Jerusalem -- Second Sunday in Lent

Luke 13:31-35

February 21, 2016

 She asked us to lament.

Lie down on the floor

weep, wail, wring our hands

learn suffering’s sound.

Unsure of this teacher

permitting us grief

we tentative students

persisted at blind happiness.

O! To reclaim that

blessed invitation.

Now my cry,

“my God, my God,

why have you forsaken us?”

would swallow the silence,

Subdue the void

left by that absence.

I would give heartbreak its voice,

sing agony’s crooked tune.

I would gnash my teeth

fashion sack cloth

drench my head in ashes.

If remorse could

stop Death from cradling

babies in his unrelenting arms,

if sorrow could melt

weapons like wax;

repentance dry the eyes

of every parent

of every child lost,

no sense, nor reason,

then I proclaim my remorse.

Shout apologies to the heavens.

I turn back, turn around,

change direction,

heed the prophet’s call.

Only Comforter, speak comfort. 

Cry hope. 

Soften stony hearts.

Reshape new from old, living from dying.

Teach us life, teach us love.

My God, my God, hear our lament.

            One of my favorite professors, Gwen Hawley, was the teacher in this poem. I was a student in her advanced group processing class, and the goal of advanced group processing was that we – the students – were to become a group. That sounds deceptively easy. Trust me, it is not. At one of our meetings each of us came to class upset, despairing, worried and anxious. Our emotions were based on different events in our lives, but we were all feeling just plain bad. Gwen took stock of the emotional climate in the room and declared that we needed to lament. We greeted her words with scared silence. “I’m serious,” she told us. “You need to lament.” She urged us to sit down on the floor and lament, wail, and gnash our teeth; whatever was necessary, whatever we needed. None of us could do it. No matter how much we may have needed to express our feelings, we were all too self-conscious and too uptight to vent them in such a dramatic and overt way. Gwen realized her suggestion was not going to take so she dropped it. But there have been many times since when I have wished to go back in time and take her up on her offer to publicly lament.

            Last fall, I desperately wanted to lament as Gwen suggested. I wrote this poem back in October. I wrote it after I’d seen pictures of a baby washed up on a beach. I wrote it after I’d seen yet another picture, this one of this baby’s father, his features distorted by agony; a father who had tried to save his two little boys and his wife only to lose them to the sea. I wrote this after I read story after story of other refugees. I wrote this after I heard another news report about another child being lost to gun violence, and another child being lost to neglect, and another child being lost to indifference. I wrote this poem back in October because I was utterly overwhelmed with the sorrow and pain and violence we see play out on the news every night; sorrow, pain and violence that is international, national and local. I wrote it because I needed to put my own heartbreak into words.

            I realize that it may seem self-serving to use one of my own poems to begin this sermon. I apologize for that. But this poem is about lament, and lament features prominently in our story from Luke.

            Although lament is the overall theme of this story, in the first two verses Jesus sounds more irritated than mournful. Some helpful Pharisees came to him and warned him away from entering Jerusalem. “Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you.”

            But Jesus refused to be scared off by their warning.

            “Go and tell that fox for me, ‘Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work. Yet today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem.’”

            “Go and tell that fox for me.” Jesus swatted away their warning as you would an annoying fly. I’m sure his response would have surprised, if not shocked, the Pharisees and probably anyone else privy to that conversation. Herod was a dangerous man and a dangerous ruler. This was the same Herod who had innocent children massacred because he perceived the birth of one baby to be a threat to his power. In order to save face in front of his guests and to placate the desires of his wife and stepdaughter, he had John the Baptist – whom he liked – beheaded. He was not a tyrant whose bark was worse than his bite. His bite was pretty bad.

            Some scholars question the motives of the Pharisees who warned him. Perhaps they understood that Jesus going into Jerusalem would cause more trouble for them than they could handle. So if they could keep Jesus out of Jerusalem by warning him about Herod, then it would make life easier for them as well. But Jesus could not have cared less about their warning or Herod for that matter. He was not going to be bullied into staying away from Jerusalem. Jesus had kingdom work to do. He had a ministry and a mission and a purpose to fulfill. He would not be kept out of Jerusalem because Herod was breathing threats against him.

            His words, “because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem,” makes it clear that he knew the dangers the city held for him. He knew where his path would lead. He had been trying to make that clear to the disciples for some time. Ahead lay the cross and his death.    Herod’s threats meant nothing to Jesus. He had work to do, and he was going to do it.

            Yet as he pondered Jerusalem, Jesus’ irritation gave way to lament.

            “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”

            Jesus’ poignant lament for Jerusalem tears at my heart every time I read these verses. The imagery Jesus used to describe himself paints a vivid picture of the people in that great city. Have you ever watched chicks? They move frantically but without purpose. They may see where they are but they are lost. They need the mother hen to pull them into the safety and shelter of her wings. They need her to orient them and guide them. But until they are gathered together, they are vulnerable and alone.

            So too were the people of Jerusalem. The further we move through this season, the more abundantly clear this will become. The people were lost. They killed their prophets, the people who came to bring them God’s word. They stoned those who came to lead them back to the right path. And they would kill the One who wanted only to gather them together like a hen gathers her chicks.

            Jesus lamented for Jerusalem. Jesus lamented for its people. Jesus lamented.

            We understand Jesus’ lament because we know what happened when Jesus reached the city. But do we ever wonder if Jesus’ lament continues? Do we ever wonder if he laments for the modern city of Jerusalem – the city that is called home by three religions? Do we consider the lament Jesus makes for the violence that happens there between people who should know better? Not only should they know better, they should recognize that regardless of whether they are Christian, Jew or Muslim, they are kin!

            But I don’t want to point the finger at Jerusalem. I can’t point my finger at them, because first I have to point it at me. I do wonder if Jesus laments over Jerusalem, but I wonder more if he laments over the Church that bears his name.

            What poignant cry does Jesus make when he considers the Church – our church and every church?

            “You who call yourself Christian; you kill one another in my name. You use my words as weapons. You spend considerable energy, time and resources working away at the specks in the eyes of others, while the logs in your own eyes blind you. You live more for yourself than you do for the least of these. You have forgotten why you began. You have forgotten that this thing you call ‘Church’ is not yours but God’s. You have forgotten that you are called to follow. Instead you wander about lost, blind and alone. I have tried and tried to gather you together like a mother hen gathers her chicks, but you will not listen.”

            I wonder if Jesus laments over us the way he lamented over Jerusalem. I wonder this because my reasons for lament did not end last fall. Children continue to die needlessly. Extremists use terror – through violent acts and violent words – to keep others living in fear. People still live in desperate circumstances with no relief in sight. Just this morning, I read of another terrible mass shooting. This time it was in Kalamazoo, Michigan. A gunman wandered about the city shooting people at random. The need for lament is real and vivid.

            But I don’t want Jesus to have reason to lament over us. Nor do I want to get mired in lament. I want to act. I want to respond. I want to be the Church, to be the body of Christ in the world. I want to be the person God created me to be. I want to do the work God created me to do. I want that for all of us, for all of God’s children.

            Here’s the thing. No matter how me may feel like those lost little chicks, no matter how much the world causes us to lament, lament and mourning and weeping are not the end. We have hope that there is more. We have hope that this is not all there is. We have hope that the weeping will turn to laughter, the lamenting will transform into joy, and that our mourning will cease. We have hope because we believe that death did not win. Jesus lamented over Jerusalem, and I suspect he laments over us. Jesus laments because he loves. Because of that love, we too can love and hope and rejoice. Lament is not the end. Love is. Love is the beginning.

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

No Superhero Savior -- First Sunday in Lent

Luke 4:1-13

February 14, 2016

            For Superman it was kryptonite. Superman was impervious to anything that might take out you or me. Bullets bounced off his chest. His strength was so great he could stop speeding trains. He could fly higher than planes. He only needed a telephone booth to make the quick change into his hero’s tights. He even made people believe that simply putting on glasses and ordinary clothes was an adequate disguise. Certainly there was no way anyone could place him as Superman when he was dressed as mild mannered Clark Kent. But one thing could take out Superman and one thing only – kryptonite. Even a small amount of the matter and minerals from his home planet could render him weak and powerless. His super hero, superhuman, super powers were unbeatable; he was indestructible unless a small piece of kryptonite got too close. Then he was as mortal and as weak as any of us. For Superman it was kryptonite. That was his vulnerability. Kryptonite made him human.

            For Jesus it was hunger. No matter what year we are following in the lectionary cycle, no matter what the gospel, we always begin the first Sunday of Lent with the telling of Jesus’ time in the wilderness. After all, Lent is patterned after that time. Jesus spent 40 days in the wilderness, fasting, praying, and being tempted by the devil. Luke’s gospel tells us that after those 40 days of no food, Jesus was hungry. Of course he was! Who wouldn’t be?! That’s a long time to go without food. He wasn’t just hungry, he was famished. Anyone would be. The devil, being the great opportunist that he was, saw Jesus’ hunger as his chance. Although we read that the devil tempted Jesus during the 40 days, we don’t know what those temptations were. But at the end of Jesus’ time in the wilderness, when he was starving, Luke reveals three specific temptations.

            First the devil told Jesus that if he was really the Son of God, then he should command the stones to become bread. Jesus answered him with scripture. “It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone.’”

            Second, the devil took Jesus up so that Jesus could see all the kingdoms of the world. The devil informed Jesus that he, the devil, had been given all authority over these kingdoms. He can give that authority and power to anyone he wishes. He would give it all to Jesus on one condition, “worship me.” Jesus didn’t buy it and again he responded with words of scripture. “It is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.”’

            Lastly, the devil took Jesus to Jerusalem. He placed Jesus on the pinnacle of the temple. Then the devil dared him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you,’ and, ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’”

            The devil knew scripture too, and he knew how to prooftext and manipulate it to say what he wanted it to say. But Jesus still didn’t give in. He responded to scripture with more scripture. “It is said, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the text.’”

            The devil knew he had lost this round, so he left Jesus; not for good but to wait for another opportune time. When the devil retreated, Jesus left as well. He left the wilderness and began his public ministry in Galilee.

            Jesus went into the wilderness “full of the Holy Spirit.” Although he ate nothing and was famished, he still did not give into temptation. The devil could not get the best of him. Whenever I read any of the temptation accounts, my first thought is, “Well of course, Jesus wasn’t tempted. He was Jesus. He was human just like us but he did not sin.” That is the accepted belief of our faith, isn’t it? Jesus was fully human just like all of us, but he did not sin. He was Jesus, God’s Son. Sinning was just not going to happen no matter how hungry he was. End of story.

            Usually when I read Luke’s account, I focus solely on the temptations themselves. I read the sentence, “he was famished,” but it’s just a blip in the story. But I wonder if those three words – he was famished – are actually the point. Jesus was famished. He went without food for 40 days and he was as hungry as anyone of us would have been. If he was as hungry as the rest of us, it is a good chance that hunger had the same effect on him it has on us. When I’m really hungry, really, really hungry, I get cranky. Sometimes my head hurts. I feel weak and lightheaded and agitated. If I don’t get to bite into some food soon, I might just bite your head off. Jesus was famished.

            But because he’s Jesus, I think we tend to diminish his hunger and how it might have affected him. He was hungry and he was fully human, but he was also fully divine. Well, what does that mean exactly? What does that look like? When it comes to his temptation, I think we see Jesus more like a superhero that has been exposed to the one thing that makes him vulnerable. He is like Clark Kent opening his shirt to reveal the large S underneath. Jesus is fully human, but when it comes to temptation there is a shirt with a large D for divine underneath his robe.

            As one commentator put it, Jesus’ divinity acted as a fail safe. If temptation went too far and he got too close to the edge of sin, then divinity jumped in to save him. But if that’s true, then what’s the point of his humanity? What’s the point of telling the story of his being tempted, because in the end they would not have been real temptations? It seems to me that temptation has to have the possibility of snaring you in order to actually be temptation. If Jesus wasn’t really tempted, if it were impossible for him to actually give in, then this story is no more than a morality play. We watch in order to get an example of how we should be, but we are actually human so we might fail. This is nice of Jesus to show us this, but if he couldn’t actually give into temptation, then he really isn’t like us.

            But Jesus was like us. That is the substance of the incarnation. Jesus was like us, fully human, vulnerable, tempted, famished. He was human, just like us.

            One of the most powerful depictions of Jesus’ humanity that I have ever seen was in a movie that was so controversial, people from all denominations worked to ban it from theaters. The move was The Last Temptation of Christ. I did not see it when it came to theaters. I watched it when I was in seminary. The main reason this movie was controversial was because it showed Jesus in a physical relationship with Mary Magdalene. People were up in arms at even the thought of that. But if you did not see the movie, let me give you the larger context. The story was about Jesus and his ministry and his walk to the cross. It was while he was on the cross that the last temptation occurred. Temptation came to him in the form of a little child, haloed in beautiful light. The child told him that he could get down from the cross. He didn’t have to stay there. So Jesus does. He gets down off the cross. He falls in love. He lives.

            No matter what the protesters said about this movie, the true temptation for Jesus was not lust, it was life. His last temptation was that he got to live just like us. He got to love just like us. He had the chance to have a family and a home and the ordinary everyday realities we take for granted – just like us. If we mean what we say, then Jesus was fully human, and being human is messy. It is filled with temptation. It is filled with wrong turns. As humans we have enormous capacity for love and we have an equally enormous capacity for evil. Jesus was fully human, so those temptations must have pulled at him as much as they would have us.

            But I think that what makes Jesus different, what makes him able to resist temptation was not some superhuman ability that we do not have. I think that what he had was full knowledge, full understanding, full comprehension of love; God’s love, sacrificial love, agape love. Jesus was fully human, as fully human as we are meant to be, as we are created and called to be. He knew and lived and breathed Love. Jesus was not a superhero savior. He didn’t have some secret ability that we don’t have access to. He was filled with the Holy Spirit, he was filled with God, he was filled with Love.

            The good news, the great and glorious news, is that we can be too. We were created out of Love, because of Love, for Love. Jesus was fully human just like us. He was tempted just like us. He was weak and vulnerable just like us. But Jesus knew completely how to love and lived and died trying to teach us to do the same. Sisters and brothers, during this season of Lent and always, let us love like Jesus did so that we can be fully human as well.

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

           

Seeing Glory -- Transfiguration Sunday

Luke 9:28-43a

February 7, 2016

            The first time I remember having a mountaintop experience, I was actually on top of a mountain. I was in Montreat, North Carolina with a group of senior high school students, members of my youth group from my church in Richmond, Virginia. For many Presbyterians, going to Montreat is a pilgrimage. I can’t say that it ranks up there with making pilgrimages to Mecca or other holy sites in other countries … but it is close.

            The kids in my youth group loved going to the Montreat youth conferences in the summer. It was something they looked forward to all year long, and it was something that we worked to raise money for all year long. As a youth leader, I helped washed cars at car washes, helped organize an elaborate and sophisticated Valentine’s Day dinner for parents and other church members, and led silly parodies at a Cabaret Night. All of this was done with the intent of getting to Montreat. Everyone who had been there told me it would be an experience I would never forget. I would love it, they said. I would hate leaving, they said. Honestly, I worried that the actual Montreat would not live up to the glowing picture of the place the kids and other adults had painted. I was wrong.

            It was beautiful. And amazing. And spectacular. The mountains were glorious, the sunrises and sunsets were glorious. The conference was incredible. Each worship service seemed to be even more meaningful and moving than the one before. I loved the workshops I participated in, and I loved the other youth and adults I got to know. My bond with my own youth grew stronger in that week. I learned how to do the group dance Star Trekkin, and play the game Killer. To top it all off (no pun intended), when we left Richmond I had not yet gotten official confirmation about my application to seminary. Before our week in Montreat was up, I received the word that I would be starting in Hebrew school at the end of month.

            I absolutely loved everything about my time in Montreat. I was so inspired and motivated in my faith and in my life that I promised myself that I would never lose that enthusiasm. I would never let myself forget how powerful it was to be on that mountain, feeling closer to God than I ever had before. But what goes up must come down. The week came to an end and we had to leave the mountain and drive back down into the valley.

            Not all valleys are valleys of despair. Valleys have their beauty too. There is nothing inherently wrong or bad about being in a valley. But after that time on top of the mountain, being back in the valley didn’t seem quite as nice. I have been mixing the literal and the metaphorical in this illustration. I was literally on top of a mountain, and while there I had a metaphorical mountaintop experience.

            I wonder if this kind of mix isn’t also happening in Luke’s account of Jesus’ transfiguration on the mountaintop in our passage from the gospel. Regardless of which gospel version we are reading, the story of the transfiguration is just strange. It is a moment of supernatural splendor that we children of the enlightenment may struggle to picture, imagine, or even fully believe. Jesus takes three disciples, Peter, John and James, up a mountain. Jesus often traveled up a mountain to pray and to find rest, so it isn’t a surprise to read that he’s climbing one again. We often interpret his choosing of these three disciples as indicative that they were special to him. But a point I never get tired of repeating is homiletics professor Anna Carter Florence’s suggestion that perhaps these three weren’t up there because they were ahead of the others. Maybe they were chosen because they were in the remedial group.

            Either way, Peter, John and James climb to the mountaintop with Jesus. Having hiked many times in my life, I know how tiring that can be, so I can understand their sleepiness at the top. In spite of that, they resisted napping and oh boy were they rewarded! Because they stayed awake, they saw Jesus transfigured. They saw his face change and his clothes become dazzling white. They saw two men suddenly appear with Jesus, talking with him. Somehow, they recognized the two men as Moses and Elijah. That recognition is astonishing in itself. Moses and Elijah lived hundreds and hundreds of years before. I doubt there were any images of them inscribed on coins. There was no such thing as holy prophet collector cards. Still, they recognized Moses and Elijah. And as terrifying as this may have been for them, it was also exhilarating. Peter was so excited he wanted to make little tents for the three transfigured men.

            “Jesus! This is great! Let’s stay here. Let me build some dwelling places for the three of you.”

            But before Peter could finish his sentence, they were engulfed in a cloud and a voice spoke to them from its mists.

            “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”

            When the voice finished, Moses and Elijah were gone. Jesus looked like Jesus again, and whatever the disciples may have been thinking about what they had just seen, they didn’t talk about it. They kept silent and told no one.

            A commentator pointed out something about this dramatic scene that I had never thought about before. This was a visual moment. Jesus’ face and appearance changed. Even his clothes changed. He was transfigured before their very eyes. They saw the two great prophets of history and of the promised future. They witnessed Jesus talking with them. They heard God’s voice, but they saw the cloud; they were in the cloud. Everything was seen. But what does God tell them? “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”

            Listen. Not, remember what you’ve seen. Not, hold this vivid scene in your minds. Not, watch him and everything he does from now on. Listen. It’s important to remember that this happened eight days after Peter made his great confession about Jesus’ true identity as the Messiah. It happened eight days after Jesus told Peter and the other disciples that being the Messiah meant suffering, dying, and rising again. It happened eight days after Peter rebuked Jesus for saying that. It happened eight days after Jesus rebuked Peter in return, telling him, “Get behind me, Satan!”

            Jesus was on his way to Jerusalem; literally and metaphorically. He wasn’t on a trip to see the sights. He was on his way to confrontation with the powers that be. He was on his way to offering himself up like a sacrificial lamb. He was on his way to suffering and dying; he was on his way to the cross.

            Peter, James and John were given this vivid, visual gift. But they were not going to see Jesus for much longer. As much as they needed to remember this moment, they needed to listen to Jesus. They needed to heed his words spoken directly to them, and they needed to hear him through the gift of the Spirit and through others. When they went back down the mountain, when they once more took up residence in the valley, they needed to listen. When they could no longer see Jesus, they needed to listen. They were to listen. Not see. Listen.

            So if listening is so important, why title this sermon, “Seeing Glory?” Obviously, the disciples saw glory on that mountaintop. But it was a fleeting thing. It didn’t last. The ability to listen would have to stand them in good stead for the rest of their lives. Yet what about this story following the story of the transfiguration? Jesus and the three went down the mountain and immediately Jesus was approached by a man wanting healing for his son. The boy was possessed by a demon, and the man had already asked Jesus’ disciples for help to no avail. The disciples were unable to do it, but Jesus could. If we are called upon to listen to Jesus, what does he say at that moment?

            “You faithless and perverse generation, how much longer must I be with you and bear with you?”

            Maybe we could paraphrase this as, “You people who just don’t get it, how much longer do I have to put up with your confusion and misunderstanding?”  Jesus rebuked the demon in the boy. Jesus restored him to health. Jesus’s words in that valley probably seemed the opposite of the Jesus they had seen on the mountain. But were the disciples able to recognize the glory in that moment, as surely as they recognized it on the mountaintop?

            I’ve been asking people to give me their definition of glory this week. Most have defined it as “radiant,” “magnificent,” “glowing.” Certainly Jesus’ visage on the mountain fits that understanding of glory, but I think the real challenge for the disciples and us is not wrapping our minds around a radiant, transfigured Jesus. It is in seeing glory in other ways, in other places, even in the valley.

            This week I saw a story about two mothers. One mother had lost her baby boy, Lukas, when he was only seven months old. The other mother’s baby girl, Jordan, was born with a congenital heart defect. If she did not receive a heart transplant, she would surely die. Tragically, Lukas died suddenly. In the midst of what must have been overwhelming pain and heartache, Lukas’ mom decided to donate his organs. Jordan received his heart – and lived.

            In this story, the mothers meet for the first time after three years have passed. The mothers hug and cry and Jordan’s mother thanks Lukas’ mom for this incredible gift. Then, Lukas’ mom puts on a stethoscope and holds it to Jordan’s chest. After so much time, she hears her baby’s heart again. Jordan’s mom says, “That’s your baby.” Lukas’ mom says, “It’s so strong.”

            She listens to her baby’s heart, and we see glory.

            We do not get the chance to see Jesus in his glory as the three disciples did on that mountaintop. We don’t get to remain in our own mountaintop experiences. It would seem that most of our lives are spent in the valleys. But as the disciples were called to listen, so are we. In this Sunday between Epiphany and Lent, we are called to listen to Jesus. And if we listen, if we pay attention, if we open our hearts and our minds to God’s voice in the world, we just might see glory as well.

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

            Amen.

A More Excellent Way

I Corinthians 13:1-13
January 31, 2016

We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord.

We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord.

And we pray that all unity may one day be restored.

And they'll know we are Christians by our love, by our love,

Yes, they'll know we are Christians by our love.

There are no words to describe how much I hate that song. I. Can't. Stand. It. When I was much younger and working in youth ministry, it seemed like at every youth retreat, every campfire sing-a-long, someone would start with that song. Then every one gathered, youth and adults alike, would begin to sing. It got to the point that when I would hear the first chords being strummed on a guitar, I wanted to stick a burning marshmallow in my mouth so I would have an excuse not to join in. I haven't done youth ministry in quite a while now, so perhaps they have moved onto other musical selections. I hope so.

I don't mean to offend anyone. It's not that it is a bad song per se. It has a nice message. It certainly ties in with what we've been hearing from Paul's letter to the church in Corinth. We are all one in the Spirit. We are all one body with many members. We are called to live in unity one with another. So let's pray that one day that unity will be restored. But the hallmark of our identity should be our love. And they'll know we are Christians by our love.

This is actually a powerful message. But this song was sung so much that I'm not sure anyone even heard that message anymore. It just become a nice song to sing at campfires. It no longer held any meaning. I worry that this is true for chapter 13 in 1 Corinthians.

"Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things."

Paul's lyrical words have been used so often that I'm afraid we no longer hear them or even begin to comprehend their meaning. Second perhaps to John 3:16, I suspect that these are some of the most famous, well-known words of scripture. There are references to I Corinthian 13 in movies like Wedding Crashers and in television shows such as How I Met Your Mother. Paul's language about love is the go-to scripture reading for weddings. Paul was not writing in reference to romantic love, but certainly these words describing love are applicable to a couple setting out on a life together. Who doesn't need to be reminded about what love is and about what it isn't?

But again, Paul was not writing to young couples. He was writing to a church in conflict. The Corinthian church was a contentious church. There was infighting, bickering, posturing and jostling for prestige. The whole of chapter 12 was a reminder to that church that they were not in just any community, they were gathered in the name of Christ. They were a church which meant that they were the body of Christ in the world. Their life together was supposed to be a revelation of Christ. But everything they were doing and saying, and the way they were living was revealing the opposite.

At the end of chapter 12, at the close of this stunning metaphor about the body, Paul teased them with these words, "And I will show you a still more excellent way."

That way is love, and just when you think Paul's prose can't get any better, it does.

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

As tired as I am of the song, "They Will Know We are Christians," I cannot get enough of "Though I May Speak," the anthem sung by the choir this morning. This hymn, both in its melody and lyrics, captures the beauty of Paul's words like nothing else I have ever heard. I'm tempted to say that if we were to sing this hymn one more time, that would be sermon enough for today. But there's one problem. As beautiful as this hymn is, it still does not convey the full impact of Paul's exhortation to the Corinthians. Why? Because I think there is an edge to Paul's words, and the English translations and the songs they inspire do not capture that edginess.

Paul was writing to a church in conflict. He was exhorting these people who did not get along, and did not agree on what a real follower of the Way was supposed to do and look like and be, to see themselves and the church in an entirely new light. Paul's words are beautiful, but that beauty belies their passion. Our translations of Paul's statements about love make them seem to be a description of what love is, but in reality I think they are meant to show what love does.

Let's replace is with different verbs. Love practices patience. Love acts with kindness. Love does not seethe with envy or crow with boasting. Love shows humility not arrogance. Love speaks with courtesy not rudeness. Love does not sulk with irritation or resentfulness.

Paul's description of love takes on a new meaning, doesn't it? As I've said in many other sermons, love in this sense is not a feeling or an emotion, it is an action. It is a verb. Considering the context of this letter, it stands to reason that Paul wanted the Corinthians to understand that this active love was not reserved only for people for whom they felt love. If we are one body, but many members, and that body is the incarnation of Christ in the world, then we must actively love others -- all others.

Even more, if the gifts we have been given are not grounded in this kind of active love, then they are wasted. If I can preach with passion and compassion to you, people I love, but I cannot preach with that same passion and compassion to people I don't love, then I'm not fully living my gift. As one commentator said, "Love is not a gift of the Spirit; it is a fruit of the Spirit." And if I am interpreting Paul with some clarity, then it is the fruit of the Spirit.

All of our gifts, all of our abilities, all of the ways that we make up the body of Christ should produce love. They should resonate with love. They should demonstrate and embody and personify love.

It seems to me that this chapter, which at first seems to be a thematic break with the preceding chapters, is actually the exclamation point. We cannot let the lyrical and poetic quality of Paul's words distract us from their emphatic passion. These words have an edge.

"If I speak in the tongues of mortals or angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal!" Do you understand?

"And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I. Am. Nothing!" Nothing! Do you get it?

Love is the more excellent way. But excellent does not equate to easy. Loving as Paul describes is not easy. It requires more of us than we sometimes want or feel able to give. We must love those who hurt us and persecute us. We must love those who hate us and seek to destroy us. We must love not only those we don't like, but those who seem most unloveable.

Love is the more excellent way. But excellent does not equate to a burden either. I hope that none of us leave here today thinking, "Great! I have to go and love that person I can't stand. Why does God ask this of me?" No, loving in this way is not easy, that is true. But as hard as it is for me to love other people, I know that it can be equally as hard to love me. None of us are perfect, in our loving or in our living. But none of us our unloveable either. That song I don't like proclaims that "they will know we are Christians by our love." If we take Paul's words to heart, then this is not just a statement dripping with false piety. It is a call to action. It is a call to do. It is a call to witness through word and deed the more excellent way. Let us follow that way. Let us love.

Let all God's children say, "Alleluia!"
Amen.