my favorite passages. In fact, it’s one of those passages that upon first hearing, actually makes me cringe just a little bit.  To begin with, the language can seem somewhat archaic to our modern ears with all its references to devils and cosmic forces of evil. It sort of harkens back to a time when people took for granted the existence of things like angels, demons, and devils, as well as the belief that the end times were near, and that all people needed to be prepared for a cosmic battle between the forces of good and evil. But for most people living in this postmodern age, all of this can sound somewhat superstitious. Most of us don’t think much about the end times, nor do we give much thought to the existence of literal devils or demons (even if we would concede, when pressed, that evil does exist in the world).  And then as if all that weren’t enough to make us tune out then comes all the battlefield language— talk of swords and shields and flaming arrows. Language that for many of us conjures up of images of some of the less admirable moments of Christian history-- images of crusades and holy wars, times when Christians took up literal swords against their Jewish and Muslim neighbors.  And quite frankly in this day and age— in an age of terrorism and war, in a culture where we worry about the violence our children see on TV and in the video games they play-- we may very well question the wisdom of Paul’s metaphor for our times. Given all of this, some preachers simply avoid this text when it comes up every three years in the lectionary-- choosing instead to preach on a kinder, gentler, safer passage-- one that doesn’t run the risk of losing the listener before the sermon even begins.

However, I think there is something to be said, for every now and then, wrestling with some of the more difficult passages in the Bible.  Because here is the thing about God’s Word: while it may have been written for a particular group of people, in a particular time and place, it is also a living and dynamic word.  And our God— as we like to proclaim in the UCC— is a still speaking God.  And so I believe there is always something we can learn, even from the most difficult passages (perhaps especially from the most difficult passages) so long as we are willing to approach them with open minds and open hearts.

Often times I find it helps, in cases such as this, to start by laying down a little historical context.  For instance, it’s important for us postmodern listeners to remember that when Paul first wrote these words, the early Christian community was struggling simply to survive.  They lived amidst an oppressive Roman government that did not appreciate the radical and somewhat subversive nature of the early church. And it is in this context that Paul offers these words to the early church in Ephesus. In writing these words, Paul would have known that the sight of Roman soldiers patrolling the streets of Ephesus would have been a familiar sight to the Christians there, and that it was probably a sight that elicited a fearful reaction, given the persecution they faced. And so some scholars suggest that in choosing this metaphor of battle armor, this was Paul’s subtle way of subverting the power of the Roman government—his way of telling the Christians in Ephesus that while Rome might have military might and political power, followers of Christ have access to a power far deeper. And so originally, these words were never meant to be taken as a literal call to battle, but rather as words of comfort for a people living in difficult times. Paul was giving his followers the tools they needed to stand firm in their faith despite opposition and persecution all around them.

Perhaps it is in this contextual setting then, where we can begin to find new meaning in these words for today. Because while our struggles may not be the same as those of the early Christian church, we still have struggles.  And so I would suggest that the two questions we need to ask ourselves as we seek God’s truth this morning are these:

Where do we see spiritual darkness operating in today’s world?

 

And how does this text offer us the tools we need to counter that darkness as people of light?

In regards to the first question— where do we see spiritual darkness in ourselves or the world around us— there are many answers we could give. For some of us, there is darkness within our very selves that we struggle with. Whether it’s addiction of some kind, or whether it’s the darkness of anxiety, fear, anger or depression, most of us know what it’s like to have darkness inside of us-- to struggle with the demon within— to use some of Paul’s language.  And beyond our personal struggles, most of us would agree that there is spiritual darkness in the world as well. Darkness that, at times, threatens to crowd out the beauty and goodness in the world. Darkness that takes the form of poverty or disease, corporate greed, political corruption, racism, classism—or any other “ism” for that matter. The list could go on and on. Each one of us probably has something in particular that comes to mind. In the midst of all of this, it’s pretty clear that we too— just like the fledgling Christian church in Ephesus— need tools to help us stand firm in our faith. We too need something to hang onto so that we do not become overwhelmed with pessimism or cynicism that is so prevalent in the world around us.

I wish I had time to go through each individual piece of armor that Paul mentions, and talk about how each one can help us in this task, because there is so much there that could be said. But that would make for a very long sermon. So for now I have simply chosen three pieces of armor that seemed to me to be particularly relevant for us modern and postmodern believers— the belt of truth, the shoes of peace, and the shield of faith.

First, the belt of truth.

When it comes to this piece of armor, I can’t help but think of the particular cultural moment we are living through right now as a nation.  We live in an age where information and misinformation is everywhere— on TV, on the radio, and on the internet.  And admittedly it’s hard, sometimes, to know what’s true.  It’s hard to distinguish between the facts, the half-truths, and the propaganda that’s floating around out there at the present moment. Just take a look at some of the political ads we’re starting to see as election season gets underway. Frankly, I’m thankful that we don’t live in a swing state so we aren’t completely bombarded with negative political ads, most of which, I fear, are full of half-truths and even downright lies.  But it’s not just politics where this is the case. Every day we are presented with conflicting versions of what is true on a whole range of issues in a variety of situations.  But perhaps in one way or another, this has always been the case, even before the age of cable news and the internet. And perhaps that’s why Paul lists the belt of truth as the very first item in his armory. As a reminder that before anything else, we must first be intentional about seeking after genuine truth.

One scholar suggests that the reason Paul chooses a belt to represent truth, rather than anything else, is because the Romans had to wear belts in order to avoid tripping on their traditional togas, and Paul wants to make sure the Christians in Ephesus do not stumble in their walk of faith-- that they are not led astray by the challenges they face.  If we simply accept what is given to us without question, or to let others distract us with half-truths or propaganda, or even if we let our inner demons deceive us with some half-truth about ourselves, then we run the risk of stumbling down the wrong path. Paul is instructing us not to be lazy or half-hearted about our quest for truth, but to seek after it with every fiber of our being, to make that our first and foremost weapon in the struggle against the dark. For only then are we prepared to take the next step.

Which brings me to our next piece of armor-- the shoes of peace. It is certainly an odd contradiction Paul is presenting here. In the midst of all these tools of battle, he entreats his followers to seek peace. Perhaps that’s because he wants to highlight the fact that there is often a contradiction between the ways of the world and the ways of Christ. According to the ways of the world, after all, when someone strikes you, you strike back. When someone attacks your truth, you attack theirs. If you feel threatened by someone or something, you find a way to put them down. These are the ways of the world. But, Paul says, this is not the way of Christ. And if you want to walk the path Christ laid out for us— if you want to call yourself a Christian-- then you need to strap on the kind of sandals Jesus himself wore-- sandals of peace, forgiveness, and mercy. Perhaps the reason Paul includes this in his armor metaphor is because walking this path can often seem like a uphill battle. It can seem like the more difficult, more strenuous path. It strains our sense of credulity to think that non-violence, mercy, and gentleness can actually solve some of the larger problems threatening our world. To be sure, striking back and putting others down so that you come out on top often seems to work better. But I think Paul would say that’s taking the easy way out. Putting on the shoes of peace means we are preparing for a more difficult road, but ultimately it’s a road that Christ walks with us every step of the way.

Finally, we come to the shield of faith, which is perhaps the most important piece of armor in the collection. It is our faith which ultimately shields us from the darkness of the world. This doesn’t mean that we shield ourselves by turning a blind eye to what’s going on around us. It doesn’t mean we adopt a naïve optimism and refuse to see the world as it is. But it does mean that we don’t let the cynicism and brokenness around us overcome us. And I don’t know about all of you, but for me, this is a challenge. Watching the news—in particular these days following the election-- it is so easy for me to want to thrown my hands up and cry out “it’s all so broken-- nothing’s ever going to change!” And you know that might be the end of it-- if our shield of faith was meant to protect only ourselves. But here is where a closer look at Paul’s metaphor shines light onto just how wise he was. The shields used by Roman soldiers in 1^st century Palestine were interlocking shields— meaning that two thirds of the shield protected the individual soldier, and one third of the shield would cover the soldier next to them. This is what made the Roman army at the time nearly invincible, because there was no gap in their protection. If we had to go it alone, we may very well lose faith. But Paul’s point here is that we are not meant to go it alone. Our shield of faith is ours, but it is strengthened in community-- when your faith interlocks with the person sitting next to you, and the person sitting next to them, and on and on until each one of us is lifted up in an invisible web of faith that binds all of us together and is ultimately strengthened by God. So that when one of us finds our faith weakened by whatever darkness we struggle against, we are upheld by the faith of others around us. And at other times, we may find we are the ones left keeping the faith for someone else during their difficult time.

So whatever the struggle may be that you feel most deeply in this present moment, whatever the darkness may be that threatens to overwhelm you, remember these three things: to fasten the belt of truth around your waist to prepare you for your journey, to put on the shoes of peace so that you are able to walk the path that Christ has set out for you with peace and grace, and know that you are protected, shielded, and forever held by the faith of this gathered community.

Amen, and let it be so.

Living the Beatiudes: Part 4

This morning we conclude our series of reflections on the Beatitudes with the last and longest of these famous sayings of Jesus.  It’s the Beatitude that is perhaps the most disturbing to our modern ears, as well as the one that is— for many of us I suspect— the most distant from our actual lived experience:

 “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account.  Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”

What on earth are we to do with this? 

 At least with all the other Beatitudes, we feel like we can relate.  At one point or another all of us have been the ones who mourn, the ones who are poor in spirit, the ones who hunger and thirst after righteousness.  But this last Beatitude can feel like words for a distant people in a distant time and place.  After all, while our friends might wonder why we still bother to come to church in this modern age, no one is going to jail us, beat us, or threaten our lives because of what we believe.  We no longer live in the world—for example-- that Jesus’ original audience lived in.  1^st century Jews in Palestine knew that their situation was precarious.  They had allowances from the Roman Empire to practice Judaism, but only so long as they remained compliant with Roman authorities, paid their taxes, and maintained ultimate loyalty to Caesar.  Any hint of radical religion or rebellion, and what little freedom they had could be crushed in a moment.  One can imagine that Jesus’ audience might have been even more uncomfortable hearing these words than we are today.  They might have thought—“this guys needs to tone down his rhetoric, or he’s going to get us all in a whole lot of trouble!”  And of course, as we all know, he eventually did.  By the time these words were actually written down, John the Baptist had lost his head, Jesus had been crucified, and the early Christian church had begun to see its first martyrs.

But things are different for us now.  We live in a world where Christianity, while perhaps not as all powerful of an institution as it was hundreds of years ago, is still the dominant religious voice in America.  We live in a world where we are free to believe whatever we want, and practice those beliefs, for the most part, however we choose.  So what could these words possibly mean for us today?

I think one answer to that question lies in the ultimate meaning behind the Beatitudes as a whole, as well as the Sermon on the Mount of which they are a part.  Throughout the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus takes care to set up two realities, and is constantly giving his audience a choice— which reality will you choose?  The Kingdom of this world?  Or the Kingdom of God?  And the Beatitudes, as part of the sermon on the mount, frame that choice in a very specific way.  Whose blessings will you seek?  The blessings of this world?  Or the blessings of God?

Perhaps it would help to frame the question in our modern context a bit.  Consider the complaint of one individual, who says this:

"I go to church on Sunday and hear about how the essence of the good life is self-sacrifice and service—that we are to take up our cross and follow Christ.  But then from Monday to Saturday we are told by pretty much everyone else that the essence of the good life is to assert ourselves and gain all that we can."

I don’t know about all of you, but I can certainly relate to that feeling of conflict between what we talk about in here, and how we live out there.  But in the Beatitudes, Jesus gives his followers— including us— a very clear cut choice.

Which kingdom will you choose?

Whose blessings will you seek?

The truth of the matter is, while it may be a very clear cut choice Jesus is setting up here, as people of faith, we often find ourselves caught between two kingdoms.  Because while we are called to seek after God’s kingdom and God’s blessings, we can’t just sequester ourselves from the world either.  We can’t just hide out behind the doors of our churches all week long.  We are still called to be— in Jesus’ own words— in the world, though not of the world.  And so in setting up a choice between the kingdoms of this world and the kingdom of God, Jesus is not telling his disciples to simply wait things out in this world in order to receive blessings in the next. Immediately following the Beatitudes comes another famous teaching— Jesus’ call for his disciples to be a light to the world, and salt of the earth.  In choosing to seek after God’s kingdom and God’s blessing, Jesus is not calling us to disengage from the world.  But he is warning his disciples—and us-- that the kind of engagement he is calling for may cause conflict when the ways of God’s kingdom inevitably bump up against the ways of the world.  But like the prophets of the Hebrew Scriptures, and like Jesus himself, we are called not to shrink away from that conflict-- not to be afraid of it, but to shine God’s light upon it and seek to mend it.

There is perhaps no better contemporary example of this than that of the civil rights movement of the 1960’s. One of the most famous documents to come out of that era is Dr. Martin Luther King’s Jr. letter from Birmingham jail, in which he responds to the criticisms from clergy colleagues that his actions are too extreme.  They tell him that he’s causing too much trouble.  “Now is not the right time,” his fellow ministers tell him, “the kingdoms of this world are not ready for your demands.”  But as he writes—literally from a jail cell— he defends his actions in Birmingham, saying, “just as the prophets of the 8^th century left their villages and carried their message of justice far beyond the boundaries of their home towns, and just as the Apostle Paul left his village of Tarsus and carried the gospel of Jesus Christ to the far corners of the Greco-Roman world, so am I compelled to carry the gospel of freedom beyond my home town…  for injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.  Later in the letter, he responds the criticism that he and his fellow activists are extremists, writing “was not Jesus Christ an extremist for love, truth and goodness?”  And of course it was not just King who found himself persecuted for his belief in the gospel of freedom.  Many other suffered police brutality and jail time for their actions.  Even many of the white preachers and lawyers who stood alongside King found themselves losing their jobs and their credibility. Dr. King and those who walked with him were people who made a choice.  They chose—very deliberately-- to eschew the blessings of the world in order to seek the blessings of God’s kingdom.

As followers of Christ, we are similarly called to choose to live within the tension between two worlds— the tension that exists between the world as it is and the world as it should be, between the already and the not yet.  We are called to recognize God’s saving act in Jesus Christ, but we are also called to recognize that God’s work is not yet complete, and that God has chosen us, and given us the power of the Holy Spirit, so that we might be a part of that great work.  And that also means that as people of faith, we are not always called to be comfortable.  We are called— as we heard in our first reading this morning-- beyond our comfort zone.

Now don’t get me wrong, there are times in our walk of faith that we need the comfort of the gospel.  Times when we have experienced great loss, time when we are in the midst of tragedy and need to hear Christ’s voice saying to us, “come to me all who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”  But just as often, there are times in our walk of faith that we must move beyond that comfort in order to more fully experience the blessings that God wishes for us to have.  There are times when we must make the choice of which kingdom we wish to build, and whose blessings we wish to seek. And for those of us who have read the rest of Christ’s words in the sermon on the mount, we know that that’s not necessarily an easy choice to make. It’s a choice that requires loving our enemies, turning the other cheek, and purging anger from our hearts.  It’s a choice that requires-- to use Christ’s words—“being perfect as our heavenly father is perfect.”  It’s a tall order for sure.  G.K. Chesterton once famously said that “it’s not that the Christian ideal has been tried and found wanting, It’s that it has been found difficult, and left largely untried.”

In this last Beatitude, Jesus tells us flat out that to make the choice to follow him will not always keep us free from pain and conflict.  And why would we ever expect it to-- knowing that this man we are freely choosing to follow was ultimately taken to the cross?  But lest you think this Beatitude is all doom and gloom for us Christians, there is good news to be found in these words as well.  The good news is that if we make that choice to follow in the ways of Christ, we are choosing to be people of hope.  We are choosing to believe that the world as it is, is not all there is. We are choosing to join the ranks of prophets, poets, and priests— people who have been lights to this world and salt to this earth.  And even if we run into conflict and even if we face obstacles, even if the results of our work seem small and unremarkable to our eyes, remember that the real hope is not in what we do ourselves, but is in God.  Our God who can make something out of nothing, and who can transform the feeble works of our hands into miracles that can move mountains.

Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  Amen, and let it be so.

Living the Beatitudes Part 3: Blessed Are the Peacemakers

Part three of a four week series of reflections on the Beatitudes from the Gospel of Matthew

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Living the Beatitudes: Part 2

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled...

One of the most highly anticipated movies of the summer is coming out in less than two weeks, and it’s one I happened to be very excited about.  It’s the third in a trilogy of films based on a popular comic book series-- one of the most popular film adaptations of a comic book to come out in recent years.  Some have even gone so far as to call it a modern cinematic classic.  If you don’t already know which film I’m referring to, let me clue you in—it’s Batman.

Now many of you—like myself— may be eagerly awaiting the arrival of this film on the big screen.  When you think about it though, it’s really kind of incredible that anyone would want to go see a movie-- let alone three movies-- about an eccentric billionaire who dresses up like a bat and flies around town fighting crime.  It’s really pretty ridiculous when you think about it!  But I think the reason it’s so popular is that underneath the costumes, the over-the-top villains, the crazy gadgets and the special effects; there is a timeless, classic story of a man who is hungry for justice.  Someone who recognizes the injustices in the world around him and seeks to do something about it.  Justice, fairness, and retribution.  These are supposedly the kinds of values underlying the stories— not only of batman-- but really of all the classic comic book tales.  And they are also values that have become deeply ingrained in American popular culture.  We love to hear these stories of good triumphing over evil, of wrongs made right, of injustice being met with justice. People flock to the theaters to see these stories played out on the big screen.  One might say we are hungry for it. 

On the surface, one might think that seeing these values surface in our popular culture is a pretty positive thing.  In fact some might even make the argument that it’s a reflection of our Judeo-Christian values.  After all we find references to justice and righteousness scattered everywhere throughout both the old and new testaments— “Let justice roll down like waters,” the prophet Amos declares, “and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”  “What does the Lord require of you,” asks the prophet Micah, “but to do justice.”  And of course we have the words of Christ himself— “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they will be filled.”  Other translations of this text read “blessed are those who hunger and thirst after justice.”  It’s the fourth of Jesus’ Beatitudes— his descriptive list of what it looks like to live a life blessed by God.  And when placed before the backdrop of American pop-culture, it might seem as if we are actually doing pretty well at this particular beatitude.  After all, do we not hunger for justice?  Do we not stand up and cheer when the good guys triumph over evil and when justice and righteousness win the day?

Well perhaps…

But as is often the case with Jesus, there’s a little more to it than that.  And in order to truly claim an understanding of this Beatitude and then be able to live it out as Christian disciples in the world, we have to dig a little deeper in order to understand the depth of what Jesus is really trying to tell us.

Now to our modern ears, to hunger and thirst after righteousness may simply sound like a call to live just and moral lives.  To be upright citizens-- living according to the law and ensuring that when laws are broken, proper retribution is carried out.  And it certainly is that.  But it’s also more than that.  Jesus was echoing the words of the Hebrew Prophets in this Beatitude, for whom justice and righteousness was not only about following the letter of the law, but also went beyond the law towards a far far deeper kind of justice. Not just punitive justice for those who do wrong, but restorative and transformative justice for all.

In chapter 58 of the book of Isaiah, for example, the prophet declares these words: “Is this not the fast I choose: to loosen the bonds of injustice and to let the oppressed go free?  Is it not to share bread with the hungry and shelter those who are homeless?  Then shall your light break forth like the dawn, and then shall your healing spring up, and the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard.”

For Isaiah, and for all the prophets, the meaning of true justice and righteousness could be summed up in a single Hebrew word—Shalom.  Most of us know this word as a kind of greeting meaning “peace be with you.”  But beyond its function as a mere greeting, Shalom also refers to an important concept within Jewish theology.  It means restoration of right relations between human beings, between humanity and creation, and between humanity and God.  Shalom is about restoring the earth and all creation to its fundamental goodness, the goodness that is inherent in all things because creation was made— as Genesis tells us— to reflect the very image of God.  In this fourth Beatitude, Jesus is talking about the kind of hunger for righteousness that goes far beyond a simple desire to see the unjust receive their due.  It’s a hunger for shalom— a hunger for the restoration of the world as it should be, rather than the world as it is.  It’s a hunger to see creation as it was meant to be— reflective of the very image of God.  And so the blessing in this case-- “blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness”-- comes not merely with the execution of justice or the punishment for wrongdoing. Rather, the blessing comes in the seeking itself.  It comes when we align our hearts with the heart of God to seek after true righteousness and shalom.

So what then?  What does this actually look like for us in our communities?  How do we live this beatitude out?

If to hunger and thirst for shalom means seeking to restore creation to reflect the image of God, and if God is particularly concerned with the poor and oppressed— which the Bible tells us that God is— then our communities must also be restored in a way that reflects that image and that concern.  If seeking after shalom means seeking after God’s own heart, then our hunger for justice and righteousness must lead us towards a world in which all are fed. A world in which all have bread, in which all are cared for, in which all have dignity and respect.  Because all of us are made in the image of God.

In most of the comic book movies, there may be thrilling adventures and satisfying endings in which the good guys triumph over evil and justice prevails. But perhaps it’s worth noting that rarely does that triumphant ending have anything to do with justice for the poor or the oppressed.  I can’t really think of any comic book movies in which the hero’s concern for justice is to make sure all the hungry people in the world are fed.  I suppose that wouldn’t really make for quite the same kind of summer blockbuster.  But that’s the kind of justice and righteousness that Jesus is talking about.  That is Shalom.

Here then lies the challenge for us-- because Jesus meant for these Beatitudes to be for all of us— not just the superheroes of the world.  While we may not go out and change the world in as dramatic and impressive ways as they do in the movies, we can change our world— right here.  We can be the superheroes of our own lives and the lives of others around us.  We can be superheroes for Shalom.  We can pay attention to that hunger that resides within each of us-- that hunger that says, I know this isn’t quite how it’s supposed to be— I know that we are meant for something more.  We’ve all felt it that hunger.  So go now, and seek the blessing that resides within it.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they will be filled.  Amen and let it be so.

Living the Beatitudes: Part 1

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The first in a four part series of relfections on the Beatitudes in the Gospel of Matthew. 

The Beatitudes found in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke are among some of Jesus’ most beloved teachings.  In them we find great comfort and promise, and we also find validation for those who seek to walk the Christian Way.  But in them we also find many questions.  Because like so many of Jesus’ most famous teachings, they seem to take conventional wisdom, and turn it completely upside down.  For instance, conventional wisdom in our culture would say that it’s the wealthy and happy people in the world who are blessed— not the poor and grieving.  It would say that it’s the rich and powerful-- not the poor and meek-- who will inherit the earth.  To say ‘blessed are the poor in spirit,’ ‘blessed are those who mourn,’ and ‘blessed are those who are persecuted,’ sounds pretty darn strange in a world where we avoid things like poverty, sadness, and persecution at all costs. And so the beatitudes are not just these nice pithy sayings meant to comfort us in times of trouble.  They are also words that are meant to challenge us to live differently— not in accordance with a world that is often competitive, greedy, and harsh, but rather in accordance with God’s kingdom of love, justice and compassion.  In other words, the Beatitudes are meant to teach us how to be disciples.

And so we are not meant to simply hear the beatitudes— soaking up the truth within them as nourishment for our spirits alone. We are also meant to live them out. For this reason, we will spend the next few weeks taking a more in depth look at these famous sayings of Jesus in order to discover how we might find ways to live them out in our world today.

This morning we begin with the first of the Beatitudes: “blessed are those who are poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” And already we find ourselves in a quandary.  Because for those of us who know the version of the Beatitudes from the Gospel of Luke, we know that it’s slightly different.  In Luke’s gospel it simply reads: “blessed are those who are poor, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”  Absent from Luke’s version is the qualifier—poor in spirit. So which is it?  Is Jesus talking about spiritual poverty?  Or is he talking about material poverty?

One could certainly decide to privilege one version over the other and come to two very different conclusions about who it is that is actually blessed, and therefore what it means for us to live out this teaching in our lives.  Some might hear Matthew’s version and say that one’s material wealth— or lack thereof— has nothing to do with it. That to be poor in spirit is about spiritual humility, it’s about not thinking of oneself more highly than one should.

Others might hear Luke’s version and point to Jesus’ famous interaction with the rich man who asks him how to get into heaven.  Jesus tells him he must sell all his possessions and give the money to the poor, because in Jesus’ words, “it’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to get into heaven.”

So which is it?  Certainly if we look at Jesus’ entire life and ministry, it’s clear that he often pays special attention to the poor and grieving, and that he never hesitates to cut down the wealthy or elite of his society. But it’s not because being poor, in and of itself, automatically gets you into heaven, or even that being rich automatically keeps you out. I think it has more to do with the fact that worldly wealth and security often gets in the way of becoming true disciples of Jesus. Scholar Stanley Hauerwas has written that “to be poor does not in itself make one a follower of Jesus, but it can put you in the vicinity of what it might mean to discover the kind of poverty that frees those who follow Jesus from enslavement to the world… too often we fail to recognize our accommodation to worldly powers because we fear losing our wealth, independence, and security.”

A number of years ago, I spent a year in a faith and social justice internship that took me to the city of Los Angeles, where I shared a small three bedroom apartment with 5 other people and lived off the meager sum of $500 a month.  Believe me when I tell you that in Los Angeles, that doesn’t exactly go far. The idea was to enter into a sort of voluntary poverty and radical simplicity as I and my roommates all worked full time jobs with agencies where our clients had even fewer materials resources than we did.  And I have to admit that when I started off that year, the thought did cross my mind-- once or twice-- that living with so few material comforts would most definitely grant me some serious bragging rights when it came to living the Christian Way.  So much for spiritual humility!

But very early on, I learned something quite surprising. First of all, I learned it wasn’t about having bragging rights. More importantly, however, I found that even though I was living with fewer material comforts than I ever had before, never had I experienced such a deep sense of God’s abundance. It was in fact the very lack of material wealth that forced all of us to rely upon one another and to care more deeply for one another.  We simply weren’t able to go it alone— and that was perhaps one of the greatest luxuries we gave up that year. The illusion of independence and self sufficiency was broken down in front of our very eyes, but in it’s place was a wonderful feeling of deep community and care.

The other thing that began to happen during that year of living simply was that the lines between us and the people we were serving began to blur. Those cultural barriers that separate the haves from the have-nots, the fortunate from the less fortunate, began to break down, as we discovered that the stories clients had to tell were stories that we desperately needed to hear.  I remember one man— I’ll call him William— was a former drug addict. He spent years out on the streets, in and out of prison, on and off drugs.  But when I met William, he had been clean and sober for years, and was finally moving out of the shelter and into his own apartment.  In the years since he had become sober, he had become deeply involved with substance abuse support groups such as NA and AA.  He traveled locally as a motivational speaker for 12 step groups, churches, shelters, and other local service agencies.  Now William would be the first to tell anyone that going through those years of pain, suffering, and poverty is not something he would recommend or wish for anyone.  The point is not to seek out poverty or suffering for its own sake.  But it was through that experience that William’s eyes were opened to the image of God in people that most others would simply ignore or turn away from.  For William, there was dignity and grace and the possibility for restoration in every person— no matter how messed up they were.  He knew this for a fact because it had happened to him.

These are the kinds of stories that changed us the most.  And by the end of the year, as we learned to stop relying on ourselves for everything we needed, we were opened up to the people around us in a new way.  We realized we needed these people just as much or more than they needed us. Hearing the stories of their bravery, their persistence, and their struggles through difficulties we could only imagine was truly humbling.  And it was then, perhaps the first time, that any of us really understood what it meant to be poor in spirit.

Personally, I think that the two versions of this beatitude that we find in Matthew and Luke are simply two sides of the same coin.  It is through our material and spiritual poverty that we come to the realization that we are not meant to live our lives in isolation from one another, but rather that all of us are deeply connected and interdependent, and that we can only make the kingdom of heaven a reality on earth if we recognize the image of God in every person-- whether they are among the wealthiest on the planet, or whether they are among the poorest of the poor.

So what does it take to live this beatitude?  I recognize that not all of us have the luxury of moving to LA for a year and joining some experimental Christian community.  So how do we become poor in spirit where we are, here and now, so that we might experience the kingdom of God?

This morning I would suggest two things as a way to begin.  First, that we continue to examine our own lives to see where it is that our accommodation to worldly power and comfort is keeping us from following in the Way of Jesus Christ.  What are we clinging to—either materially or emotionally— that is holding us back from true connection with others?  Where do we need to give up the illusion of independence in our own lives in order to experience God’s full and true abundance?

Second, we make every effort we can to break down the walls of division between the so called haves and have-nots-- recognizing that all of us are equal in the eyes of God.  I believe that this is especially important for us in this country right now, as the lines between the rich and poor seem to be growing ever more quickly into battle lines manufactured by pundits and politicians, with voices on both sides of the aisle crying out “class warfare!”  Well let me tell you something-- we have news for them.  They may be in a war, but we are not.  They may want to create division, but we do not. Instead, we reach out. We create opportunities to hear the stories of people who are not like us. We find ways to reach across social boundaries of class and economic status—just like Jesus did.  Serve a meal to a hungry person. Talk to someone on the street. Notice that person that you usually ignore. Start small, and see where it takes you.

Blessed are those who are poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Amen, and let it be so.

Singing for Transformation

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In preparation for a congregational hymn-sing, Park Congregational Church spent a month collecting ballots for members’ favorite hymns.  The top vote-getter was then chosen as the subject of that morning’s theological reflection.  What follows is the text of that reflection.

 

In the church, we talk a lot about the gap that supposedly exists between generations when it comes to musical taste.  Some of the older, more beloved hymns that we sing are completely unfamiliar to younger generations, and some of the music that younger generations listen to today sounds utterly foreign to their parents and grandparents.  And so we often wonder if it will ever be possible to bridge that gap.  And yet, interestingly enough, when it came to the hymn that was most requested by all of you for this morning’s service, turns out it was the exact same hymn that was most requested by our youth when we were planning our youth service earlier this summer.  Which I think goes to show that when it comes to the most powerful music, that gap between the generations gets a whole lot smaller.

Now some of you may already have guessed which hymn was the top vote getter this morning, but rather than simply tell you the name of the hymn and then have us sing it, I thought I would first tell you a little bit of it’s story.

In 1736, at the young age of eleven, John Newton left school for a life at sea with his father.  After his father died, Newton continued to serve on a number of ships, until he eventually became the captain of his own, becoming deeply involved in one of the most lucrative industries of the time-- the British slave trade.  Newton captained his ship for many years, until gradually, he found himself more and more uncomfortable with the conditions that the slaves faced during the long voyage from Africa to England.  At first he tried to justify his work by seeking to improve the conditions on his boat as much as possible.  But eventually he realized there was no amount of improvements or adjustments he could make that would justify the cruelty of the slave trade itself.  And so he found himself unable to continue in the work that was essentially the only thing he had ever known in his entire adult life.  And he walked away.  He eventually became an Anglican priest, as well as a strong advocate in the abolition movement in England.  He became good friends with William Wilberforce, who many of you know was the British politician that is largely credited as one of the most powerful figures in the English abolition movement.

As a priest, Newton was not a terribly prolific or even gifted hymn writer.  Only a handful of his hymns actually survive, and of those, there is really only one that is sung with any degree of regularity.  However it’s one of the most popular and beloved hymns of all time.  Perhaps that’s because the words so powerfully describe Newton’s own journey of personal transformation— “I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see.”

Maybe some of you know this story already—the story of Amazing Grace.  But it’s worth remembering from time to time-- especially as we prepare to sing it in just a few moments.  Because while Amazing Grace is a beloved hymn that we sing often, it’s more than just good poetry set to a nice, sing-able tune.  We may not think about it much, but perhaps the reason that we love this hymn so much, and perhaps the reason it bridges the gap between generations so well, is because it has its origins in the deepest longings that all of us feel— the longing for true and lasting transformation.  It speaks to the truth that we all so desperately want to believe in-- that change—real change-- is possible.  That even the worst evils and injustices in our world can be defeated by goodness and grace.  That no person, and no situation, is ever beyond redemption.

And so as we join our voices in this old and familiar song, let us sing with the knowledge that wherever it is we seek transformation-- in our lives or in the world in which we live—amazing grace can always be found.