Praise God

Luke 17:11-17

October 13, 2013

            My mother was a stickler on manners, especially phone manners.  If she overheard me calling a friend and asking for said friend like this, “Is Andrea there?” or “Can I talk to Andrea?” she would immediately correct me.  “May I speak to Andrea please?”  She did this as many times as it took, until I began to ask in that way without being prompted.  Manners didn’t stop with phone etiquette.    

            There were table manners.  “Take your elbows off the table.”  “Chew with your mouth closed.”  “Were you raised in a barn?”

            There were the manners that went with sharing.  If I pulled out a stick of gum in front of my friends, I better have enough to share.  It was impolite to have something and not offer some to the others around you.  Having manners meant you didn’t interrupt people when they were talking, unless it was an absolute emergency.  Manners meant speaking politely in response to someone when you were spoken to.

            Of course there were the basics; “Please.”  “Thank you.”  “You’re welcome.”  “Excuse me.”  These were the “magic words.”  Whenever I would ask for someone or receive something, I was asked, “What’s the magic word?”  Please may I have that cookie?  Thank you for giving me a ride. 

            And if we didn’t mind our manners, we heard about it; not just from my parents.  Other adults were not shy about reminding my friends and me to mind our manners. 

            I hated the constant reminders to “mind my manners” when I was a kid.  Hated.  It.  I made a solemn vow never to put my own children through the same.  Then I actually had children.  Becoming a parent made me realize how important it is to teach my own children manners.  So, as my mother did to me, I drill manners into them.  I have since they were little.  I do it because good manners go a long way.

            This isn’t because I want to be the etiquette police.  I don’t push manners just to conform to some expected social convention.  Teaching manners is my way of teaching them to be gracious; to be respectful.  I want them to know that they have the power to turn an awkward situation into a joyful one.  They have the ability to transform a moment just by saying “thank you.”

            “Thank you” is the critical phrase in this passage from Luke’s gospel.  Two words, but they make a world of difference.  Jesus encounters ten lepers, heals them of their leprosy and out of those ten only one turns around and says “thank you” to Jesus for his healing.

            This isn’t the first time in Luke’s gospel or in any of the other three that Jesus meets lepers, but the idea of giving thanks to Jesus for healing is unique to this particular passage.  There doesn’t seem to be any other passage in any of the gospels where Jesus encourages the people he heals to turn around and say “thank you.”  I doubt Jesus healed someone, and then prompted that person with “what are the magic words?”  But in this instance, Jesus singles out the Samaritan leper because the Samaritan turned around and gave thanks.

            As I said, Jesus has met lepers before in other situations.  Lepers were some of the leading outcasts of this particular culture.  Not only was leprosy – and there were many different kinds of leprosy – considered to be a physical ailment, but it was also thought to be a spiritual misfortune as well.  Like other illnesses, it was considered to be a spiritual punishment brought on by the disregarding of the Law by the leper’s parents or an infraction or sin on the part of the leper himself.

            Lepers created their own colonies because they were forced to live outside of the main community.  When clean people approached their “space,” lepers were required to call out “unclean, unclean!”  This warned people to keep their distance.  Yet in spite of their uncleanness, they would sit near major traffic ways and beg for charity as a means to survive.

            It was probably not unusual to find this number of lepers together.  They may have been a colony unto themselves or just a small part of a larger one.  And although in normal circumstances Jews and Samaritans would never have associated with one another, their leprosy must have served as the great equalizer.  They were all unclean; what did it matter what religion or ethnicity they were?  But when these lepers see Jesus traveling in the distance, coming closer and closer their cry of “unclean, unclean” becomes a plea for help and healing.  “Jesus, Master!  Have mercy on us.”

            Jesus sees them and without hesitation sends them to the priest.  When a leper was healed and cleansed of leprosy, a visit to the priest was required.  The priest then declared the leper clean and able to return to the larger community.  The ten obediently respond to Jesus’ command and make their way to find the religious leader.  While on their way they are healed.  One, a Samaritan, happens to notice that his skin, his flesh has been made clean.  He immediately turns back to Jesus and begins praising God with a loud voice.  He prostrates himself before Jesus’ feet and thanks him.

            When the man does this, Jesus asks, “Didn’t I heal ten lepers, and only one came back?  What happened to the other nine? Only this foreigner saw fit to praise God and give thanks.”

            Only this foreigner.  The one leper who turned back to Jesus had a double whammy against him.  He was a leper, therefore an outcast.  He was a Samaritan, therefore an outcast.  In Jewish society, he was unwelcome either way.  But it was the foreigner who turned around and cried out his praise and thanks.  It was the alien in the land, the Samaritan, who showed an attitude of gratitude.  He was the only one who came back.  And the result of this was not only was he cleansed of his leprosy, but Jesus also blessed his faith.  The Greek verb translated here as made well can and has been translated as to be saved.  Jesus healed ten lepers and saved this one foreigner. 

            Throughout the gospel of Luke we’ve had one point driven home time and time again.  Jesus came for the Jews, the chosen ones.  He came as Emmanuel – God with us.  Jesus was a Jew and a good one at that.  He knew the Law of Moses backward and forward. 

            Jesus respected and loved the Law, but he also understood that the underlying motivation of the Law was not to hold people down to picayune details.  It was to set them free in love to love.  The bottom line of the Law was love, and Jesus acted on that love in every aspect of his life and ministry.  It got him into loads of trouble.  But what really angered and shocked so many people was not that he acted in love toward others.   Nor was it that he put compassion for the person over and above the rules of the Law.  People were angered by the different “who’s” Jesus loved.  Showing compassion and love to the good, upright Jews was fine.  But Jesus showed compassion not only to good Jews, but to disreputable Jews and non-Jews.  He showed compassion to the outcasts.  He loved the sinners.  He ate with the tax collectors and the lowly.  He healed the lepers and reached out to the foreigners and generally loved the most unlovable people of that time.  Jesus showed them through his words and his deeds that he was God’s love living on earth, and that God’s love was a gift for all people, not just one particular group.

            But if you were part of that particular chosen group, the ones for whom Jesus came; this supposed gift of God in Jesus must have challenged every belief and idea and preconceived notion you had about God, the coming Messiah and yourself.  It challenges us, doesn’t it?  It probably doesn’t offend many of us today to realize that God loves the outcasts of our society, the homeless, the poor, the sick and the lonely.  We do our best to love them too.  But I know that I run into people every day who I find exceptionally hard to love.  Truth be told, I really don’t want to love them.  In fact, I often rebel against it.

            I heard a story once about Martin Luther.  I don’t know if its legend or fact, but supposedly when Luther was faced with someone he really disliked, he used to pray saying, “God, I know I’m supposed to love all people, but if you want me to love this person, you’re going to have to turn my heart, because I can’t do it myself.”

            I could probably make a list of people and groups for whom I need to pray this prayer.  And as I’ve said before, I can well imagine there are many people who are praying this in reference to me. 

            But it is this foreigner, the Samaritan, the social outcast who receives the full blessing from Jesus that day.  Preacher and scholar Fred Craddock writes that this “story anticipates what is yet to come in Acts: a growing blindness in Israel, a receptivity among Gentiles.  Why was this the case?  Israel’s special place in God’s plan for the world had turned in upon itself, duty had become privilege, and frequent favors had settled into blinding familiarity.”

            Isn’t it the foreigner among us, the stranger, who has the power to make what was familiar and routine new again?  Maybe it is those strangers, those people I find so hard to love who can make me notice the blessings of God that I take for granted.  Maybe it is the stranger, the one who disturbs my complacency and disrupts my comfort, who can make me see the ways God continues to actively work in my life.  Maybe it is the stranger I struggle so to love who will be the one to vividly remind me that my cursory “thanks God” if and when I remember is not enough.  In this passage Jesus heals ten lepers and saves one.  And that one, that stranger, was so grateful for his healing that he prostrated himself before Jesus giving thanks and praise in a loud voice.

            Maybe we in the mainstream, the regular attendees, the ones on the inside of the church walls, the ones who sometimes glibly declare our faith, need to spend some time bent low before the Lord – like this stranger did.  Maybe we need to spend more time just praising God.  In last week’s sermon, I talked about the idea that discipleship is doing what is necessary and right without need for a reward.  But that doesn’t mean that we don’t have a great need to praise God, to give thanks, to show our gratitude for the blessings we know are in abundance.  Maybe we need to take a lesson from this outcast, leprous Samaritan and offer our thanks to God in a loud voice, recognizing with our whole hearts and minds that we have been healed – and saved.  Let us be like that leper, that Samaritan and praise God.  Let all God’s children say in a loud voice, “Praise God!”  “Alleluia!”  “Amen.”

The Story of Peace

Micah 4:1-3

October 11, 2013/Indian Nations Presbytery Meeting

            I did one tour of duty in summer camp when I was a kid. While most of my experience at camp was okay – I made some friends and found out I had a talent for beating boys at tetherball – it was the end of the week that made me realize summer camp was not for me.  At the end of the week the whole camp went on a camping trip.  It was supposedly the exclamation point at the end of our week.  We left the safety of our cabins and the camp grounds and went to a remote spot deep in the woods.  There we set up tents and unrolled sleeping bags.  We gathered firewood and added it to the growing flames of the campfire.  We roasted hot dogs and marshmallows. 

When darkness fell, we huddled together to hear ghost stories.  Most weren’t so scary, but then one of our counselors leaned in and began to speak in a fearful whisper.  Something happened to him at the beginning of that summer.  It happened in the very spot where we were camping.  He decided to go camping by himself.  Everything went fine until it got dark.  He went into his tent and fell asleep almost instantly.  But an hour or two later he was startled awake by a strange noise outside the tent.  Something was out there.  It growled an unnatural growl.  The shadow that circled his tent was unlike any animal that might have lived in those Tennessee woods.  Finally it stopped its pacing.  He prayed that whatever it was had crept back into the night, but then the silence was shattered with a blood-curdling scream and the creature ripped through the back wall of the tent, missing his head by mere inches.  The last thing he saw before he ran were five long, sharp, pointed claws reaching for him. 

Feeling the heat of the beast’s breath at his heels, he fled to his truck, locked himself inside, crouched low on the seat, and waited in terror while the creature rammed and clawed and scraped against the truck, trying to reach him.  When the first light of morning appeared in the east, whatever it was disappeared as quickly as it appeared.  Cautiously my counselor climbed out of his truck.  There were no tracks, no sign that this horrible creature had been there at all, except for one long, sharp, pointed claw driven deep into the truck’s door. 

No one sitting around that fire dared to breathe.  The only sound was the rapid thumping of our hearts against the walls of our chests.  Until the counselor whipped out what and enormous claw, screaming, ‘This is it!”  After the screaming stopped, it was time for bed.   While the other kids went to their tents laughing at this great story, and drifted peacefully to sleep with the sounds of the woods as a lullaby, I spent the night like this…body stiff, eyes wide open with fear.

My childhood was rich in stories, and thankfully most of them weren’t scary ones.  My earliest memories are of me sitting on my dad’s lap in a rocking chair, while he read to me.  Bedtime without a bedtime story was not an option.  Stories were told around the dinner table, and in the living room and on car trips.  My grandmother was a born storyteller.  From her I learned the stories of our family.  But some of the best stories were the ones I heard in Sunday school.  David and Goliath.  Jonah and the Whale.  Saul seeking out the witch to summon the ghost of Samuel.  That’s a ghost story! Jesus healing blind Bartimaeus.  Zacchaeus, too short to see above the crowd, so he climbed a sycamore tree so he could catch a glimpse of Jesus. 

I loved, love, all of these stories.  Isn’t that what the Bible is?  Story.  When I call scripture story, I don’t mean to imply that it’s fiction.  But it is the story of God.  It is the story of God and God’s people.  It is the story of God creating and acting in the world.  It is the story of loving his children, despairing of his children, teaching them, punishing them, forgiving them, loving them, becoming one of them because God loved them so much.  It is the story of God working through some pretty imperfect folks, some of whom did despicable things, in order for God’s purposes to continue.  It is a story that pulls us in, speaks to us, has meaning for us and gives us meaning, because we can see ourselves in these stories.  These stories aren’t just about people who lived a long, long time ago.  They are about us.  That’s why they comfort and disturb us, unsettle and console us.  The Bible, the story of God, is also our story.  Even those texts that don’t read like story still work to make up the larger narrative. 

We come to one of those texts in the prophet Micah.  Although some of my favorite verses in scripture come from this prophet, Micah does not bring words of sweetness and light to God’s people.  He pronounces judgment on Samaria, on Judah.  He calls for social justice and warns those who oppress and exploit.  He denounces rulers and prophets alike, who survive at the expense of the people they serve.  But in the midst of these words of decay and despair and destruction, we have these words of hope, “In days to come the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains, and shall be raised up above the hills.  Peoples shall stream to it, and many nations shall come and say: ‘Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob; that he may teach us his ways and that we may walk in his paths.’”

Even as he prophesies warning, Micah also tells the people that the story of God goes on.  The story of God does not end here.  The story of God does not end in destruction.  There are days to come when people of every nation will stream to God’s mountain and beckon one another to come and listen and learn.  They will be taught God’s ways.  The word of the Lord will echo outward from Jerusalem.  They will study peace, not war.  And the sounds they will hear will not be of swords and spears clashing in battle, but of metal against metal, swords being beaten into plowshares and spears into pruning hooks. 
         As we leave the season set aside by our denomination as peacemaking, Micah’s words remind us that the study of peace cannot and should not be confined to a season.  One glance through the day’s news is enough to know that peacemaking is not an option but a necessity.  God’s story, what we read in Micah and in every book and every chapter and in every verse, is a story of peace and justice and love, and we are a part of its telling.  God’s story is our story.  So right now, let us begin to make our way to God’s mountain. 

Right now, let us beat swords into plowshares and spears into pruning hooks,

swords into plowshares, spears into pruning hooks,

swords into plowshares, spears into pruning hooks. 

And may none of us, not our children nor their children nor their children learn war anymore.  Let all God’s children say, “Amen.”

Just Faith

Luke 17:5-10

October 6, 2013/World Communion Sunday

The musical Wicked which ended its run in Oklahoma City just a couple of weeks ago is based on a book by Gregory Maguire.  It tells the other side of the story, the Wicked Witch of the West’s side of the story.  The witch isn’t wicked like we’ve all been led to believe, and the so-called good people like Glinda and the Wizard aren’t so good either.  The musical version does what the best of musicals do.  It puts the sentiments of the story into music.  While some of the songs like Popular and Defying Gravity are better known, one of my favorites is the song Wonderful sung by the Wizard himself.  He’s trying to explain to Elphaba – that’s the witch’s real name – how he, a humble man, ended up in such a position of power and influence.

            "Wonderful, they called me "Wonderful"

So I said "Wonderful" - if you insist
I will be "Wonderful" And they said "Wonderful"
Believe me, it's hard to resist
'Cause it feels wonderful
They think I'm wonderful
Hey, look who's wonderful -
This corn-fed hick
Who said: "It might be keen to build a town of green
And a wonderful road of yellow brick!"

            This corn-fed hick, as he describes himself, had never been wonderful before, so it feels wonderful when the people of Oz hail him as a hero, a magician, a wizard.  He takes them at their word.  They think he’s wonderful, so by goodness, he’s wonderful.

            Probably all of us would like to be considered wonderful every once in a while wouldn’t we?  The actress Sally Field has been the butt of many jokes over the years because of her acceptance speech the night she won the Oscar for best actress.  “You like me!  You really like me!”  But don’t we all want to be liked, and even more than that, don’t we all want to be recognized for our accomplishments, for our hard work, for even the daily efforts that we make?

            I know I do.  I can’t lie to you, when I get compliments on a sermon or someone thanks me for some pastoral duty that I’ve done, it makes my day.  I can sympathize with the wizard.  When you’re told you’re wonderful, you want to believe it.  It can go to your head.  It’s intoxicating.  It’s wonderful.  It’s wonderful to be acknowledged, to be appreciated, to receive thanks after a hard day’s work. 

            And yet this is exactly opposite of what we hear from Jesus in today’s passage from Luke.  This is an uncomfortable story.  First of all we encounter the word “slave.”  Human history is overflowing with evils that we’ve perpetrated against one another – and I think slavery is among them.  I know slavery has been a terrible reality for thousands and thousands of years; and as so many of us in Oklahoma understand, human trafficking is alive and well today.  But that doesn’t’ make me any less adamant in my belief that slavery is a brutal, violent evil.  Yet in this passage Jesus speaks of slavery with seemingly no hesitation.  Even if we translate the Greek word doulos as servant, which is its other meaning, these words of Jesus still rub me the wrong way.  Shouldn’t a servant be thanked for a job well done?

            We can’t look at this particular passage without looking at the context of passages it is situated in.  This chapter is made up of lessons from Jesus to his disciples.  Jesus has gone from addressing the Pharisees at the end of chapter16 to speaking directly to his disciples at the beginning of this chapter.  His first lesson to them is that times of stumbling are going to come, but “woe to anyone by whom they come.”  It was as true then, as it is today, that there are always “little ones”, people new to the faith or struggling to follow Jesus.  In those early days of faith or conversion, it can be especially easy to fall from the path.  And this means that other more seasoned disciples have to be aware of the kinds of examples they set for these people who are still so young in their faith.  They bear a tremendous responsibility on their shoulders for the well-being of these faithful but inexperienced “little ones.” 

            Jesus tells the disciples that they must hold each other accountable for their sins.  If one of them sins, that person must be reprimanded for it.  However if that person repents and asks for forgiveness, forgiveness must be given!  Even if that person sins against you seven times, then turns back and repents seven times.  You still must forgive.

            It is the disciples’ response to these first lessons that begins our particular part of the story.  The disciples cry to Jesus, “Increase our faith!”  In other words this discipleship calling is tough, so tough we may need some extra large faith in order to handle all of it.  We need more faith to handle the responsibilities.  Otherwise we don’t stand a chance.

            But Jesus replies, “If you had faith as large as a mustard seed – and the word for “if” used here in the Greek implies that the disciples already have enough faith – then you could tell that big tree over there to pull up its roots and jump into the sea.  If you have faith that’s as small as that tiny mustard seed, and you do, trust me you do, then you can use that seemingly small faith to do great things.  Even with a small faith, you can still do big and wonderful things.

            Had Jesus stopped here, this would have still been a challenging passage, but that challenge might have felt more manageable.  But Jesus doesn’t stop here.  He goes on to tell them about a master and slave.  When the slave does what’s expected of him, he doesn’t get praise or thanks.  The slave is just doing what he’s supposed to do.  The slave is just doing what’s required of him on any particular day.  He’s just doing his duty.

            Now the interesting twist that Jesus gives to this story is that Jesus moves from the idea of the disciples and their slaves, to the disciples being slaves of God.  This makes God the slave master, adding to the discomfort we may feel reading this passage.  But whether we choose “slave” or “servant,” it still doesn’t seem right that the servant receives no thanks, no praise, no reward for the hard day’s work he’s just put in.  Everyone deserves some recognition.  We all want to be called wonderful at least once.  We all want to be thanked for what we do.

            But the point that Jesus is trying to make to his disciples is that being a disciple is not about receiving thanks.  In fact if you get in it for the thanks, for recognition and reward, then you’re in it for the wrong reasons and you’re going to have problems.  Being a disciple means being an example for others and assuming responsibility for their welfare and well being.  Being a disciple means holding each other accountable and being willing to forgive.  And being a disciple means doing our duty.  It means being a servant that is always serving without expecting a reward or praise or thanks.  Being a disciple means coming before God with humility, knowing that no matter what we do we’re never truly worthy.

            There’s no denying it, this is not an easy passage.  It seems to contradict other passages where Jesus does tell his disciples about the reward they’ll receive someday.  It seems to go against the stories when Jesus rewards the faithful steward and promises a healthy bonus for the servants who invest their talents wisely.  So frustrating and hard to swallow is this parable that one of the early church fathers, Saint Augustine, found it hard to believe these words were actually spoken by Jesus.

            As tough as this passage is, it reminds us of one of the most fundamental and basic tenets of our faith; we can never earn way into God’s kingdom or God’s favor.  Salvation is not ours because of merit or worthiness on our part; salvation comes through God’s grace alone.

            William Willimon, a preacher, teacher and at one time a Bishop in the United Methodist denomination, wrote about the night of his ordination.  He said the Holy Spirit got hold of him that night.  It took hold of him not when the choir sang, not during the preaching, not even in the presence of friends and family.  The Holy Spirit grabbed him that night when another Bishop laid his hands on him and quoted the ancient words, “never forget that the sheep committed to your charge are the ones for whom he gave his life.”  Up until that moment, Willimon was wondering if the Bishop would recognize his superior training.  He wondered if the laity would respond to his progressive and social attitudes.  Instead he heard, “the ones whom you serve are the ones for whom the Master died.”

            Did Willimon feel worthy of that calling?  No.  Do any of us?  Probably not.  But just as this parable teaches about God’s grace, it also teaches us something pretty fundamental about discipleship.  Maybe the true reward comes not in words of thanks or praise but in our day to day living as disciples.  Maybe we find our reward when we recognize that having faith, just faith, is more important than recognition.  Maybe the reward can be found in doing our duty, in always serving others, in doing what we believe to be right and true just because we should, not because of what we think we’ll get.  Maybe the reward comes when we recognize beyond any doubt that we are humble, unworthy servants and yet we keep on serving.

            Every day, around the globe, our brothers and sisters in Christ serve because that is what they are supposed to do.  And many of them serve in circumstances and situations we cannot even begin to imagine.  They are persecuted, discriminated against, forced to keep their faith underground, and yet they still serve, not expecting reward or thanks, just serving. 

            I think what Jesus wanted the disciples to understand is that the reward for discipleship comes in the doing of discipleship.  That doing may be overwhelming at times.  We may feel we need extraordinary doses of faith in order to serve.  But Jesus assures the disciples and us that we already have enough faith to do all that needs to be done.  Even faith as small as that infinitesimally tiny mustard seed is enough to move mountains.  Discipleship requires faith, just faith, even if that faith is shaky at times.  It just requires faith enough to keep walking behind the One who came into this world to love it and us.  Let all God’s children say, “Amen.”