Going All In

Mark 12:38-44

November 8, 2015

            Money talks. That sounds like an overused cliché doesn’t it? Yet cliché’s are based in truths, and I think this is a prime example. Money talks. It talks in business, politics, sports, academics, everyday life, and in matters religious. The implication of these two words is that the more money you have, the louder it speaks.

            I became fully aware of money’s power to talk when I was a new pastor and attending presbytery meetings on a regular basis. We are a denomination of great love and compassion. We are also a denomination of great conflict and controversy. Nowhere are those dynamics reflected more clearly than when we gather together in large groups. As I said, I first started noticing how money talks at presbytery meetings. As our denomination would wrestle and debate over some particularly difficult and controversial topic, churches who felt that we were heading the wrong way would show its disapproval through its pledge to the presbytery. A church would withhold its pledged money as a way of stating clearly and succinctly that it did not agree with whatever was happening or not happening.

            I have no statistics whatsoever to back up my next statement. This is only a pattern that I have observed over the years. Yet I have noticed that large churches that contributed large sums to the presbytery, and ultimately the denomination, seemed to be the churches that most often withheld financial pledges because of theological disagreements with the larger body. While every church, large or small, does matter to a presbytery and the denomination’s well-being, at the presbytery level when a large church withholds pledging, it is felt. Why? Because money talks. Lots of money talks loudly.

            I do not dispute an individual or a congregation’s right to not financially support something with which they radically disagree. There are lots of things I do not want my money to support. Beyond the church walls, I think it is vital to be mindful of not only how I spend my money, but where I spend my money. Thinking globally and buying locally is another phrase that may seem overused, but it is also of utmost importance. Boycotts and divestments are all used to express people’s desire to stop supporting practices or policies that are believed to be wrong or unjust. Money does indeed talk. We may agree or disagree with how much or how little money contributes to a conversation, but it talks.

            So how does money talk in our story from Mark’s gospel? This is perhaps a story we think we know quite well. It is one that is used intentionally at this time in the church year when stewardship campaigns are in full swing. It seems to emphasize the importance of giving our financial all to our church – no matter how large or small a sum that equates to.

            This widow who gives all she has to the temple treasury is lifted up as a shining example of “the cheerful giver.” As Jesus said, “Truly, I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.”

            It would be so easy, and make for a much shorter sermon, if I just said, “See, we all just need to be like this poor widow. We need to give our all, and all shall be well.” Alas, I cannot do that. What I can do is paraphrase theologian David Lose and say that there are two ways we can hear Jesus’ words. We can hear them as commendation or lament. Is Jesus commending the widow? Or is he lamenting her great sacrifice? There are indications from the larger context of this passage that it is the latter. Looking at the timeline of Jesus’ life shows that if Jesus was sitting opposite the treasury of the temple, that means that he was in Jerusalem. He had made his triumphal entry into the city. In the timeline of our church year, this story happens during Holy Week. Jesus is most definitely headed for the cross. In Mark’s telling, Jesus had barely crossed the city limits when cleansed the temple of the merchants and money changers who made his Father’s house a market place. Immediately following this story is Jesus’ prophecy of the temple’s destruction, so it would seem odd that he would lift up a poor widow giving her all to the temple as a model of stewardship.

            In the first verses we read today, Jesus condemned scribes who put greater emphasis on appearances and status then they did on faithfulness. These scribes may be greeted with groveling respect and get the best seats at the table, but “they devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.”

             If Jesus warned against being like those scribes and denounced them for exploitation of the weak and the vulnerable, also known as widows, then why would he laud the widow’s great sacrifice in the very next breath? Cause and effect suggests that what she did was the end result of that exploitation. She shouldn’t have had to put into the treasury all that she had; her whole life. This is not to say that the wealthier people who put in greater amounts were stingy. But I suspect that they felt their giving less. The widow in giving all that she had, probably felt the consequences of her generosity a great deal more. To use yet another cliché, she gave until it hurt.

            But here’s the thing, no matter how we want to interpret the actions of this widow, it seems to me that our interpretations do not grasp the complexity of this story or this woman. We leave her as little more than a two-dimensional character. She was there only to be used as an example, an illustration, by Jesus and by us. But whoever she was, she was much more than that. I do not doubt that she was exploited by the larger systems in play around her. This is not a critique of ancient Judaism. In that society, and quite frankly in most societies, she would have been one of the weakest, most vulnerable of persons. In any patriarchal culture, a woman with no man in her life has no protection. Marriage, family, kept you safe. Is it really that much different today?

            The thing is, I think this widow knew that. I think she was well aware of where she stood in her culture and what that culture was capable of doing to her. I don’t think she gave blindly. She gave because she had to, certainly. There was a temple tax. But I do not think she was unaware of how her giving affected her and how it contributed to a greater injustice that worked against her.

            She gave her whole life. I wonder if she did this not because she had to but because what else could she do? She was driven by her need. Not giving was not an option, so she went all in with everything she had, everything she was. What did she have to lose? I think, I believe, she gave out of her need. I’m not saying this to taint her actions. In fact, I think it shows how faithful she truly was. Going all in with all of her money, with her whole life may have been driven by her great need, but it also required an even greater trust. Did she go all in with her money, her life because she trusted her leaders? Or did she go all in because she trusted God? She went all in, giving her whole life, because she trusted that she was in greater hands than those who sought to exploit her. She went all in because she had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

            I know I’ve used the movie, Leap of Faith, in sermons before, but there is a scene in the movie that astonishes me every time I watch it. Steve Martin plays a traveling evangelist, aka con-artist. Debra Winger is his steadfast partner in crime. One of their busses breaks down outside of a small, broke, drought-stricken Kansas town. Martin’s character decides to set up shop anyway based on his thinking that the town may not be able to afford him, but they really need him. Liam Neeson plays the skeptical sheriff who tries to do everything he can to stop them from taking advantage of and exploiting the desperate people in his town. At one of the revival meetings, he tries to dissuade the people from giving to this “ministry,” by exposing Martin’s character for the fraud he is. He looks at one woman and says, “The bank is about to foreclose on your farm. You and your husband haven’t worked in months. How much of your hard earned money did you put into that bucket? $20?” The woman looks right back at him and says defiantly, “I put in $40. I need all the help I can get.”

            I need all the help I can get. We can look at this woman in the movie or at the widow in this story and cry foolishness. Why would they give to a system that they know is exploiting them, taking advantage of them? Why would they give anything at all much less go all in with everything that they have, with their whole life?

            Maybe because when you have nothing, you have nothing to lose. Maybe because when you are in desperate need, going all in with your money, your time, your whole life is all you can do. Or maybe you go all in because you trust God more. This widow who gave her whole life is an example, but not of a cheerful giver or of someone exploited by an unjust system. She is an example of someone who trusted God more. She went all in with everything she had, not knowing what would happen to her, but trusting, somehow, that God did.

            We are called to go all in – with our money, our time, our resources – because we trust God more. It sounds easy. Yet it is so hard to do. But still we are called. Over and over, we are called to go all in without expectation or knowing the outcome. We are called to go all in, giving up control over what might happen. We are called to go all in because we trust God more. And here is the good news. God has gone and is going and will go all in for us. Think about that. Let those words sink in. God has gone. God is going. God will go all in for us. Let us go all in for this God who goes all in for us. Let us trust God more than our fears of what we’re giving up. Let us trust God more. Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!” Amen.

A Lavish Feast -- All Saint's Day

Isaiah 25:6-9

November 1, 2015

            What foods do you think of when you hear the word feast? If a feast were to be served in your honor, what gourmet goodies would you want to see on the table? What dishes of delight would you want to chow down upon? I’ve been fortunate – extremely fortunate – to partake in some pretty amazing and delectable meals over the course of my life. If I haven’t told you about the chicken and waffles I had over Mother’s Day, see me after the service is over. But when it comes to what I think of as a feast, I think of Christmas Eve in my house growing up. I think of my dad’s Swedish meatballs.

            As far as we know, without having a DNA test done, my dad is all German. Both his mother and father were of long German lineage, so my dad is about as German as we can imagine. But for some reason, for as long as I can remember, he became the Swedish meatball maker extraordinaire. My dad isn’t really a cook. My mom was and is the cook of the family. But dad’s Swedish meatballs set the standard that the rest of us have to live up to. I’m still striving to reach his high bar.

            He would make them the day before Christmas Eve. Any dog we had in the family stayed close by his side, taunted and tortured by the smell of all that heavenly meat. Dad keeps track of how many he makes; I’m not sure if he’s gone over the 200 meatball mark, but I know he’s come close.  My sister-in-law, Mary Jo, is allergic to onions. When she joined the family, dad started making a special batch just for her.

            We always had tons of wonderful food at our Christmas Eve table: spiraled ham, baked rice pudding, assorted rolls and vegetables. If family came from Minnesota, we would have Swedish sausage as well. Dessert would be an assortment of all the Christmas cookies my mother had been baking for weeks and peppermint stick ice cream. But for me, Dad’s Swedish meatballs were the highlight of our family’s lavish feast.

            Isaiah does not mention meatballs as being on the menu of the feast the Lord will give his people. We do read of rich food and well-aged wines. We read of the feast being served on this mountain. While the word holy is not used in conjunction with mountain, it is not hard to imagine that any mountain the Lord resides on is a holy one. Isaiah goes on to say that while the people swallow their food, the Lord will also do some swallowing. Instead of food, the Lord will swallow up death forever. The shroud – that death sheet – that has been cast over the people will be destroyed by the Lord on this mountain. The sheet – that woven cloth – which has been spread over all the nations will also be destroyed. The people will consume food. But the Lord will consume death. The Lord will wipe away the tears from all faces. The Lord God will take away the disgrace of his people from all the earth. At this feast, on this mountain, the sorrow of the people – their tears, their grief, their disgrace will be wiped away. Death will be done, swallowed up, by the Lord.

            The imagery of this passage is magnificent. It is poetry at its most powerful. It is not just describing a lavish feast. It is describing an eschatological hope. Feast imagery is used in other passages in both testaments. But certainly in the Old Testament, stories of feasts are used to illustrate the ways the wealthy and powerful live by the exploitation of the poor and vulnerable. While the rich feast, the poor starve. While the powerful sit down to sumptuous spreads, the vulnerable beg in the streets. But this feast is not thrown by a wealthy tyrant. This feast will be given by God himself. This feast will not be held in honor of the A list. There will be no guest list at this feast. Instead all peoples will be invited. In three verses, the word all is used five times.

            “The Lord of hosts will make for all peoples…”

            “And he will destroy in this mountain the shroud that is cast over all peoples, the sheet that is spread over all nations;”

            The Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces, and the disgrace of his people he will take away from all the earth.”

            The Lord God will give a lavish feast for all people, not only for the nourishment of bodies, but for the sustenance of their souls. All that has pinned people, weighted them down, mired them in the sorrows of the world will be removed. They will no longer be covered in shrouds or sheets. They will no longer be consumed by the defeat of death. The Lord will swallow death.

            This is a beautiful passage for the day when we celebrate all the saints – those that are public and those that are personal. I’m assuming the creators of the lectionary agree with me, which is why they chose these words of Isaiah for this day. On a day set aside for us to intentionally remember the saints who have gone before us, it is beyond comforting to hear of God destroying that which breaks our hearts. It is beyond comforting to know that God will  swallow up death itself, and in the end wipe every tear from our eyes.

            But what I find so profound in these words and images is that all this done at the table. All this takes place at a lavish feast given by the Lord for all people. You see today is not only the day when we remember those saints who have gone before us. A saint, by the way, is not just a perfect person or someone canonized by the Roman church. A saint is a believer. A saint is someone of faith. Not perfect, just faithful. On this day, this All Saint’s Day, we lift up the believers who have meant something to us; who have influenced us, guided us and taught us. And we do this by gathering around this table; this table which connects us to God, to one another, and to the saints living and departed.

            To me gathering at the table is a way of stepping outside of time and space. There are two understandings of time. One, which is more western, is linear. Time has a beginning, a middle and an end. The other, which is more eastern, is circular. Time moves in a circle. Each stage of time is never far from any other stage. We have some of this in our more western thinking don’t we? The seasons are circular. Perhaps even the gaining and losing of hours through daylight and standard time is circular.

            But to me when we come to this table, linear time or circular -- our different understandings of time fall away. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that at this table, we remember what Jesus said and did. We lift up the same elements of life that he lifted – bread and wine. At this table we catch a glimpse of what God will do in his lavish feast for all. At this table we not only remember the saints but we sit at table with them. This is not a ghost story. It is a recognition that the God we worship does not exist in limited time, but beyond time. It is a recognition that we remain connected to those who have gone before, even those we have never met, who lived on this earth long before we did. At this table time falls away, and we partake of God’s lavish feast with all the saints.

            I read a story once of a young pianist who was gifted in his art, but struggling with his continued mastery of the instrument. His teacher, who recognized his frustration, leaned over and gave him a kiss on the head. He told his student that this was Beethoven’s kiss. When the teacher was a young and frustrated student, his teacher had given him the same kiss. And that teacher’s teacher had done the same thing. And that kiss had come from Beethoven. It was a kiss that was passed down from one generation to the next. That kiss helped each student work through the struggles they were having. That kiss inspired them, influenced them, pushed them forward.

            Maybe the story isn’t true. Maybe Beethoven never passed on a kiss like that. But when I look at this table, when I gather with you and all the saints at this table, I can hear my grandmother’s voice and my friend’s booming laugh. When I gather at this table, I can hear Jesus’ words about remembering him and I do. When I come to this table, I can anticipate the rich food and the aged wines that the Lord is setting before us. When I come to this table, I can actually taste and see that the Lord is good. When I come to this table, I can feel God’s touch on my shoulder, hold hands with the saints, and give joyful thanks for this lavish feast.

            Let all God’s saints say, “Alleluia!” Amen.

What Is the Church?

This is my Minister's Corner article from last Saturday's Shawnee News Star, October 24, 2015

“Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me. I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit because apart from me you can do nothing.”

                                     John 15:4-5, the Holy Bible, New Revised Standard Version, ©1989.

            What is the Church? I’ve been pondering this question of late. I can offer a scripture-based answer. The Church is the body of Christ in the world. The Church gives feet to the love of God in Jesus. However, others have proposed that my question can also be answered in more secular terms; the Church is a gathering of like-minded individuals; a voluntary association that can be joined – or left.

            It’s not difficult to claim that the first answer is the correct one. I suspect that most folks reading this article, regardless of denomination, would agree that the Church is meant to proclaim the gospel of good news, and do the work of Jesus in the world. That is the answer. That is what scripture tells us. So bam, there ya go. There is no problem here. There is no question to ponder. The Church is Christ’s body in the world. Wrap up your article, Amy, and let’s move on.

            Yet I cannot seem to move on. It isn’t that I don’t agree with the scriptural answer to my question. I do, wholeheartedly. But my question about the Church’s identity remains. Why? Why do I have this feeling of dis-ease when it comes to this question? I suspect that it is because many church-going folks (I’m at the front of this line) proclaim the first answer but we live the second one.

            The Church is a gathering of like-minded individuals; a voluntary association that can be joined and un-joined. Why are we members of the churches we attend? Why are we affiliated with one denomination versus another? What keeps us going to our churches? What makes us leave? I’m sure the answers are many and varied. I’m a (fill-in-the-blank with your chosen denomination) because this is the church I grew up in. I used to be one denomination but when I moved, I couldn’t find a church in my own denomination that I liked, so I joined this one. I grew up in one church, but when I got married, I joined my spouse’s church. I’d like to go to that other church down the street, but they don’t have any programs for kids, so I attend this other church instead. I’m a member at this church because I like the preaching, music, people, etc. I’m not a member at that church because I don’t like the preaching, music, people, etc.

            I could probably go on and on with the list of reasons for church membership, but I think you get my point. Some of you may be saying, “Amy, your examples are about different denominations, church in the lowercase. But your question is about the Church with a capital C. Sure, our denominations are different, but we are all members of the Church.” Yet, whether it is the Church or the church, our words say one thing and our behavior says another. Are we joiners of a church, a gathering of like-minded individuals? Or are we the Church?

            Is a church something we join or is it something that we are? That is the heart of the question I have been asking. Yet, I think that I’m going the wrong way regardless of the direction I choose. Because implied in both answers is the mindset that all of it is in our hands. We are the church. We are the Church.  It is what we do, what we say, what we control. But Jesus told his disciples, “apart from me, you can do nothing.” Apart from me – that is the ultimate answer. The Church and the church are not about us. They are about God in Christ, the revelation of the Holy Spirit, the Good News. We do not make the Church. We are made the Church. It is not about us. It is about God. It is about the Vine. Yes, we are the branches. As branches trying to be faithful, we stretch our tendrils outward into a world that is longing for life. But the branches do not grow apart from the Vine. Apart from Jesus we can do nothing. We do not make the church or the Church, God does. We are called to follow. Thanks be to God.

Kingdom Work -- World Communion Sunday

Mark 10:13-16

October 4, 2015

            Imagine two pictures depicting these words from Mark’s gospel. The first portrays children –angelic, adoring children – gathered around Jesus. Perhaps Jesus is sitting, so there’s at least one chubby toddler in his lap, or he is holding a baby while laying his hands on another child’s head. The children gaze up at Jesus in wonder and love, and Jesus gazes at them with a beatific smile and eyes full of love.

            Second picture: sweet, precious children gathered around Jesus. One child is gazing adoringly at Jesus. The child sitting next to the adoring child is pinching the adoring child. The baby Jesus is holding is screaming because she’s hungry and tired. A toddler in the group keeps trying to escape only to be brought back by a mother with dark circles of exhaustion under her eyes. Two little kids sitting a ways off are whispering and giggling. They don’t seem to notice the fact that their father’s eyes are boring holes into them, or his “stop it now or you are going to be in so much trouble when we get home” look. And let’s not forget the child who is interrupting Jesus with questions and comments, or the other child who continues to pull her robe over her head so her best friend can see her belly button.

            I love the hopefulness of first picture. I’m sure I saw many a version of this picture in my Sunday school classes and in children’s bibles when I was growing up. If you google this text, you can discover many illustrations by a variety of artists. Some are more realistic and engaging than others. The best of these also show the disciples standing nearby looking stern and bewildered at their teacher having to deal with the tedious chore of blessing babies.  But all of them seem to show a scene that is closer to the first one I described than the second. They portray children who are pretty close to being perfect looking lovingly at Jesus.

            I’m not trying to poke too much fun at the first image. I can well imagine that the children who were brought to Jesus probably did look at him with such love and wonder. I have witnessed the effect that a person filled with compassion and love and gentleness can have on little ones – and on bigger ones as well. I have no trouble believing that the children brought to Jesus responded to his tender and gentle manner and soul. But I also wonder if our interpretation of this story – at least how that interpretation has been reflected in art – has become a hindrance to our understanding of this story and its deeper meaning.

            Hindrance is the crucial word. The passage starts off simply enough. People were bringing their children to Jesus for blessing. But the disciples “spoke sternly” to the people doing this. I think this is a watered down translation of the Greek. The disciples were hindering the people from bringing their children to Jesus. To hinder is to impede or delay or hold back. When Jesus saw this, he was angry. Although he does not rebuke the disciples as he has in other passages, he tells them with great emphasis, “Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.”

            Just reading this exchange on its own, without knowledge of its context, is enough to make me join Jesus in his indignation with the disciples. But we are privy to what has been happening and what Jesus has been trying to teach the disciples “on the way.” Therefore, our indignation should be even greater.

            If Jesus were a parent, I could imagine him responding with a phrase I’ve heard and said many, many times, “What. Did. I. Just. Tell. You?” Approximately 25 verses earlier, Jesus deflated the disciples’ argument about who among them was the greatest by taking a child into his arms. Whoever welcomes that child, he told them, welcomes him. When the disciples were peeved about the unknown disciple exorcising demons in Jesus’ name, Jesus reminded them that whoever was not against them was for them. He also warned the disciples in dramatically harsh language that whoever put a stumbling block in the path of someone who believed in Jesus would be better off being hurled into the sea with a millstone around his neck.

            Yet once again, the disciples don’t get it. They tried to hinder the people bringing babies for blessing. Jesus was indeed indignant. “What did I just tell you? These are the stumbling blocks I warned you about. These are the children I told you to welcome. These are the last that will be made first. These are the ones to be served instead of the other way around. Don’t hinder them.”

            Then Jesus finished his reprimand of the disciples with the words that are probably this story’s best known and remembered. “Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.”

            There are two ways of translating and interpreting the Greek in this statement. The first is that if you want to enter the kingdom of God, you must become like a little child. This is the interpretation I have heard most often. The second possible translation is, if you want to enter the kingdom of God, you must welcome a little child. The second translation certainly fits with Jesus’ earlier teaching that welcoming a child was welcoming him.

            It seems to me that both interpretations hold truth. As one commentator pointed out, the first interpretation leads to a great deal of sentimentality. If you want to enter God’s kingdom you have to be sweet and trusting, childlike in your faith, believing simply, without question. Have you ever spent time with a two-year-old who has learned the word, “no?” Or a four-year-old who asks why? All day long. Just being a child does not mean that you believe simply without question.

            Do not misunderstand me. I love children. I love working with children and playing with children. But the first interpretation sets a standard for entering the kingdom that most of us can’t ever reach. It is unfair to us and to children. Children are not born perfect then become flawed as they grow older. Children are born real, and become more so. We were all born real, with real personalities and real temperaments and real strengths and real flaws. A childlike faith is not simplistic. A childlike faith, to paraphrase Frederick Buechner, is a faith that is open to all possibilities.  Maybe that puts this first interpretation in a vastly different light. To receive the kingdom of God, we must be open to all the possibilities of what the kingdom is and how the kingdom looks.

            The second interpretation is equally important. In order to receive the kingdom, we have to be willing to welcome children. Remember that argument the disciples had about who was the greatest? Wasn’t it also about who carried the most status? Children were loved and cared for, but they did not have status. Isn’t it tempting, in any situation, to roll out the red carpet for those with status and prestige and push the status-impaired off to the side? Jesus turns that reality, the one that seems ingrained in our human nature, on its head. If you want to receive the kingdom, then you have to welcome those without status. You have to welcome those who can do nothing for you in return. You have to welcome those who are vulnerable.

Those who are vulnerable; I think that is the common denominator in both of these interpretations. Children are the most vulnerable in any society, at anytime, anywhere. Children are vulnerable, helpless, dependent. If we were all born children that means that every single one of us was born helpless. We were all born dependent. We were all born vulnerable. None of us would be here now if someone had not taken care of us when we were small. This is true for every person, and for a majority of species. The young are vulnerable.

So if we are to enter and receive the kingdom of God like a child, it seems to me that our faith does not have to be simplistic or lacking dialogue and questioning. If we are to be childlike in our faith, we have to acknowledge that we are vulnerable. We are dependent. No matter how old we are, we need help. We need God. We need each other.

And if we are to do the work of the kingdom, then we also have to acknowledge that our kingdom work is to welcome the vulnerable of situation and station. Our work is to work on their behalf, to serve the least of these. On this day we celebrate the Lord’s Supper with sisters and brothers around the globe. Perhaps we need to ask ourselves who has been welcomed to the table and who has not. Are we seeking out the vulnerable, the lost, the lonely, the least of these? Are we giving them the best seats at the table, treating them as honored guests, seeking justice on their behalf? Welcoming the vulnerable, serving the poor, loving without condition the least of these – that is kingdom work. That is the work Jesus did. That is the work we are called to do. Because we are all vulnerable, we are all in need, we are all helpless in one way or another. But Jesus does not hesitate to welcome us. May we do the work of his kingdom by doing the same.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!” Amen.