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.

The Irony of Being Marked with Ashes: A Reflection for Ash Wednesday

I’ve always thought that the Matthew lectionary text for Ash Wednesday was a bit of an odd choice. I’ve wondered about what person (or committee) made the decision to read this particular text on this particular day. I wonder if maybe they had a bit of an ironic streak in them. After all, here is Jesus, telling his disciples not to display their piety in public, and yet this is the one day of the year when we walk out of the church with a very visible symbol of our faith displayed for all the world to see-- a smudge of ashes on our foreheads in the shape of a cross. It’s a little bit ironic, don’t you think?

Yet, I do realize that at the heart of it, Ash Wednesday has never really been about a public show of piety. The ashes on our foreheads are a physical, outward manifestation of what the prophet Joel describes as the inner rending of our hearts--the act of turning away from all of those things that distract us from God and God’s purpose for our lives.

The dust on our foreheads is a reminder. It reminds us, first of all, of our own mortality. It reminds us that we too, someday, will die. No one really likes to be reminded of such things— even though it’s a reality we can hardly escape. It’s impossible, for example, to turn on the morning news without hearing word of a suicide bomber snuffing out the lives of innocent passers-by, or of a car accident that tragically ends the life of a young person. Not to mention there are very few of us who haven't had the experience of losing a dear friend or family member. Yet despite the fact that death intrudes upon our lives almost every day, we don’t often confront the fact of our own mortality— the fact that our lives are precious but frail, that we are not immune to death, and that every moment of this life is a gift. And so these ashes on our foreheads remind us to slow down, take stock of where we are, and to think about what really matters— to us, and to God.

Second, the ashes on our foreheads remind us of our own sinfulness. “Each and every one of us,” writes St. Paul, “falls short of the glory of God.” Now again, none of us really like to think too much about this. We like to think we are basically good people, doing the best we can. And in many ways, we are. But we all get distracted. We all find ourselves, at times, doing what is easy, rather than what we know is right. We might not be doing things that we consider evil or wicked, but perhaps sometimes, we let ourselves stay angry a little too long, or perhaps we act in ways that are a little too selfish. Or maybe we ignore the things that we know we ought to be doing. Remember that sin is not only about doing things we shouldn’t, but also neglecting to do the things that we know we should. Lent isn't only about saying 'no' to certain things. It's also about saying 'yes' to those things that will bring us closer to God. And so receiving the ashes on the first day of Lent serves as a reminder to us that we are imperfect creatures, and that we all need to take the time to be intentional about turning back to God.

Finally, the ashes on our foreheads remind us of who we are and where we come from as creations of a wonderful and awesome God. The dust on our foreheads reminds us that we are made of the same stuff as all of God’s wondrous creation— the earth beneath our feet, the grass and the trees, the ants and the butterflies, the giraffes and the honeybees. We are part of something so much larger than ourselves, so much greater than our own frail and imperfect bodies. We are part of an indescribable network of life-- connected at our very core with all the wonders of God’s creation.


Quite frankly, at the end of the day, I can’t help but be a little glad that our response to this text from Matthew, year after year, is to do something that makes our faith so clearly visible to the world around us. I’m glad because very often this text is interpreted to mean that faith is a private matter— not something to bleed into our everyday lives. Not something to be brought up in polite company. Such interpretations of this text can lead us to believe that our faith is something to be tended to only in the quiet solitude of our homes or the safety of church on Sunday morning. However as we enter into yet another season of Lent, as we prepare to be marked with ashes yet again, it seems to me that the world can no longer afford such a view. Our world has so much brokenness in it. So much suffering, war,
disease, and destruction. If we recognize our interconnectedness with every other life and creature on this planet, then we recognize we are not only connected to the glory of God’s creation, but to all of it’s brokenness as well. We are connected to all who suffer from broken hearts. We are connected to those who struggle with disease and inadequate health care. We are connected to the poor and homeless members of not only our own local communities, but also all across the globe. The dust that marks our foreheads also marks the foreheads of AIDS orphans in Africa, migrant workers in Florida, and refugees in Tunisia. We are connected with those who sit in jail cells, those who are victims of violence, and those who perpetrate it. We are connected with those who struggle for freedom and those who have no freedom to speak for themselves. Finally we are connected with this earth that God gave us to tend to. We are connected to the tress that give us the air that we breath, and the plants that produce the food that we eat. If we recognize our connections to all of these things— then we also must recognize that our fate is bound up in theirs—that their peril is our peril. And if we see that, then our faith is never merely a private enterprise.

And so the question for all of us this Lenten season might be: what are the things that are distracting us-- not only from God-- but also from our deep connection to all of God’s creation? What is distracting you from your connection to our world in peril, and how is God calling you— in this moment-- to begin to mend it? As you receive your ashes this morning, and as you journey through this Lenten season, take some time to think about how your life is bound up in the lives of others. Take some time to think about how your precious life— given to you as a gift by God— can become a gift to the world.

Entering the Wilderness

I often think to myself that Lent is one of my favorite seasons. Which is kind of funny, since I also seem to be particularly bad at it. As a former Catholic, I still tend to associate Lent with self-deprivation-- a season of fasting, of giving up luxuries like television and chocolate. And as a Catholic, I was never very good at self-deprivation. I remember years that I gave up chocolate, and finding ways to sneak a bite before Easter Sunday came around. I remember one year in particular, when I decided to give up sweets, and then, about halfway through Lent, my order of Girl Scout cookies came in. Needless to say, my Lenten discipline went down the drain in about as much time as it takes to open a box of Samoas.

Every year, I gave up something. And every year, I failed miserably. Yet Lent has always remained my favorite liturgical season. I guess the only explanation is that it has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with the meaning of the season.

I love Lent because it is a time when we get to be explicit about our foibles and failings as human beings. It is a time when we don't have to pretend to be perfect. It is a time for us to recognize our own brokenness, and the brokenness of the world around us, without feeling like we're killing the mood. Lent is all about being in the wilderness-- it's all about journeying into the dark places of our lives, and having faith that we can make it out again come Easter time.

To help me reflect on the meaning of Lent this year, I have been reading the theology of Sallie McFague. She uses a metaphor that I find particularly meaningful as we enter into the Lenten season. She lifts up the metaphor of the world as God's body. Every aspect of creation, she says, is a part of the very Body of God. As the creator of the world, God is "radically present" in every part of the world. This Lent, I would like to keep that metaphor in front of me as I seek yet again to enter into the wilderness. If I see the world as God's body, how does that change the way I interact with it? How does it change the way I interact with other people? With creation itself? In so many ways, it seems, the world is broken. If I see the world as God's body-- would I not see it as imperative to try and mend it? And if I see the world as God's body-- am I not a part of that as well? Is not my own fate connected to the fate of all God's creatures? Is not their peril my peril?

This Lent, I seek to interact with the world as if it is indeed God's body. I seek to act on the knowledge of my connection with all of God's marvelous creation. If I give up anything, it is my own complacency and apathy-- which may turn out to be a much harder thing to give up than chocolate. But I suppose if I'm serious about my faith, then I have to try. Who's with me?

Becoming Ordinary Radicals: Matthew 5:38-48

This week, we continue our journey up on the mountain with Jesus-- listening to some of his most famous teachings in the great Sermon on the Mount. Several weeks ago we heard about Jesus’ call to be a light to the world and the salt of the earth. Before that we read about being peacemakers— pure in heart-- and the blessedness of those who hunger and thirst after righteousness. This week, we reach what is perhaps the culmination of Jesus’ extended meditation on the law. For the very first time in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus utters the word that is the essence of the entire law— love. But of course, this is not a sentimental, warm and fuzzy kind of love that Jesus is talking about. This is a hard love. One that can seem impossible, or foolish, or too radical for ordinary, every day people like us.

Jesus’ words certainly would have seemed radical to his original audience. His teaching here on the law was not what people were used to hearing from the religious authorities of 1st century Palestine. To understand just how radical his words might have seemed, I want to back up a little bit and put these teachings into context with our reading from the Hebrew Scriptures. A classic text from the Torah— the 19th chapter of Leviticus.

For many of us, Leviticus is a somewhat unfamiliar book. It’s one of those Old Testament books that we pay little attention to— perhaps making the assumption that it is filled with obscure and arcane laws and rituals that we-- as 21st century Christians-- need not pay attention too. After all, Leviticus is the book that has prescriptions against wearing garments woven from two different types of cloth, and prohibitions against eating certain kinds of foods. It’s a book filled with seemingly arbitrary rules about the proper way to offer burnt offerings, and precisely what kind of flour to use in grain offerings. And so I suppose, if that was all there was to it, we wouldn’t need to pay much attention to this book. But the truth is, Leviticus is a complex book-- a rich code of laws and ethics that has within it many different kinds of commands. The key to understanding a book like Leviticus, I believe, is to realize that not all laws are created equal.

Many of the laws in Leviticus do indeed have to do with ritual purity— something that was very important for ancient Israelites in their particular time and place. In the ancient Middle East, the tribes of Israel were not like what we think of today when we think of traditional Jewish communities. They were a group of disparate tribes— barely having made it out of Egypt to escape slavery. They were in the process of figuring out who they were, and who they wanted to become, as a people of God. The Israelites needed these ritual and purity laws in order to build and maintain a sense of communal identity. But purity laws and ritual laws are not the only type of commandments found in Leviticus. There is another kind of law, classified by biblical scholars as holiness laws, or moral laws. These are the laws that dealt with ethical, holy living— the sort of laws that were considered necessary for a just society. Commandments not to lie or steal, not to deal falsely with one’s neighbor, hold back wages, or show favoritism to the rich or to the poor. And so while it’s certainly true that many of the prescriptions found in Leviticus were indeed written for a particular group of people, in a particular time and place, it is also true that this book contains within it guidelines for holy living that are timeless in their importance. These are laws that-- no matter what particular time and place one might be in-- are essential for living lives of justice and compassion. Laws that provide the very basis for our own Judeo-Christian tradition of caring for the poor and marginalized. These laws culminate in vs. 18 with the Golden Rule— to love your neighbor as yourself. This is what it means to be holy. This is the final, summarizing word on the section of the law that deals with holiness— a simple injunction, regarding the state of one’s heart towards one’s neighbor.

Over the years, however, the religious authorities began to place more and more emphasis on ritual and purity law, and less emphasis on care for the poor. As Israel become a more established nation, they found themselves falling into that age-old trap that so many developing societies experience— with establishment and power, often comes a need for political control. And soon the plight of the poor is overshadowed by power struggles among the political elite. (I don’t suppose that sounds familiar to anyone, does it?) We see evidence of this in the words of prophets like Isaiah, Amos, and Micah— prophets who complained that ritual, purity, and political power had become more important than the command to care for the poor and love one’s neighbor.

Jesus continues in that prophetic tradition throughout his ministry, constantly railing against religious officials who seem to care more about remaining pure than about helping those who are sick and suffering. But here in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus is saying something even more radical than the prophets who came before him. Jesus is doing more than merely pointing the way back towards the old holiness codes. He is doing something more than merely calling for a return to traditional values. Jesus takes these laws of holiness that we read about in Leviticus, and goes a step further. He takes the original idea of reciprocity, for example, and argues that we should not repay evil for evil, but instead are to respond to evil with goodness and love. He takes the original command to love one’s neighbor, and extends it to even our enemies— even those whom we hate. These are radical words, to be sure. But it’s important to realize That Jesus is not saying here that the law is wrong, or that it should be discarded or ignored. In an earlier passage Jesus declares that he has not come to abolish the law, but to fulfill it. Jesus is not criticizing the law itself, but is offering his listeners a deeper, more radical way of following the law. He’s trying to get them to understand that true holiness is not so much about following all the rules, but more about the attitude of the heart. A person could do all the right things, but that doesn’t mean they really understand what it means “to be perfect as our heavenly father is perfect.” St. Paul— an expert on the law if ever there was one-- understood this very well when he wrote:

“If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.

So what does all of this mean for us-- here and now?

I have a feeling that many of us probably have a similar reaction to these words as some of the original listeners. Sometimes, perhaps they seem naïve or foolish. Sometimes, they just seem too hard. How can we— ordinary people that we are— aspire to such a radical calling?

I think it’s helpful to know that the root meaning of the word radical is just that— root. Radical means to get to the heart of things. To be radical followers of the law means not that we are slaves to every letter of the law. It means not that we put forth this perfect outward appearance in which we do everything right. It means that we aspire— in the deepest part of ourselves— to be transformed by the spirit of the law. It means not that we live under a sense of obligation, but rather, in the words of one commentator, “that we search within our hearts to the highest and best within us, that we raise our sights and join with God in creating a more loving and compassionate world.” When we think about Jesus’ words in this way, the idea of going the extra mile is not so much about what we do, but it’s about who we are. It’s not about doing more, it’s about being more.

As we approach the beginning of March, we begin to prepare ourselves for Ash Wednesday and the Lenten season. Now, I grew up Catholic, and for many Catholics, the Lenten season was always about giving things up. It was about not doing certain things. In a way, this manner of keeping Lent is very much in line with Old Testament laws that are more about prohibitions than they are about positive guidelines for holy living. But maybe this Lent, instead of giving things up, perhaps we can think about taking something on. Perhaps we can think about becoming ordinary radicals— ordinary people, getting to the root of Jesus’ teachings on the law. Freeing ourselves from restrictions and prohibitions, and instead, letting ourselves get to the heart of what it means to practice radical love and compassion in a world that so desperately needs it. To go that extra mile in who we are as followers— as imitators-- of Christ.

There is no single way to do that, of course. But this Lent, I would like to suggest one possibility. You may begin to see and hear things around this place about a Lenten program called Start. This Lent, some of us have decided to start practicing what it looks like to be ordinary radicals. To start experimenting with what it looks like for each one of us to go that extra mile in practicing radical love and compassion. For some, that will be helping to build a home for Habitat for Humanity. For others, it will be serving our brothers and sisters at the soup kitchen. Perhaps for some of you, it will mean changing your attitude towards certain people in your life— or letting go of old enmities and resentments. The point is not to check off tasks on some holy to-do list. The point is not to try and transform the world—or ourselves-- overnight. The point is simply that we start. That we begin the work of becoming ordinary radicals.

I hope that many of you will join us.

Anonymous Was a Woman

I came home the other day to see that atop my pile of mail was my January copy of the Yale Alumni Magazine. Now I’ll be honest and say that my alumni magazine is something that usually goes straight to the recycling pile. But this month, the cover story was something that caught my eye. The headline on the cover said: “Anonymous Was a Woman.” This headline was particularly intriguing to me since I was preparing to preach this morning on “women in mission”-- as requested for this special UMW Installation service. I thought perhaps I might find some good food for thought to inspire my sermon. However, upon opening up the magazine I discovered not so much a traditional magazine article, but rather a compilation of famous quotations whose female authorship was either never recognized, or was misattributed altogether and put into the mouths of their more famous male counterparts. One notable example was this famous line:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.”

This line was uttered by Nelson Mandela in his 1994 inaugural address, and is often attributed to him. However, he is not the original author of this insight. It was originally penned by female author Marianne Williamson in her 1992 book—A Return to Love. Now, the author, or perhaps I should say compiler, of this collection of quotes did not offer much in the way of analysis as to why these misattributions tend to occur. Rather, he simply allowed the vast number of quotations to speak for themselves. Easily making the point that women’s voices have, historically, not been recognized as much as they should.

It’s hard to deny this is true— even if we recognize that women fare much better in today’s world— or at least in some parts of today’s world. There is a long history of the marginalization of women’s voices in leadership— both in the church and in the wider societies in which they live and work. But that’s not quite what I want to focus on this morning. The fact that women were not always recognized for the work they do does not mean that they weren’t leaders. The fact that we don’t see their names prominently displayed in the history books doesn’t mean there aren’t whispers of their legacy scattered across the historical record. It’s those whispers that I’m interested in exploring a bit more this morning.

To hear those whispers, one can start by examining scripture. At first glance, it might seem to many of us— particularly those of us who are women and who have grown up in the church-- that our biblical stories are written largely by and about men. However, if one looks more closely one can find that there are actually many examples of the importance of women’s leadership found throughout the biblical witness.

Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, which we heard from this morning, is just such an example. It’s easy to miss, but it’s there for those who are willing to read a bit more closely. Paul is writing in response to the report that there is disunity and division in the church at Corinth. But what’s telling (for our purposes) is the name that appears as the person who is apparently a leader in that church: “It has been reported to me,” writes Paul, “by Chloe’s people that there are quarrels among you.” Of course we can only speculate what Paul means by “Chloe’s people.” We don’t know who this Chloe was, whether she was actually the leader of the church there. But clearly, Paul implies that she was a prominent person in the community, and that her testimony carried some weight. And this isn’t the only clue to be found in Paul’s writing. In Romans 16, Paul gives a litany of those who have been significant leaders in the church community--- at least five of whom are women, and the first of whom is Phoebe-- who he names as a minister of the church. In Philippians, Paul names two women— Euodia and Syntyche— as co-workers and fellow evangelists.

In the Hebrew Scriptures, women are occasionally lifted up as exemplary leaders. Take Deborah, for example, who shows up in the book of Judges as a fierce and courageous leader of the tribe of Israel. A lone woman in what was truly a man’s profession. Then there is Esther, whose courage and leadership saved her people from what otherwise would have been a terrible reign of oppression and genocide.

Finally, in the gospels, it is women who follow Jesus to the cross when his more well-known male disciples flee in fear. And it is women who are the first witnesses of the Resurrection— conveying the good news to the dubious male disciples.

So while it may be true that the stories of women in scripture are often whispers more than they are shouts, they are never-the-less stories of women who provide strength, nurture, and solid leadership, without which, the story of God’s people would not be complete.

Similarly, in modern history, women’s voices still aren’t heard as much as they ought to be. They may not be anonymous, but their contributions in service and leadership often aren’t recognized to the degree of their male colleagues. There is one particular story I would like to share this morning as an illustration. It is a relevant story given that we just celebrated Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and will soon be celebrating black history month. It is the story of a woman named Pauli Murray— a name I’m guessing may be familiar to a few of you, but relatively unknown to many of you.

Pauli Murray was an African American woman who was born in 1910 into the segregated Jim Crow south. But she was never one to accept the limitations that others tried to place on her because of her race or her sex. In 1965 she was the only woman in the graduating class at Howard Law School. She was the first African American— male or female-- to receive a law degree from Yale. And, she was working for civil rights and desegregation long before Martin Luther King Jr.’s name was known to anyone. We all know about the lunch counter sit-ins that happened in the 1960’s. Many of us can conjure the image in our minds of that famous photograph of four African American young men sitting at a lunch counter, protesting segregation laws. But what you probably don’t know is that Murray was staging sit-in’s as early as 1942— sit-in’s that successfully desegregated diners and lunch counters all across the city of Washington DC. And as if all that weren’t enough, Murray was also the first African American woman to be ordained as a priest in the Episcopal church at the age of 66. Murray’s story is an amazing one, and it is one that few people know. Yet it was Murray whose trailblazing work laid the foundation for so many of the civil rights victories that came later.

Now, I’ve talked a lot about women so far. But the heart of the issue here is actually not unique to women at all. It’s a problem of the human race that has been around forever,and doesn’t look to be going away any time soon. It has to do with the tendency of those who have power choosing not to see the full humanity and potential of those who they consider to be weaker, or lesser, than themselves. It’s a problem that Jesus himself often addressed— constantly reaching out to those whom no one else seemed to see. The sinners, the outcasts, the lepers, the poor. Jesus always saw the full humanity in those whom everyone else ignored— recognizing the image of God in every person.

In the gospel reading for today, Jesus surprises the woman at the well when he acknowledges her in a way that most men of that time would never have dared to do. Not only was she a woman, but she was a hated Samaritan. By all accounts, Jesus should have ignored her. The woman herself recognizes this when she says to Jesus: “How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?” But instead of ignoring her, Jesus acknowledges her. He converses with her, and revels himself to her. Jesus sees her full potential— he sees in her someone who can be an effective witness to the gospel. And in fact, the gospel tells us that many Samaritans from her city believed in Jesus because of her testimony.

Unfortunately, we never find out the name of the woman at the well. In this particular case, we can conclude that anonymous was indeed, a woman. But this story is just one of many stories that is representative of this aspect of Jesus’ ministry— his ministry of recognizing the full worth and dignity of all people, no matter what labels or stigma society may have placed upon them. Jesus teaches us that God is to be found in the faces of the poor, the prisoners, the hungry, the stranger. “Whatever you do for the least of these,” he told his disciples, “you do also for me.” If we take this seriously, we must ask ourselves: who are those whose full humanity we still do not recognize today? Who are those in our society who remain anonymous? Whose full potential is ignored because of their age, their ethnicity or immigration status, their religion, their economic status, their ability or disability, their sex or sexual orientation?

Pauli Murray once said, “I have never been able to accept what I believe to be an injustice. Perhaps it is because of this that I am America’s problem child, and will continue to be.” Murray stands in a long line of “problem children”— both male and female. A proud tradition of troublemaking that goes back to Jesus himself. For indeed it is often those who insist upon seeing the fullness of God’s image in all people who are considered the “problem children” in their own societies-- threatening to take down the powerful from their thrones and lift up the lowly. Perhaps it’s bad news for any who wish to remain too comfortable, but it’s good news for all who yearn to see God’s justice and transformation in the world. And that is precisely who we are called to be as Christ’s church. We are called to be God’s good troublemakers in the world. God’s “problem-children”, if you will. And if you have do now, or have ever, counted yourselves in the ranks of those who have been ignored, or marginalized, or discounted for any reason, you can be sure that God sees you for who you are. You can be sure that God calls you to great work.

Yes, anonymous was a woman. But anonymous was also black, Hispanic, disabled, too old, too young, too poor… you get the point. Let’s make sure the story of all God’s good troublemakers continues to be told— in shouts rather than in whispers. And let’s make sure the long line of “problem children” continues proudly-- with our stories, our actions, and our voices.

A Sad Day in Arizona

What will it take for us to realize that our words matter? That rhetoric is not isolated from action? Sadly, and ironically, one who did realize this is now in the hospital recovering from an attempt on her life. Representative Gabrielle Giffords said this of the violent rhetoric of the 2010 political campaigns:

"For example, we're on Sarah Palin's targeted list, but the thing is, that the way that she has it depicted has the crosshairs of a gun sight over our district. When people do that, they have to realize that there are consequences to that action."

Other candidates made statements such as the need for "second ammendment remedies" (the right to bear arms), or the need to "lock and load." I don't think that those who made these statements actually wanted to see violence occur. However, there must be more responsiblity taken by our leaders and those in the public sphere. What if our rhetoric spoke of peace, tolerance, and respect rather than hate, violence, and condemnation of those with whom we disagree?

I would love to see this change the nature of the political discourse. I don't know that it will, but one can always hope...

The Wrong Questions

"A church is a place where we try to think, speak, and act in God's way, not in the way of a fear-filled world." -W.S. Coffin

Okay folks, I'm just going to come right out and say it: I'm tired of it. I'm tired of the endless complaining about the decline of church membership. I'm tired of hearing people complain that it's not like it used to be. I'm tired of hearing people say things like "we have to get more people in the pews." I'm tired of EVERY SINGLE church committee I talk to ask me what new ideas I have to "grow the church." I'm tired of the blame game-- every one in the church wants to blame someone else for why people have stopped coming.

Why am I tired of hearing all of this? It's not because these questions aren't important in their own way. But quite frankly, when it comes to the future of the church, these are the wrong questions. We need to be asking different questions. Questions like: how can the church meet the changing needs of people in the 21st century? How can the church respond to anti-gay bullying and teen suicides? How can the church respond to a war-torn society, and a country that is embroiled in two endless wars? How can the church respond to the rising unemployment and poverty in this country? How can the church respond to a growing gap between the haves and the have nots? How can the church respond to bigotry against Muslims, Hispanics, and other groups? How can the church respond to an increasingly polarized society where we judge our neighbors rather than love them? THESE are the questions I want to be talking about in our churches.

Oh, and by the way, we get so carried away by the distraction of fewer people in the pews that we forget to minister to the congregation we have-- rather than the congregation we want, or the congregation we think we should want.

Things change. Things are not like they used to be. Things may never be the same. The church may never be the same. But here's one thing I know: God isn't going anywhere. So what are we so worried about??? Let's have a little faith. And let's go back to the gospel, and the work it calls us to do in a broken world. Peace. Reconciliation. Kindness. Justice. Let us walk humbly with our God.

Why We Worship

There is a question being asked by Christian leaders all across the country right now, in almost every mainline protestant denomination. That question is: why aren't people coming to church anymore?

This is a complicated question with a complex answer. There isn't just one factor as to why people in our culture have stopped coming to church. However, I think that one potential factor in the equation is that for many people, there isn't a sense of why worship really matters. And in a culture when we are all too busy, we are all over-scheduled and over-programmed, why would people go if they don't know why it matters? And so that’s what I want to focus on this morning. The question of why worship matters, and what it is we actually do when we come to church week after week.

In order to answer that question I looked first to the dictionary, which was not particularly helpful. According to Webster, worship is: “reverent honor and homage paid to God or a sacred personage, or, to render religious reverence and homage, as to a deity.”

Now it’s not that reverence towards God isn’t a big part of it, but I actually think there is a whole lot more to it than that. So I kept looking, thinking I might find a better definition of what worship is. Eventually, I came across a quote by the late Anglican priest William Temple, who said that “to worship is to quicken the conscience by the holiness of God, to feed the mind with the truth of God, to purge the imagination by the beauty of God, to open the heart to the love of God, to devote the will to the purpose of God.”

Now that’s more like it.

This definition— I believe— comes much closer to getting at the heart of what it means to worship. Because it’s not just about the routine of singing hymns, saying prayers, and paying homage to a deity. God doesn’t just call us into worship to pay homage. God calls us into worship in order to be in relationship with us. Worship is about making a connection with God. It’s about taking time to recognize and make room for God in our lives. It’s about acknowledging — because sometimes we get a little confused on this part— that we are in fact not God—and that we are a part of something larger than ourselves. It’s about acknowledging that Christianity is not something we do by ourselves. Worship connects us with God, but it also connects us with a larger Body of faithful people.

In our opening hymn this morning we sung an invocation from the African nation of Tanzania. In African culture, they have a deep understanding of how worship binds us together with God and one another. For them, it’s about the music. It’s about the music, the dancing, the drums, and the singing. Music and worship help shape community and identity— it transforms a group of haggard and disparate individuals into one Body in Christ. Music also bridges the gap between the very real problems of daily life— which in Africa can be some of the most impenetrable problems the world has known— and the transcendent God who we recognize as the creator of all life. It is through worship and song that a community is able to sing themselves into hope for peace and reconciliation in a broken and hurting world.

In our reading from Ephesians this morning, we hear that Christ brings peace to those who are far off and peace to those who are near. That being one in Christ, none of us are strangers to one another, but rather all of us belong to the household of God. All of us are part of the community Christ himself built. When we sing songs like our invocation from Tanzania, or the Hallelujah from Honduras, we stand in community and solidarity with Christians all over the world. We join our voices with theirs in one common song-- recognizing that despite our many differences, we are all part of the household of God. What’s more is that through our worship, we open ourselves up to hope in the midst of the harshness of life. Worship opens our minds to possibilities of healing beyond the fearful predictions of the pundits and the op-eds and the politicians. It awakens our imaginations to the possibility of something more-- a hope beyond our human frailties and imperfections. A hope that—in the words of St. Paul— cannot be seen.

Now we may not see it, but we can feel it. When we join our voices in song and our hearts are stirred, we feel that hope, and we know that it’s real.

And so we are connected by our common life of worship to other people of faith in nations all over the world. But there is more! That connection spans not only across the globe but also across time. Our common worship connects us with all those who have gone before us and all who will come after us. What we do every Sunday morning is shaped by hundreds and hundreds of years of church practice. Week after week, we say prayers that have been spoken by priests, mystics, and lay people since the first century. The Lord’s Prayer--which we say every week-- has also been uttered by apostles like Peter and James, theologians such as St. Augustine and Thomas Aquinas, reformers such as Martin Luther, humanitarians such as Mother Theresa, and activists such as Martin Luther King Jr. and Dietrich Bonhoeffer. These individuals come from vastly different times and places, and God knows they would have plenty of theological and political differences between them. But they all have one thing in common with each other, and with us-- they worship. When we come together in worship every Sunday, we not only stand in their footprints— but we are also called to fill them— called to be next in the line of saints that spans from before the time of Christ to a mere generation ago.

The very last line of William Temple’s definition of worship says that one of the reasons we worship is to “devote the will to the purpose of God.” When we come to worship, we are reminded of all the saints who came before, and how they devoted their wills to the purposes of God in the work of building Christian unity, developing theology, reforming the church, working to end poverty, and fighting against tyranny and oppression.

Well guess what folks-- that work is not yet done! The church still needs people devoted to promoting unity in an ever more polarized and divided society. The church still needs people to develop theology that is relevant to the world we live in. The church still needs people who speak truth to power and hold the institutional church accountable. The church still needs people to fight poverty and oppression, and work towards justice in the form of human and civil rights.

Maybe, just maybe, those people are us!

But in order to do that work we need to be grounded. And that is yet another reason why worship matters. It grounds us in the faith of our fathers and mothers. It gives us the strength and encouragement to do the work that God calls us to do. It gives us the hope that the work can be done when others tell us it can't, and the imagination to see possibilities for peace and reconciliation when others tell us such things are impossible.

Now, despite all the compelling reasons I may have just given for why worship matters, the truth is that there are going to be mornings when you just don’t feel like it.

You’re tired.
You’re stressed.
You’re overwhelmed with work or family.
And you think to yourself, “Maybe just this one morning, I’ll stay home.”

My encouragement to you on those mornings is this: COME ANYWAY.

Because it is those mornings when we feel tired, stressed, depressed, or overwhelmed, that it is most important for us to be in community— that it is most important for us to be connected to God— source of life and giver of strength. It is those times when we don’t have the strength or energy to pray that we can let others lift us up with their prayers. And then someday, it will be our turn to do the praying when someone else cannot. That’s the great thing about community and our common life of worship together.

And so, we worship. We come here as individuals, but though our common worship together we become one body— united in Christ, strengthened by the spirit, and rooted in the love of God. And let all God’s people say: Amen.

The Cost of Discipleship: Luke 14:25-33

How much does it cost? What’s the bottom line?

These are familiar questions in our culture. Frequently, our decisions on a daily basis will lead us to ask one of these questions: How much does it cost? What’s the bottom line? We live in a culture which constantly barrages us with messages about how to spend our time and money— messages about where to invest, where to shop,and what to buy. Is it any wonder then, that when it comes to matters of faith, many of us would like to have a little break from the endless cost-analysis of our daily lives. And for good reason. After all, don’t we believe in a God who offers salvation to all? A gift offered to us free of charge whether we are rich or poor-- regardless of skin color or nationality, economic status or education. We proclaim in our prayers that there is nothing we can do to make God love us less, and nothing we can do to make God love us more. God just loves us-- as we are. And so perhaps it stops us in our tracks a little bit to read passages like the one we heard this morning in Luke’s gospel, where Jesus tells his disciples that to follow in his footsteps does indeed have a significant cost. There is in fact something profound required of us if we want to be disciples of Christ.

In some ways, it’s a troubling passage. Jesus says that we are to “hate” our father and mother, our brothers and sisters, even our own children! We must be willing to take up the cross, Jesus says. So how do we reconcile these seemingly harsh demands with what we’ve come to believe about God’s offer of unconditional love and grace?

Reverend Joseph Harvard notes the paradoxical nature of this question in the following story:

A woman is walking by a church. The words on the marquee capture her attention: “come to me, all who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” The invitation was appealing to her because she was tired. Not only was she physically tired, she was spiritually tired. She was looking for rest for her soul. But no sooner had the door shut behind her and she had taken a seat than she heard: “Take up your cross and follow me.”

We come to church seeking comfort, Reverend Harvard says, and we encounter a call to discipleship. A profound challenge to the very comfort we seek. What are we to make of this apparent contradiction?

One clue to the answer to this question, I believe, can be found in the reading from the Hebrew Scriptures that we heard this morning. In our reading from Genesis, God makes a covenant with Abraham— a promise to be with Abraham and his descendants from everlasting to everlasting. The key word here is covenant. A covenant is more than just a simple promise-- a one-way declaration made from one party to another. A covenant is an agreement in which both parties share responsibility. It requires some form of committment from all involved. God promises God’s steadfast love to Abraham and Sarah’s descendants from generation to generation, and from everlasting to everlasting. In exchange, God asks Abraham for obedience and faithfulness— a willingness to put God first at all times.

In our gospel reading for today, Jesus reiterates that call for obedience. Perhaps Jesus’ words seem harsh to us, but I don’t think Jesus is trying to discourage his listeners by making impossible demands. In telling his disciples that they must “hate” their fathers and mothers, brothers, sisters, and children, Jesus is using hyperbole in order to indicate that obedience to God is not something to be taken lightly. Jesus’ words remind us that in the midst of so many competing claims for our attention and loyalty, we are to put God first. We are to remember that we are indeed part of a covenant-- a covenant that requires something of us-- a covenant that asks us to enter into a relationship of mutual responsibility and accountability with our God.

So what does this covenantal responsibility to God actually look like? Is it simply that we go to church every Sunday? Is it showing up for Sunday school? Is it diligently reading scripture and making time for prayer? I think it is all of these things, but I think there is also something deeper to go along with it. The great commandment-- given by God to Moses and reiterated by Christ-- is one we all know well: You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your mind, and all your strength; and you shall love your neighbor as yourself. It is this commandment, I believe, that is at the heart of our covenantal relationship with God. To love God with all our heart, mind, and strength means that we must allow ourselves to be ruled by our love of God-- to allow ourselves to be changed by it. God’s offer of love and grace is indeed free and unconditional. But the nature of that love and grace is that if we truly accept it, we allow ourselves to become new creations in Christ. Theologian and ethicist Emilie Townes puts it this way: “at the heart of discipleship is transformation. The cost of discipleship... is engaging in a profoundly radical shift towards the ethics of Jesus with every fiber of our being.” To accept God’s gift of love and grace is to let our lives be interrupted by it. And like it or not, that interruption often takes the form of other people. Perhaps this is why the great commandment has two parts, and why they are truly inseparable. Love of God means love of neighbor. Every act of love towards a neighbor is a manifestation of our love of God. Every act of love towards a neighbor is an act of living into our covenant with God.

This leads rather conveniently into my second point, which is that the covenant we are a part of is indeed a covenant with God, but it is also a covenant with one another. In the same way that we are in a relationship of mutual responsibility and accountability with God, so too are we in relationships of mutual responsibility and accountability with one another. We pray for one another, we build each other up, we cry together, laugh together, celebrate together, and mourn together. We recognize that we are all members of one body, therefore in the words of Paul, if one member of the body suffers, all suffer together. If one member of the body is honored, all rejoice with it. Perhaps this is where that comfort of the gospel is to be found. We are, ourselves, the hands and feet of Christ. We are manifesters of God’s love and grace to one another-- taking the burdens off the shoulders of our fellow brothers and sisters and offering kindness and compassion to those who are tired or burdened. We also encourage one another in our common walk of discipleship. In doing so, suddenly the obedience that can seem so overwhelming and even impossible on our own becomes not only possible, but dare I suggest even joyful, with the support of our fellow brothers and sisters in Christ. This is why it’s so important to be in Christian community— to be in common worship together, to be part of a small group, to engage in bible study together. These things are not just about fulfilling an obligation. It’s about living fully into our life of common discipleship and letting ourselves be truly transformed.

Finally, this notion of covenantal responsibility extends beyond the four walls of this church, or of any one church. Jesus’ call to discipleship means we are called to be manifesters of God’s love not only to one another and our own families, but to the larger human family as well, recognizing that all people are beloved children of God.

When I was reflecting this week about what this might mean in today’s world, I kept coming back to one particular issue that has been on my mind and heart a lot lately. I’m sure that most of you at this point have heard about the proposed Islamic community center in Lower Manhattan. It’s been dubbed by the media as the “ground zero mosque.” Regardless of what one thinks about the location of the community center, what has truly disturbed me in all of this has been the hateful rhetoric and violent behavior that has arisen as a kind of side-effect of this debate. Last week in New York City a Muslim cab driver was the victim of a random hate crime. Also last week there was a case of arson in Tennessee by those protesting the expansion of an already existing Islamic cultural center. In Florida, a pastor is planning to commemorate 9/11 this year by organizing a “Koran burning.” Now I cannot assume to know the mind of God-- none of us can. However, I believe that this current wave of anti-Muslim speech, violence, and vandalism is not how God would have us live out our end of the covenant. I believe that living out our end of the covenant— in this case-- means standing up against those who would promote suspicion or intolerance towards those who are different. Living out our end of the covenent means standing up to be voices of love and reason rather than hate or fear. Our responsibility to the larger human family-- in this case-- extends beyond those in Christian community. It extends to those who— though they may not share our faith— are never-the-less fellow human beings deserving of dignity and respect. For me, having experienced God’s love and grace in my own life, I cannot stand aside and be silent while others promote hate and intolerance— especially when they do so in the name of God.

As Christians, I believe part of our covenantal responsibility as disciples of the Prince of Peace is to spread love where there is hate, spread peace where there is violence, and be agents of Christ’s reconciliation in the world. Our covenant with God means that we are partners with God in the work of mending creation. As we approach the anniversary of 9/11 this year, shouldn’t our focus be on the things that bind us together? Those aspects of our various religions that beseech us to live in peace with one another?

Of course this is just one example of how our covenant calls us towards a commitment to the larger human family. It’s an example that works for me. But certainly there are countless other ways we are called to join in the work of mending creation. The question is-- are we willing to follow the path of discipleship to do that work? If Christ but calls our name, are we willing to go where we don’t know and risk never being the same?

As we approach the beginning of a new church year, we are called to think more deeply about our own responsibilities as Christians in this often beautiful, often broken world. We are called to think about what it means to live a Christian life and what it means to live a life of true discipleship. I think it can be an exciting time, for we have the opportunity of renewing our commitment to God, and renewing our commitment to lives that bear the fruits of love. My challenge this morning is to spend some time this week thinking about how we-- as unique and precious members of the body of Christ-- can work towards bearing the fruit of a covenant based on love and grace. That is the challenge. The encouragement is this: God has promised to be with us always. As long as we accept that gift, we NEVER walk alone. We walk united with God. We walk together with one another. In covenant. From everlasting, to everlasting.

Yearning for Healing and Wholeness: A Sermon on Luke 13:10-17

One of the hardest things I have ever had to do, is something I did two summers ago. As part of my ordination process, I was required to spend a summer working as a hospital chaplain. The hospital I ended up at was a large, bustling, public hospital. It was also 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. Mostly, 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 my experience working on the oncology and intensive care units. For while there were many patients who would come in for treatment and leave a few days later, there were many other patients who were there day after day-- 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. Other 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? What were they doing 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. This morning’s gospel story— for me-- calls to mind those experiences. It calls to mind those questions 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. 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.

I have to admit that when I was working in the hospital, I often found myself frustrated by this familiar narrative. Especially when confronted with patients and families who wanted to know why God wasn’t answering their prayers. And so the question I found myself asking that summer, and the question I often find myself asking when confronted with these miracle stories is: how do we, as Christians who believe in 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?

A number of weeks ago, in the Thursday morning bible study that happens here at First United Methodist Church, 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”-- 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. 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. “Was Jesus at the wedding?” the Centurion asked. “Yes,” the elder said, “but he came late.”

The healing that Miriam receives is no less miraculous than the one we read about in the Gospel story for today. It is not a healing that takes away her physical suffering and limitation. Rather, it is something perhaps even more remarkable— 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.”

One thing that this story illustrates to me quite profoundly is that all too often, we allow ourselves to get caught up in a rather narrow understanding of what it means to be healed. But here’s the thing— God does not always heal in the way we expect or demand. And a healing does not always amount to a cure. A healing does not always amount to God delivering us from every trace of what ails us.

I want to counter this fictional film illustration with a real-life story about a man named Anthony. Anthony was diagnosed at the age of 16 with Systemic Lupus Erythemetosis. He was told as a teenager that he would not live beyond the age of 25, and that given the deterioration of his hipbones, he would likely be confined to a wheelchair until his early death. After his diagnosis, Anthony prayed for healing. But when Anthony failed to miraculously recover from his illness, His friends at the charismatic church he attended insisted there must be something wrong with him-- some hidden sin he had yet to confess or something deficient in his faith. As a teenager, this sent Anthony on a downward spiral of questioning and doubt. That questioning, however, ultimately led him to study theology, enter seminary, receive a master of divinity degree, and eventually obtain a PhD. Contrary to what the doctors told him, Anthony lived beyond the 25-year mark. He met the love of his life, got married, and had three children. Now in his 50’s, Anthony is indeed confined to a wheelchair. And so the miracle of his healing is perhaps not immediately apparent to those who would just pass him by on the street. However, anyone who knows him knows that he has indeed experienced the healing grace of the Holy Spirit. It is because of the healing grace of God that he has been able to live a full life despite his disability. It is because of the healing grace of God that he learned to help others who suffer from physical and mental disabilities. He has become an inspiration for many who might otherwise have given in to bitterness or despair.

By the way, there is at least one character in scripture who has a story that mirrors that of Anthony and Miriam. 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, but we do know that Paul appealed to the Lord multiple times for it to be taken away. Whatever it was, it was something that burdened him deeply. But eventually, Paul comes to realize that the healing he has been pleading for has already been given to him. Unlike the woman from our gospel reading, Paul is not cured. The thorn in his side does not leave him. Nevertheless, he experiences the healing power of God’s grace. He remains to this day one of the most powerful witnesses to the gospel that there has ever been. His writing on the power of grace and faith in the midst of suffering can offer us great comfort. “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.”

I would imagine that 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’ve 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 cure 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. 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.

I believe this also goes beyond our mere personal lives. We can get discouraged that our prayers for peace and justice, for example, seem to be met only with more violence, more war, and more suffering in the world. But despite the fact that war and violence persist— there is also healing and grace to be found. Healing, for example, in a unified South Africa where once racism and apartheid ruled. Healing in Rwanda— a country once torn apart by genocide— now one of the most peaceful and prosperous countries in Africa. Healing in the middle east, where despite ongoing hostility between Israeli and Palestinian governments, a group of individuals from both sides called the Bereaved Families Forum are bonding together to promote reconciliation, forgiveness, and peace. And so yes, there is war and violence. Yes, there is brokenness and hurt, disease and dis-ease in the world. But I have a feeling, that if we let ourselves be opened up to the spirit, we can see that healing is, actually, all around us. It is ongoing. It is within each of us. And if we allow it to be, that healing which is within us, can transform us, and thus begin to transform and heal the world.

As the apostle Paul says— we are to be agents of Christ’s reconciliation in the world. And so like Miriam, like Anthony, like Paul, 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 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.