Sermon – Job 14.1-14, HS, YB, April 3, 2021

Tags

Christian, church, community, disciples, drama, faith, Holy Saturday, hope, Jesus, Job, liturgy, pandemic, preparation, quiet, redemption, Savior, Sermon, silence, sorrow

Up until last year, I had not remembered that there was a liturgy in our Prayer Book for Holy Saturday.  I had always thought it was Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Easter Vigil on Saturday night (which is basically just Easter), and then Easter Sunday.  But when the pandemic hit last year, we realized doing a virtual Easter Vigil just would not work – there is so much reading, singing, doing things by candlelight, and the drama of being huddled together that we had to let the Liturgy wait until we could gather again.  So instead, we turned to this tiny liturgy, whose entire content is listed on one page of the Book of Prayer Book.

Still in a pandemic a year later, I found myself curious about this liturgy we are entering once again.  The truth is, the earliest accounts of Holy Week observances had no liturgies for Holy Saturday, with the exception of private use of the daily office.[i]  Instead, this day has simply been known as the “quietest day of the Christian year.”[ii]  That the church has not always gathered on Holy Saturday and that Christians might see this day as a day of quiet makes a lot of sense.  The Church says so much this week – from our waving of palms last Sunday, to our gathering around the upper room table to wash feet and share bread, to devastating betrayals of Jesus, to the vivid walk toward the cross, to the finality of the closed tomb.  We almost need a day of quiet to let the drama sink in and wrap our heads around what this week means.

But I suspect if your life is anything like mine or most Americans, we are not sitting quietly in our homes from 3:00 pm on Friday until Easter morning.  Instead, we are filling the time with preparations – tending to all the things we did not do while we were attending church this week:  dying eggs, entertaining children, stuffing Easter baskets, prepping Easter day meals, cleaning the house, or just having fun.  There is nothing inherently wrong about those things, but this year, of all years, I am grateful for a Holy Saturday liturgy.  With this last year of suffering through a pandemic and reflecting on our broken humanity’s inability to eliminate racism or mend civil discourse, even with the rise of vaccines, I find our country is in a Holy Saturday kind of time.  We have been through a tumultuous experience and are not yet healed. 

That is why I like having Job as a companion today.  Job’s words are stark.  As Job sits in the ashes of his sorrows, having lost his children, his livelihood, and his support system, he describes the brutality of life.  He talks about how trees have hope – even when cut down, they can sprout again, and new life can be born out of death.  But not so with humans, he argues.  No, when their bodies lay in the ground, there is nothing but death.  Job captures the essence of this day.  There is a similar finality at the door of Jesus’ tomb this day.  All the hopes and dreams, all the joys and blessings, all the promises of new life are sealed away in a tomb.  And after such a violent death and the threat for those who followed Jesus, there is no wonder why the Church has considered this a quiet day.  Unlike the quiet waiting of Advent, when the church is brimming with expectation and bustling around in preparation for Christ’s birth, today is a day of silence devoid of restorative peacefulness.  As one scholar says, “The waiting of Advent is like having warm bread in the oven.  By contrast, the air of Holy Saturday smells more like stale smoke, as though something essential was burned the day before.”[iii]  As our lives are not yet pandemic free, and as threats of spikes in cases emerge, we know that kind of waiting all too well.

And yet, in the very last verse of today’s reading, the despondent Job says something totally counter to everything else he has said.  “If mortals die, will they live again?” Job asks.  For someone who has boldly proclaimed the finality of human death, his question is a question that only a person of faith can ask – a question that reveals the tiniest bit of hope still left in Job.  Job communicates in this question a truth we people of faith hold dear:  no matter how bad the suffering, no matter how prevalent the experience of dread and doom, no matter how deep the failures of humanity seem to run, there is always hope.  The disciples and community surrounding Jesus Christ do not know that hope yet.  But as followers of Christ 2000 years later, we now stake our entire identity on the risen savior. 

So yes, receive the gift of stale smoke this day.  Sit in ashes with Job and mourn all in your life that feels dead.  Take time in this busyness of life for some uneasy silence.  Name all those who have been lost due to disease and violence.  But keep asking the questions.  Hold on to the hope, however infinitesimally small that God can indeed redeem us – us as individuals, us as country, us as Church.  Holding the two in tension is difficult – we want to rush to Easter and forget all that has happened.  But letting the power of all that has happened speak to us today will allow us to know the astounding power of resurrection much more deeply tomorrow.  Job, Jesus, and this faith community here will pull up a chair and sit with you by the ashes until we can reap with tears of joy tomorrow.  Amen.

---

[i] William Joseph Danaher, Jr., “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 310.

[ii] Christina Braudaway-Bauman, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 312.

[iii] Braudaway-Bauman, 312

On Love and Basketball…

Tags

basketball, Carolina, confidence, criticism, doubt, Duke, game, gifts, God, Jesus, Joseph, love, redemption, rivalry, talents

Photo credit:  https://usatodayhss.com/2019/why-im-afraid-to-go-to-a-high-school-basketball-game

As we headed into the Duke-Carolina game tonight, my daughter asked me if I thought Duke would win.  She’s finally starting to pay attention to my passion for Duke Basketball, and so I sat her down to explain the phenomenon of the Duke-Carolina basketball rivalry.  I told her what every Duke or Carolina fan knows:  no matter what ranking either school has (including if one of the teams in unranked), no matter how well one team or the other has been playing against other teams, no matter which team’s arena they are in, when Duke and Carolina play you NEVER know who will win.  The rivalry is so intense that every time the two teams play, either team could win.  I am not sure whether the rivalry is so intense and so long-standing that both teams get inside their heads too much, or whether there is some weird psychological reason why this rivalry produces so much uncertainty.  All I do know is that when Duke and Carolina play, it truly is any team’s game.

As I was thinking about the game today, I was realizing how we often have people or entities in our lives that get in our heads and make us second-guess our gifts and talents.  We may be full of confidence, doing what we are born to do, and all we need is skeptical relative or an old high school rival to say something and our confidence stutters.  We may have thoughtfully prepared our next steps forward, consulting experts and resources, and in the middle of executing our well-thought-out plan someone raises a question we did not think of that makes us question our abilities or even the whole process.  Criticism can be tough, but what is worse is when we allow that criticism to erode our strong sense of self and purpose.

This coming Sunday, we will hear the story of when Joseph’s brothers discover that Joseph is alive and thriving (Genesis 45.3-11, 15).  Often when we read this story, we read it from the perspective of Joseph – being thrilled to have the persecuted one redeemed.  But more often, I think we are a little more like Joseph’s brothers – filled with jealousy, impulsive, and longing for love and affirmation.  In a moment of hateful weakness, the brothers sell Joseph into slavery; and in our lesson from Sunday, their reckoning happens.  As they come to pharaoh for help in their weakness, they are confronted with the one person who has every right to punish them.  But instead, Joseph is filled with love.  Joseph is able to see goodness.  Joseph is able to offer redemption.

Now I am not saying Duke and Carolina fans should just turn their hearts to love (I cannot look at that Carolina blue without feeling a bit nauseated).  But what we can all stand to remember from rivalries is that when we root ourselves in God’s love, when we live and operate out of love, things like criticism, self-doubt, and challenges have less power over us.  When we root ourselves in love, we are able to love ourselves the way God love us.  And, when we root ourselves in love, we can also see past ugliness of others and instead see God in them too.

So whatever you are facing this week, whomever is trying to tear you down (or beat your team), I offer you the collect for this Sunday:  O Lord, you have taught us that without love whatever we do is worth nothing:  Send your Holy Spirit and pour into our hearts your greatest gift, which is love, the true bond of peace and of all virtue, without which whoever lives is accounted dead before you.  Grant this for the sake of your only Son Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.  (BCP, 216)

Sermon – Mark 7.24-27, P18, YB, September 9, 2018

Tags

abundance, amends, dog, insult, Jesus, learn, limitations, painful, possibilities, redemption, right, Sermon, shame, Syrophoenecian Woman, words, wrong

This week I came back to work excited for a new program year and rejoining you in worship together.  I felt well rested, and ready to preach today.  I caught up with the staff and lay leaders, dug into the onslaught of emails, had some pastoral visits, and then finally sat down to read the lessons for today.  After reading the gospel, I momentarily considered calling Charlie to say, “Are you sure you don’t want to preach this week too?”

If you were listening as we proclaimed the “Good News” of God in Christ today, you might not have felt like this was very good news.  Within Mark’s gospel lesson is one of the very few stories in Holy Scripture about Jesus where we get very uncomfortable.  We are told Jesus has set out to get away.  He wants some rest and to be alone after weeks of healing, miracles, and debates with Pharisees.  In the midst of trying to get some peace and quiet, a woman comes to him, asking for another healing.  The story at this point could go in a couple of directions:  Jesus could agree to heal her daughter out of compassion; Jesus could engage the mother in conversation; or the disciples might intervene to help Jesus get some rest – and maybe Jesus would protest and heal the girl anyway.  We know Jesus is likely tired and needs some serious alone time.  But even in the midst of fatigue and a need to escape the constant pressure of the crowds, we find Jesus’ words to the Syrophoenician woman unpalatable. Jesus says, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

We know a few things.  We know this is a woman and women in Jesus’ day have less power and would not customarily approach a man without a husband or male family member intervening.  But this woman is no ordinary woman – the original Greek text tells us she is a woman of means, a “lady.”[i] We also know that she is Syrophoenician and Greek – a comment on her culture and ethnicity – as well as the fact that she is a Gentile, and not a Jew.  We know her daughter has a demon, so in Jewish minds this woman and her child are impure.  We even know from scholars that this particular area of geography has a history of tensions between Gentiles and Jews, with many Jews being mistreated by Gentiles.[ii]  Finally, we know Jesus understands his ministry is about redeeming the people of Israel first.[iii]  Eventually the Gentiles will be included, in fact, he even says so in his insulting comment; but the Gentiles are not Jesus’ primary mission.  But even with all of that:  the cultural norms, the racial and ethnic tensions, the purity laws, and the God-given mission, Jesus’ words have a tone of disdain and degradation that we simply do not associate with Jesus.  Jesus’ words are uniquely harsh:  no other supplicant in the gospel is treated in this manner.[iv]  This is not the Jesus we know.  To look at this suffering woman and to call her and her child dogs makes our stomachs turn.  We are embarrassed by Jesus, and would rather sweep this particular story under the proverbial rug.

I have been wondering all week why this story about Jesus bothers us so much.  Countless scholars have tried to justify Jesus’ action or mitigate the brutality of his statements or soften Jesus’ words. But after pondering Jesus’ words this week, I realized what bothers us so much about Jesus’ words.  What bothers us is we see ourselves in his brutal behavior.  We do not like Jesus’ harsh treatment of this woman because we do not like to ponder the times when we have acted similarly.  We do not want to examine too closely those times when we have treated persons of color like dogs – through segregation, lynching, fire hoses, criminalization, or exclusion from opportunities.  We do not want to examine too closely those times when we have treated persons of other ethnicities like dogs – migrant workers who take jobs, extremists who commit violence, illegal immigrants who want free healthcare or education.  We do not want to examine too closely those times when we have treated women like dogs – refusing safe, affordable birth control and childcare, ignoring sexual assault, leaving unresolved wage gaps.  Because even if we have never called one of those groups, “dogs,” we have either thought the word, “dog,” or our actions have indicated we think of those groups as dogs.  And when someone shines a light on our incongruous behavior, we feel exposed as being uniquely harsh as Jesus is harsh.  We do not like Jesus’ behavior because we do not like our own behavior.  And Jesus is supposed to be the good one.  Jesus is that one about whom we proclaim “and yet He did not sin.”

Here is the good news though:  what is brilliant about this story is the very fact that we see ourselves in Jesus today. As much as we see the bad in Jesus, we also find redemption in Jesus today.  The good news about Jesus’ awful behavior is that he finds a formidable opponent today.  This Syrophoenician woman does not cower, or feel defeated, or walk away.  Quite the contrary, she takes Jesus’ words – his exclusion, his justification, his arrogance, and she turns them back on Jesus.  Jesus thinks she is a dog unworthy of the children’s food.  Fine.  She reminds him that even dogs get crumbs from under the table.  The woman does not contradict the system, or take a deserved stand for dignity, or try to fight Jesus’ presumptions.  She simply reminds Jesus that there is enough for everyone – even in the scraps.  She does not defend herself – she holds a mirror up to Jesus.  And this – this is the best part – this is where something tremendous happens.  Jesus says, “You’re right.”  Jesus acknowledges he is wrong.  Jesus heals and restores her daughter to health.  And, most importantly, Jesus redefines his entire ministry – no longer maintaining redemption of the Jews first and, maybe if there is time, the Gentiles.  Jesus expands his abundance and wideness of mercy for all.

What I love about this story is two-fold.  First, I love that the Syrophoenician woman is a woman who sees abundance in the face of humiliation.  The woman is unwilling to believe she is unworthy of God’s grace and abundance.  She boldly, humbly demands that abundance from the person of Jesus.  Second, I love that we actually get to see Jesus’ humanity in this story.  We could spend hours debating scripture and tradition and the creeds about whether Jesus can be sinful and what that means for our faith.  But one of the things we say about Jesus is that he is fully divine and fully human.  And we all know in this room being fully human means messing up, saying awful things, and sometimes being a failure.  But being human also means righting our wrongs, making amends, and taking our learnings from failures and turning them into future goodness.

What Jesus says today is awful, and we should feel his words as embarrassing, shameful words.  What we sometimes say and do is awful, and we should regard those actions as embarrassing and shameful too.  But what Jesus does today is also beautiful.  Jesus not only changes his mind, he expands the wideness of the kingdom of God.[v]  What the Syrophoenician woman does is make a claim on abundance and hold up a mirror to Jesus to see where he limiting abundance.  Her invitation to Jesus is her invitation to us today too.  Where are we limiting abundance and shutting down possibilities for blessing?  The Syrophoenician woman today asks us to look at the mirror and let go of a sense that there are limited resources and particular protocols about those resources.  She invites us to look at our lives, at the ministry of Hickory Neck, and the community around us and see the opportunities to choose abundance over limitations, to see grace over judgment, to see divinity over humanity.  With her mirror, and Jesus’ example, the possibilities for new life and ministry are endless.  And that’s a Jesus, and a you and me, and a Hickory Neck of which we can all be proud.  That’s a ministry that is expansive and explosive with grace, and dignity, and love.  That’s a church who is doing exciting things and I want to be a part!  Come and join us!

[i] Daniel J. Harrington, ed., Sacra Pagina:  The Gospel of Mark (Collegeville:  The Liturgical Press, 2002), 233.

[ii] Harrington, 232.

[iii] Douglas R. A. Hare, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 4 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 47.

[iv] Harrington, 233-234.

[v] Dawn Ottoni Wilhelm, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 4 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 49.

On Searching for Hope…

Tags

Christ, church, division, God, hope, politics, reconciliation, redemption, scripture, sustain, today, walk

Photo credit:  https://clipartxtras.com/categories/view/8acee3134d57ecf959eedd985d89984fd9af8e11/sun-rays-through-clouds-drawing.html

One of my favorite podcasts has become “Stayed Tuned with Preet,” a podcast hosted by Preet Bharara, former U.S. Attorney, that addresses issues of justice and fairness.  The topics vary pretty widely – from law enforcement, to the psychology of leadership, to the opioid crisis, to gun control, to the #metoo movement.  What I appreciate about his podcast is he breaks down a lot of the complicated legal matters in the news into terms I can understand, he shares his passion for justice, and he tries to frame a current specific issue in the broader context of justice in society.  Admittedly, there are times when I listen to Preet’s podcast and begin to wonder if there is any hope.  But what Preet always does at the end of his podcast is tell a story of hope – sometimes entirely unrelated to the current episode, but always life-giving.

What Preet does is what I try to do in preaching.  I am always looking for the problem in the scriptural text assigned for the day (and the related problem in our modern lives), and the hope in the text (and the related hope in our everyday lives).  Sometimes finding the hope is harder than others.  This Sunday, we get the text from I Samuel where the people finally ask God for a king.  That may not sound like an unreasonable request, but you have to remember that God just spent a generation’s lifetime liberating the people from an overlord – from Pharaoh.  And despite God’s faithfulness, and the warning God’s prophet gives them about what life will be like under a king (spoiler alert:  it’s not good!), the people stubbornly demand a king anyway.  In Samuel’s warning, he says, “And in that day you will cry out because of your king, whom you have chosen for yourselves; but the Lord will not answer you in that day.”  As I have been praying on this text this week, I have been wondering where the hope is.

Last night, I sat in on a conversation on racial reconciliation, and we wondered the same thing too.  As we look at the world around us, and see the deep divisions among us (on every issue!), and see the ongoing prejudice among us, many of us found ourselves wondering where the hope is.  We spent time talking openly and vulnerably about where our hope is being dashed and the moments that seem irredeemable in life.  But after some time, our conversation shifted – from the moments that were irredeemable to the ones that were redemptive.  We began to talk about how and where we find hope.  And each bit of hope shared brought more hope into the room.  Though we all come from different backgrounds, we seemed to conclude the night convinced that God, through the instrument of the Church, was going to be the source of hopeful change in the world.

I am wondering where you are finding hope today.  Whatever is going on your life, whatever is dragging you down today, what are the glimmers of hope that are sustaining you?  I could preach to you about how God is always our source of “big picture” hope, but I think more often God provides us with little glimmers of hope that leads us on the path to that big picture hope.  Those glimmers are our food for the daily walk with Christ that nourish our souls and keep us out of the dark and searching for the light.  If you have not found the hope today, keep looking.  And if you get to the close of the day and are still not convinced, reach out for support.  You are not alone.

Sermon – Matthew 15:10-28, P15, YA, August 20, 2017

Tags

blessing, Canaaanite woman, chosen, discomfort, dog, Gentile, God, grateful, insight, Jesus, Jew, mean, mercy, redemption, rude, Sermon, ugly

I have never really liked the story we hear from our gospel lesson today.  Every time I have heard or read the story of Jesus’ interaction with the Canaanite woman, I cringe.  I do not like the way Jesus ignores the woman.  I do not like the way Jesus then tries to dismiss her – not only because his dismissal is rude, but also because he is being exclusive, saying that his ministry is only for chosen of God.  And I especially do not like the way Jesus not only calls her a dog, but also basically treats her like a dog.  This is not the Jesus I know.  And I am pretty sure that this is not what the slogan designers meant when they asked, “What would Jesus do?”

But the real problem with this story, the problem that I do not like to talk about, is Jesus’ ugly behavior reminds me of all the times I have acted in a similarly ugly way.  Most of the time, my ugly behavior is well-intentioned or even justifiable.  When I see a homeless person or someone begging for money, and I know that I have nothing to give them that day, I have honed the art of avoiding eye contact.  Or, when I am not protected by the rolled-up windows of my car, and a similar person asks me directly for help, I have figured out my patented response, “Sorry I do not have any cash;” which is sometimes true, but is often a lie.  I do have cash, but I feel awkward explaining that I give to agencies that make a difference for people like them to protect me from having to have this very same engagement.  Or I have had countless conversations with people I have helped through the church’s discretionary fund, only to have to say “no” when they show up two weeks later because, as I clearly communicated, we have a policy of helping people not more than once every six months.

Now I can completely explain all the reasons for the things I do:  I am a petite woman, so avoiding engagement with what could be a volatile, unstable person is generally a good practice; I have created a framework for giving which makes a difference, but also makes me feel more comfortable; I have a system for our emergency assistance program because I need to make sure the church’s discretionary fund supports as many people as possible, and as fairly as possible.  All of those explanations are good, and they exhibit healthy boundary-drawing.  In fact, I have had multiple conversations over the years when each of those decisions has been labeled as smart, intentional, and fair.  And yet, when I am in the midst of each of those types of scenarios, the execution of those smart decisions still feels ugly.  I feel like I am actually following that slogan, “What would Jesus do,” when I am in the midst of ignoring, explaining why I cannot help, or firmly drawing a boundary with someone who is being too pushy.  But instead of following the Jesus we find in our passage today and feeling good about myself, I am left with a sense of discomfort.

So, if I feel uncomfortable with my actions, and I especially feel uncomfortable with this version of Jesus that we find in Holy Scripture, why is this story in scripture at all?  And why, of all the texts they could have included, did the designers of our lectionary demand that we hear this particular passage?  Let’s start with the first question – why this story is in scripture at all.  The good news is that this scripture, despite all its ugliness and discomfort is important.  Jesus is sent to the people of God with a very specific mission:  to initiate God’s purposes for God’s people.  God had promised long ago to send a messiah to save God’s people.  Jesus is now enacting that mission.  Jesus has been clear all along that God’s mission starts with God’s people.  In Matthew’s gospel, when Jesus sends out the disciples the first time, Jesus tells the disciples to go only to the house of Israel, not to be distracted by the Gentiles, or non-Jewish peoples.  He is not necessarily being exclusive.  Jesus knows that the people of Israel are going to be a blessing to all people, including the Gentiles.  But the first job is to get the people of Israel on board – to help them understand that the messiah is here and the reign of God is beginning.[i]

The problem for Jesus, and perhaps the reason why we find Jesus the way we find him today, is that the people of God are not listening.  They are throwing Jesus out of towns, they are arguing with him about the following of laws instead of seeing the fulfillment of the law, and they are faltering in their faith.  Just last week we watched as Peter sunk into the sea.  Today, Jesus is moving on to Tyre and Sidon because his people have kicked him out of town.  And all of that stuff we heard today about what defiles a person being what comes out of the mouth, not what goes in, is an argument about getting so caught up in the letter of the law that one cannot see how one is violating the spirit of the law.  So here Jesus is, beating his head against a wall, with the people of God refusing to understand or listen to him, when a woman from a country his people oppose says very simply, “Lord, Son of David.”  The people of God, the leaders of the people of God, even the disciples of God do not get who Jesus is.  But this unclean, foreign, woman – so a triple outcast – gets who Jesus is.

So, we can imagine that Jesus is feeling a little raw – in a sea of rejection, the affirmation of this lowly outsider may not have been enough to draw him out of his funk.[ii]  Fair enough.  But the woman persists.  Jesus lets down his guard a little bit, and instead of ignoring her explains he is not trying to be rude, but he has been sent on a mission that entails him proceeding in a particular manner – Jews first, Gentiles later.  But the woman persists again.  And frazzled, rejected Jesus, who has tried to politely ignore, then perhaps politely explain, snaps and asserts his boundary.  “The good news is just not ready for Gentiles, okay?”  But the woman persists again.  She takes Jesus’ nasty words and she transforms them.  She takes that belittling label “dog,” and puts the label right in front of Jesus.  She does not want to wait for Easter.[iii]  She does not want to wait for the people of God to wake up.  She wants her blessing, the blessing that God eventually intends anyway, to start.  Right now.

And Jesus does that beautiful, awful thing we all hate to do.  Jesus admits he is wrong.  He heals her daughter, seeing in the persistence of this woman that he has gotten so caught up in the proper process and the appropriate boundaries that he has limited the power of the gospel and the reach of the good news.

The last two weeks I have been working on a request for financial assistance.  The person needed rental assistance, and the case had been fully vetted.  I knew Hickory Neck could not cover the full rental payment, so I offered to collaborate with some other churches.  Now any of you who have ever tried to collaborate know that although collaboration is good, collaboration is never simple nor fast.  So this week, the case came back around because the deadline is rapidly approaching.  I explained where we were and how I needed to get back to the churches I had invited to help.  The person I had been working with finally snapped and said, “You guys are all wrapped up in all these protests over something that happened hundreds of years ago.  But when the effects of racism are staring you in the face, and you can actually do something about it, you can’t seem to move!”  I felt like I had been slapped in the face.  Here I was following my process, staying with in the reasoned boundaries I have created, working creatively to solve the problem, while also being quite passionate about and wanting to work on correcting the sin of racism that our whole country is addressing since Charlottesville last weekend.  And here was a Canaanite woman, a Gentile calling me out – pushing me out of the theoretical, or the master plan, and asking me to look her in the face and explain why the fulfillment of God’s promise cannot happen today.

We do not like this story today because Jesus is dismissive, rude, and mean.  But mostly we do not like this story because Jesus’ story reminds us of the times we have been dismissive, rude, or mean.  We can claim that we do not like how Jesus behaves in this story, but really we do not like how Jesus is a mirror of our own behavior in this story.  And for that reason, I am grateful for the discomfort today.  I am grateful for the ways in which I am squirming today because something tremendous happens when Jesus gets uncomfortable today.  When Jesus gets slapped in the face by the Canaanite woman, he wakes up.  He stops, sees, and hears her.  And he changes course.  This lowly triple-outcast changes the ministry of Christ forever.  No longer is Jesus doggedly sticking to the plan of the redemption of Jews followed by the redemption of Gentiles.  Jesus mercy and mission get wider, right in this very moment.[iv]  Jesus’ wide arms of mercy, love, and grace spread just a bit wider, eventually being spread so wide that they fit onto the cross.

Our invitation today is to let our arms start moving to the same position.  I do not know who the Canaanite women are in your lives.  I do not know if your heart needs softening on racism, on sexism, or on some other -ism.  I do not know if you heart needs softening on some other person or group you have deemed beyond redemption.  I do not know if your heart needs softening by the person whose eyes you are avoiding.  But our invitation today is to recognize that our dismissiveness, our exclusion, our boundary-drawing is already in line with what Jesus would do.  Now Jesus is inviting us to keep doing what Jesus would do and to change our minds – to do better, to behave better, to be better.  Stretching our arms that far wide will be hard.  But the promise of transformation is much more powerful than anything we have imagined.

[i] N. T. Wright, Matthew for Everyone, Part 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 199-200.

[ii] Barbara Brown Taylor, The Seeds of Heaven:  Sermons on the Gospel of Matthew (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 62.

[iii] Wright, 201.

[iv] Brown Taylor, 64-65.

Sermon – Genesis 29.15-28, P12, YA, July 30, 2017

Tags

dehumanize, God, gospel, hope, Jacob, Jesus, Laban, Leah, light, love, Monticello, power, property, Rachel, redemption, Sermon, sexism, slavery, women

Every week that I am preaching, I start out by listening to a podcast by biblical scholars.  They talk for about twenty minutes on the four lessons, and always have interesting things to say.  Sometimes their insights lead me in a particular direction, and sometimes not.  This week, these most esteemed scholars had one thing to say:  do not preach on the Old Testament lesson.  In all my years of listening to them, I do not think they have ever suggested avoiding a text altogether.  Their reasoning was sound.  They simply felt that this part of the Jacob story – the antics between Laban and Jacob that leave Rachel and Leah voiceless property, objectified and dehumanized – had no good news, no gospel, to offer or preach from this week and should therefore be avoided.

So.  Let’s talk about the gospel in Rachel and Leah’s story.  To get there, you are going to have to hang through some rough stuff first.  Here is the thing about this story:  this story of Laban tricking Jacob to marry Leah before marrying Rachel is often depicted as a story only about Jacob and Laban.  In fact, usually this story is depicted as being the story of how Jacob finally gets what is coming to him.  Perhaps there is some validity to that analysis.  Jacob, the trickster finally gets tricked.[i]  Jacob, the man who weasels his way into the birthright and his father’s blessing, is weaseled out of his desired bride and is tricked into fourteen years of service for her – a price well beyond anything that would be expected in his day, especially of a relative to the bride’s family.[ii]  One could argue that Jacob met his match in his father-in-law Laban – a man equally dishonest, scheming, and self-centered.

And all of that analysis is interesting.  But I do not think that is where the heart of the story is today.  Today I am more interested in Rachel and Leah.  Rachel and Leah have been put at odds probably their entire life.  Though Leah is the older sister, Rachel is the more attractive sister.  And in their day, and ours, being attractive means wielding some power.  Then, Jacob comes along and wants something he cannot really have – a younger sister whose older sister has not yet been married.  Then the two women are thrown around as objects, as though they are non-persons.  We hear nothing of what Leah feels, being veiled and forced to marry a man who does not want her, without his consent or hers, and then to be scorned the next morning.  To make matters worse, a week later, her husband also marries her sister.  And let’s not forget about Rachel.  We assume she desires Jacob as he desires her, but we are never told about her feelings.  Assuming she did want to marry him, she had to stay silent as Leah took what had been promised to her.  Then, in order to get the husband she may or may not have wanted, she had to share him with her much more fertile sister.  Though we do not read about it today, Rachel’s barrenness is just one more way she is the victim in our story.

But all of those questions and ruminations are just speculation.  We know nothing of how either woman felt because the text does not tell us.  The text, the culture, the men in our story treat the women like objects; silent property to be manipulated at their will.  Rachel and Leah are pawns in Jacob and Laban’s twisted, deceptive lives, with no rights, no voice, and no power.  And when we look at their voiceless, powerless, hopeless lives, we may believe, like those scholars, that there seems to be little good news here.  We could even ask the harder question:  where is God?  Where is God when Rachel and Leah are dehumanized and objectified by an entire system and family?

The easy way out of this story would be to suggest that we are lucky because at least we do not live in a society like Rachel and Leah’s.  But the reality of treating some people in society as property has long been a part of our identity – thousands of years ago, hundreds of years ago, and today.  Last weekend, Scott and I had the opportunity to visit Monticello.  I had never been and was excited to learn about a respected founding father.  And what I learned was not disappointing.  Jefferson was a brilliant man:  a scientific genius, a profound wordsmith, with a creative, prolific mind.  But what drew me in was the slave tour at Monticello.  Behind the grandeur of Monticello, the technological advances, and conveniences of the property was the reality of slavery.  Behind all of fascinating parts of Monticello were the voiceless, dehumanized, objectified men, women, and children.  Behind the thrill of advancement and intellectual prowess was the cold, harsh reality of people whose lives were out of their own control.  To be fair, of slaveholders, Jefferson was one of the less physically brutal, and there is a chance that he actually loved at least one of those slaves.  But they were still slaves, ever living under the threat of physical violence, and perhaps worse, separation from their partners and children.

Two stories at Monticello helped me connect with the utter depravity of our story from scripture, as well as the redemption and hope from our story from scripture.  The first was of a slave at Monticello who was “leased” to a local townsman while Jefferson was out of the country.  She came with three sons.  In the course of her time in town, two of her sons came of age and were sold away.  Meanwhile, she and the man began a relationship and she had two daughters with him.  When Jefferson returned to the country, the slave approached Jefferson herself and asked if she and the man could continue to live together with their children.  Jefferson agreed that the man could buy her and the two children they had borne together.  But her remaining son he ordered back to Monticello.  I was struck by how even though Jefferson was somewhat gracious to her, she still lacked power – she lived at the mercy of others, her children treated as property.  Her life was traded like Leah was traded from Laban to Jacob.

But then there was another story.  When Jefferson died, he left behind many debts, so the majority of the slaves were sold.  One slave was able to buy his freedom, but not the freedom of his wife and eight children.  One by one, over time, the former slave bought back his wife and seven children.  But one child remained.  Eventually the remaining son of that slave was to be sold to a plantation far away, and the man could not gather enough funds to purchase him before he was sold.  In solidarity, the former slaves of Monticello pooled their money and were able to help the man finally reunite his entire family.  Even in the midst of the sinful institution of slavery that treated our brothers and sisters as dehumanized property, the powerless were able to scrape up some power and find a sense of agency.  They found some sense of redemption in their collective power.

I like to believe that there is some glimmer of redemption in Rachel and Leah’s story too.  Despite the ways they are objectified, made into commodities to be bartered without input, these two women and their servants give birth to the twelve tribes of Israel – the very fathers of our faith.  God moves in human imperfection, and God’s love overcomes human failure to love.[iii]  In the face of barrenness, God opens wombs.  In the face of oppression, God makes a way out.  In the face of Leah’s lesser status, comes the genealogical line that produces Jesus.[iv]  This voiceless, unwanted, powerless one produces the man who redeems us all.

It is easy to sit in judgment of Jacob and Laban, or to sit in judgment of the institution of slavery.  As biblical scholar Beth Tanner says, “We can sit comfortably on a Sunday morning and condemn their actions and their culture and thank God we have evolved.  But that would mean we miss the point of the narrative completely.  They are not “them.”  They are us.  We are far from perfect.  Families are messy and often broken.  We hurt each other intentionally and unintentionally.  We act in our own best interest and against the greater good of others.  We forget to ask those with less power about decisions that impact their lives.  To look on this family is to look straight into human brokenness.  To look on the culture is to hold up a mirror to our world that still judges individuals on their appearance and treats women as less than men.  [The story of our ancestors] is not cleaned up to impress the neighbors or provide unobtainable role models for moral living.  They are faithful and sinful.  They are blessed by God and cursed by their actions.  Their culture is on display in this text, and it has a good dose of corporate sin in its sexism and treatment of those with less power.”[v]

In that messiness, in that hopelessness, in that depravity is still gospel light.  “Gospel is present because God keeps God’s promises to a sinful humanity.  God is faithful when we are busy managing our lives.  God is faithful even when God is not overtly part of the narrative.  God loves the broken families of the world.  God loves so much God will send [God’s] son to ‘the sons of Israel’ and by extension, to us.”[vi]  I don’t know about you, but when I am staring into acres of land, contemplating the racism and oppression that began hundreds of years ago, or I am facing a text about the powerlessness of women that continues from thousands of years ago, I am grateful for a God who is faithful to us even when we are not faithful to God.  I am beyond humbled by our God who refuses to disown us in our hatefulness, and goes to ultimate lengths to save us from ourselves.  And I am thrilled by a God who can make a great nation out of us, despite ourselves.  We are not beyond God’s redemption.  We are not beyond God’s forgiveness and grace.  This text is our reminder that God’s good news is offered fresh, everyday, throughout time, offering us the opportunity to become co-creators of goodness.  And that is good news to be preached.  Amen.

[i] W. Eugene March, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Supplemental Essays, Batch 2, Proper 12, Year A (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 6.

[ii] Greg Garrett, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Supplemental Essays, Batch 2, Proper 12, Year A (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2011),3.

[iii] Garrett, 5.

[iv] Matthew 1.3.

[v] Beth L. Tanner, “Commentary on Genesis 29:15-28,” July 30, 2017, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=3353 on July 26, 2017.

[vi] Tanner.

The Revolution of Christmas…

Tags

Christians, Christmas, gifts, Jesus, justice, Magnificat, Mary, neighbors, oppression, poor, poverty, redemption, revolution

Last week our church got a call about whether we would be willing to “adopt” some families for Christmas.  The call came in late, was from an area we do not normally serve, and we had already run and completed a successful local “Angel Tree” program.   But after much discussion, we decided to offer the invitation and see what transpired.

Two surprising things happened out of that effort.  One, I was blown away by the money that came in from parishioners.  Although most were too tapped to do the shopping, they were willing to open their wallets.  Two, once I got the list, my heart melted.  There were basic items, like clothing and shoes.  But the “wish list” items got me.  There were the cute items – like racecars, baby dolls, musical toys, and card games.  Those gifts made me think of the innocence of Christmas gifts when we are young.  Then there were the bigger dreamers, who longed for electronic gifts.  Though I knew we could not afford them, I remembered stories I had read of homeless persons owning smart phones – in order to “fit in” with everyone else, and to have one form of connection to the world when all other ties had been cut.  There was a request by a teenager whose only wish was a gift card to a shop that caters to teens.  I suddenly remembered how hard it is to be a teenager, desperately wanting to blend in with your peers, and how hard that would be when parents can barely afford food or rent.  And then there was the teenage boy whose only wish was socks and stocking stuffers.  His innocent request at such a mature age broke my heart.  No greed, just some simple pleasures and a basic need.

Photo credit:  https://walktheway.wordpress.com/2013/12/21/solidarity-mary-with-elizabeth/

When a pregnant Mary visits with her pregnant cousin Elizabeth, Mary breaks into a song of justice for the poor (Luke 1.46-55).  When Elizabeth confirms everything the Angel Gabriel had declared about Mary’s baby, Mary sees the beginning of redemption for oppressed peoples everywhere.  And she does not just whisper the song to Elizabeth, but shouts it loudly among her people.  Christians today still sing her Magnificat, in hundreds of settings and languages, every day, around the world.  Though most of us are excited about gifts, parties, and the familiar smells and tastes at Christmas, as Christians, we are also excited for the revolution that Christmas signifies – the dawn of justice for the poor and oppressed.  A baby born into poverty who will be the champion of the poor.

Our gifts to our neighbors in need at Christmas are just one small way that we remember the revolution of Christ’s birth.  Of course, Christmas is just the beginning.  Our witness for Christ is not just about how Christ has redeemed us, but how Christ is using us as agents for change, as advocates for the poor and downtrodden, as servants who “lift up the lowly, and fill the hungry with good things.”  Our God of abundance invites us to be a people of abundance.  I look forward to hearing how you are celebrating the revolution of Christmas this year!

Sermon – Luke 13.1-9, L3, YC, February 28, 2016

Tags

allegory, barren, encourage, fairness, fig tree, fruit, gardener, God, insecurity, Jesus, justice, lectionary, Luke, redemption, Sermon, stength, transition

My dad, a retired Methodist Minister, and I have always disagreed about the use of the Revised Common Lectionary.  He always felt that the pastor’s duty was to listen to the movement of the Spirit and select scripture lessons that were relevant to what was happening in the life of the parish.  I argued that his method was rife with pitfalls.  The pastor could end up confusing personal preference with the movement of the Spirit, could push one’s own agenda too far, or could end up avoiding hard texts out of laziness or fear.  Instead, I argued, following the lectionary forces the preacher to be truly open to the Spirit – totally giving up control over what text is offered on any given day, trusting that the Lord will provide the message.

This week, I wished I had adopted my dad’s practice.  I looked at the gospel lesson and immediately, said, “Nope!  No way, now how.  There is no way I am going to preach that text to my people when we are in the midst of transition!”  My list of reasons for avoiding the text from Luke were long and, I believe, well-reasoned.  I did not want to preach about a tree not bearing fruit because in no way did I want to infer that I think St. Margaret’s is not bearing fruit, especially because my pending departure has created a sense of insecurity about the strength of St. Margaret’s.  The truth is, St. Margaret’s is bearing fruit.  There is the literal fruit that we are bearing in our Garden of Eatin’ which is feeding our hungry neighbors.  And then there is the figurative fruit:  the children we are raising up through reinvigorated Christian Education programs, the pastoral ministries we are offering to our cemetery families, and the love and care we offer to each other.

But I didn’t just want to avoid talking about barren trees.  I also had no desire to talk about manure today.  Quite frankly, I could just imagine how in the midst of transition a community could feel like they are getting a whole lot of manure dumped on them.  A gardener knows that to keep plants thriving we have to aerate the soil, pull out weeds, and double up with nutrient-rich manure.  But anyone who has driven by a recently tended garden knows that the stench of manure can make you want to quickly run in the other direction.  As we think about the burdens of a transition, the last thing I wanted to talk about today is the gardener’s suggestion of piling on hot, smelly manure.

Besides wanting to avoid talking about barren trees and smelly manure, I had zero desire to talk about trees getting chopped down.  For all of the conversations I have had with parishioners over the past few weeks, the most common one has been about fear for the future of St. Margaret’s.  Many of you are worried about our viability and fear what the instability of transition and new leadership will bring.  On one hand, your fears are not unwarranted.  We have watched neighboring churches decline to the point of closure.  We also know that we are in a time and culture when churches have to work a lot harder to grow and thrive.  But I do not think St. Margaret’s has to fear the ax in our passage today.  If we were having this conversation five or six years ago, I could see where the damage of past leadership could have been the end of St. Margaret’s.  But even that challenge did not pull St. Margaret’s under.  And we are in a much stronger place – we have changed so much for the better and grown into a tree producing fruit.  Are we in a transition?  Yes.  Is change coming?  Yes.  Is our tree going to be cut down?  I do not think so.

Unfortunately for me, we actually do follow the lectionary.  And since we do not get to pick and choose what scripture fits our needs at a particular time, we look for the ways that a text speaks to us despite our personal preferences.  The good news is that some of our initial reactions to this text are rooted in a misunderstanding of the allegory Jesus gives us.  Many of us assume that the landowner is God and the gardener is Jesus.  But nowhere in Luke’s gospel is God portrayed as an angry, vindictive God that needs to be placated or negotiated with by Jesus. Instead, God is the one who waits every day for the prodigal son to come home.  God is the woman who leaves no pillow unturned looking for her lost coin.  Luke’s depiction is of a God who rejoices over one who repents than over the remaining ninety-nine who need no repentance.

Instead, as one scholar suggests, “Given Luke’s consistent picture of God’s reaction to sin, then perhaps the landowner is representative of our own sense of how the world should work.  That is, from very early on, we want things to be “fair” and we define “fair” as receiving rewards for doing good and punishment for doing evil.  (Except of course, when it comes to our own mistakes and misdeeds – then we want mercy!)”[i]  But our God is a God of justice, not fairness.  When I struggle with these two words, I always remember a cartoon that has floated around.  The cartoon has three people trying to see over a fence.  One is short, one is medium-height, and one is tall.  All three are given two boxes to stand on.  Of course, the tall person can easily see over the fence.  The medium-height person can just barely see over, but the short person cannot see, even with the two boxes.  This frame is called fairness or equality.  But the next frame is called justice.  In this frame, the short-statured person gets three boxes, the medium-height person gets two boxes, and the tallest person gets just one box.  All three people can now see over the fence equally.

I tell you this story not because as short-statured person I totally get this cartoon!  I tell you this story because I do not think our God is an angry landowner demanding results and expecting everyone to figure things out themselves – to produce fruit without adequate help.  No, I think the gardener is actually God – our advocate looking for justice, not just fairness.    Perhaps God is the one raising a contrary voice to suggest that the ultimate answer to sin is not punishment – not even in the name of justice – but rather mercy, reconciliation, and new life.[ii]  So, in the threat of danger and even death, God is a god who intercedes, who demands mercy, and in fact, is willing to get down in the manure to make sure we thrive and bear that delicious, life-giving fruit.

Now, even the gardener is not naïve to think that our window for productivity is unlimited.  Even the gardener submits to the owner that if after a year, the tree does not produce, the owner may cut the tree down.  But I do not think God will let that happen.  God is “all in” with making sure we are redeemed – whether by getting dirty with us to help us grow, or by interceding again, even when the produce is just not there.  Not unlike Abraham who argued and argued with God to spare ten, twenty, even fifty people, our gardener is one of mercy, reconciliation, and redemption.

And that is why I love the lectionary.  Even when I fight, and kick, and say, “No way!” God finds a way to speak despite my reservations.  Where I had feared sending the wrong message about our walk with Christ, God comes through bringing good news of mercy, reconciliation, and redemption.  Bishop Curry says this about our text today, “The task of the disciple is to witness and then wait, to take our best step and leave the rest to God…We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that.  Being freed from managing the results of our actions enables us to do something, and do it well.  We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker.  We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs.  We are prophets of a future not our own.”[iii]  I do not know about you, but I am over the moon that our God is one who is willing to fight to the last pile of manure to encourage and strengthen us.  If our God can do that, we are bound to rise again in hopeful new life.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “Lent 3 C:  Suffering, the Cross, and the Promise of Love,” February 22, 2016, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2016/02/lent-3-c-suffering-the-cross-and-the-promise-of-love/ on February 25, 2016.

[ii] Lose.

[iii] Michael B. Curry, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 97.

Sermon – 2 Samuel 18.5-9, 15, 31-33, P14, YB, August 9, 2015

Tags

Absolom, Christ, confession, cross, David, God, guilt, judgment, loser, losing, loss, redemption, sin, tragedy, victory, We Are Marshall, winning

I recently watched the film We Are Marshall.  The film details the true story of a tragedy in 1970 that happened to Marshall University.  After an away football game, most of the team and coaches, as well as several boosters, took a private plane back to the university.  The plane crashed just minutes from landing, killing everyone onboard.  The town was bereft as they mourned their sons, friends, boyfriends, wives, husbands, and teammates.  The University’s Board was set to cancel the 1971 football season, when the few surviving players petitioned to play anyway.  The president was then tasked to find a coach who would be willing to step into this tragic situation – coaching a season that many thought was inappropriate given the deaths, to find enough players when Freshmen were not yet allowed to play per NCAA rules, and to find a supporting coaching staff, including trying to recruit the only assistant coach who had not been on the plane.  The season moves forward and after the first game, which Marshall loses, the head coach and the surviving assistant coach have a heart-to-heart.  The assistant coach explains that the deceased former head coach had always said that the most important thing in football was winning.  And if the current team was not going to win, the assistant didn’t want to coach, because they would be dishonoring the former coach’s memory.  After a long pause, the current head coach confesses that before he came to Marshall, he would have said the same thing:  that winning is the most important thing.  But now that he was there, in the midst of the Marshall community, the most important thing to him was simply playing.

We are a society that glorifies winning.  Not just in sports, but in all of life, we want to be winners.  No one likes to lose because losing, when we are really honest, is not fun.  Of course, we try to teach our children that we cannot always win.  Many a play date argument is settled by the conversation that sometimes we win and sometimes we lose.  We even have a word for being comfortable with losing.  We say we are being “good sports.”  But being a good sport takes work.  We do not like losing.  Losing itches as something deep inside of us – both internally and externally reinforced.  We want to be winners.

Of course no one knows more about losing than King David.  History labels him as a winner, but as we reread his story, we know that David was an intimate friend of losing.  We hear the deep pain of his losing in his final words today, “O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom!  Would I had died instead of you, O Absalom, my son, my son!”  We know the pain of losing a child – the sorrow and the grief of that kind of losing.  But David is not just mourning the loss of his child in these words.  He is morning the loss even more deeply because he knows he is indirectly guilty of his son’s death.[i]  If you remember, in the reading we heard last week, Nathan told David that because of his sinfulness with Bathsheba and Uriah that his household will be plagued by a sword.  Through Nathan, the Lord proclaims, “I will raise up trouble against you from within your own house; and I will take your wives before your eyes, and give them to your neighbor, and he shall lie with your wives in the sight of this very sun.  For you did it secretly; but I will do this thing before all Israel, and before the sun.”[ii]

God stays true to God’s judgment.  Between last week’s reading and this week’s reading, David’s family starts to fall apart.  His first child with Bathsheba dies.  One of David’s sons rapes his half-sister.  When David does not punish that son, another son, Absalom, takes action, killing his half-brother.  Absalom then flees, and spends years amassing a revolution against David.  Absalom manages to take Jerusalem, and further humiliates David by sleeping with ten of David’s concubines in front of everyone.  David is forced to battle against Absalom to restore the kingdom, but he does so begrudgingly.  Today we hear David trying to make victory as painless as possible, asking his men to deal gently with Absalom.  But Absalom had made too many enemies in the family and kingdom, and when the time came, he was killed in battle.  Though many saw Absalom’s death as a victory, David knew the truth.  Victory in this case was not winning for David.  Victory was just another reminder of the ways in which David’s life had become about losing – about the painful reminder of his sin hanging over his head.

David reminds us of what we have all learned about losing.  Though none of us like losing, we know losing is a necessary and probably valuable part of life.  You see, losing helps us in many ways.  First, losing reminds us of our finitude.  Though we might like to think we are without limits or we can control everything, losing reminds us of the “futility of our personal striving and the frailty of our existence.”  Second, losing gives us the opportunity to reexamine our goals and outlook on life.  Losing can help us see when perhaps we have become overly self-serving, have developed unrealistic expectations, or we have just become distracted by the wrong things in life.  Finally, losing reminds us that our lives are in need of redemption.  Losing can give us a much-needed opportunity to renew our relationship with God.  As one scholar explains, “In this moment of realization, we are liberated to renew our trust in God’s power and in [God’s] purpose for our lives.”  That does not mean we should give up, stop trying, or be overcome by the fear of losing.  Instead, maintaining our trust in God gives assurance that “ultimately, there is no losing without the possibility of redemption.”[iii]

Think for a moment about the ultimate symbol of our faith – the cross.  The cross is both a symbol of loss and victory.  We always remember the victory of resurrection and redemption, but first, the cross was a symbol of death and defeat.  The cross was a humiliating reminder of the brutal death of the one we insist is the Messiah.  Our main symbol was the symbol of ultimate loss – the place where losers go to lose:  lose their life, their dignity, and their power.  That symbol of being a loser is only redeemed because the Redeemer redeems it.  Of course, we should not be surprised.  Every week, we as a community gather and remind ourselves at how we are losers when we confess our sins.  We kneel down and young, old, male, female, single, partnered, good, and bad confess that we lost.  Every single week we confess how, once again, we have lost.

I sometimes wonder how David coped with the sword in his house.  Sure, he had moments of redemption.  Solomon taking the helm at David’s death was one of the best redemptive moves in his family.  But I wonder, on that deathbed, how all the losing in David’s life weighed on him.  In last week’s lesson, David did what all of us do.  He confessed.  He confessed, “I have sinned against the Lord.”  His confession did not make Absalom’s death any less painful.  But his confession, like ours, is redemptive.  Like David, when we acknowledge and confess our senses of incompleteness, “we are able to be freed from the entrapments of a win/lose culture.  God accepts us despite our failings.  This relationship is not earned; [this relationship] is a divine gift.  Accepted and forgiven, we are liberated to celebrate life.  Affirmed and fulfilled by God, we are released to care for others.  These affirmations point to the redemptive side of failure, to the God who accepts losers.”[iv]

When we wear a cross, or we reverence the cross in church, we reverence both the winning and the losing of the cross.  We honor the ways in which the cross represents not just the loss of Christ, but also the brokenness in each of us – the ways in which we have failed.  Only when we honor that loss can we then hold that cross as a symbol of victory.  That cross becomes a symbol of the ways in which Christ redeems us, but also the ways in which we too made new through our losing.  When we embrace the cross in its fullness of expression, we also recognize the fullness of our lives – the good, the bad, and the ugly.  We know that without the embracing of our losing we can never fully claim the victory of our winning through the cross.  Amen.

[i] Ted A. Smith, “Commentary on 2 Samuel 18:5-9, 15, 31-33” 2009, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=365 on August 6, 2015.

[ii] 2 Samuel 12.11-12.

[iii] The ideas in this paragraph and the quotes within come from Carnegie Samuel Calian, “Theologizing in a Win/Lose Culture, Christian Century, vol. 96, no. 32, October 10, 1979, 978.

[iv] Calian, 979.

Forever empty?

Tags

darkness, discipline, Episcopal, God, happiness, journey, Lent, light, Louis C.K., redemption, sadness, sin, technology

Photo credit: http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2013/09/23/louis-ck-texting-driving_n_3974759.html

I was talking to a parent recently about the challenges of raising children.  She reminded me of an awesome interview by Louis C.K. with Conan O’Brien.  The interview itself is funny and, as fair warning, quite crass (do not watch it with impressionable ears nearby – the link can be found here).  But what struck me about the interview is what I would label as pretty powerful theology by Louis C.K.  In his interview, he argues that we use technology to fill our time so that we can avoid the reality that there are parts of life that are tremendously sad and times when we feel utterly alone.  He further argues that by filling up that dark space and not allowing ourselves to fully experience that deep sadness, we never get to true happiness.

I was struck this week about how appropriate Louis C.K.’s words are for the Lenten experience.  I have a couple of parishioners who really dislike Lent and find it horribly depressing.  In some ways I agree with them.  Lent is somewhat depressing, and for some odd reason, that is what I like about Lent.  I never could fully explain that reality until I heard this interview.  What Louis C.K. points out is that sometimes we really need to go to those dark places.  Otherwise, we can never really find the true, deeply abiding happy places too.

In the Episcopal Church, The Catechism in the back of our Book of Common Prayer says this about sin:

Q:  What is sin?
A:  Sin is the seeking of our own will instead of the will of God, thus distorting our relationship with God, with other people, and with all creation.
Q:  How does sin have power over us?
A:  Sin has power over us because we lose our liberty when our relationship with God is distorted.
Q:  What is redemption?
A:  Redemption is the act of God which sets us free from the power of evil, sin, and death.
(BCP 848-849)

Lent gives us the opportunity to really examine our own sinfulness – the ways in which we have distorted our relationship with God, other people, and all creation.  Many of my friends have given up some form of technology for Lent – by not checking Facebook, taking Sabbaths from TV or the internet, or putting down their cell phones at certain points of the day.  My guess is that their discipline will create room for them to contemplate their sinfulness, or as Louis C.K. might say, their “forever empty.”  My prayer for them is that their practice leads to an ability to find their way back to God, who redeems us and helps us find that true happiness.  I am curious about how you are journeying into your own “forever empty” this Lent, and I look forward to hearing how that journey leads to the light.