Running the Race

Hebrews 11:29-12:2

August 14, 2016

            Have you ever watched five-year-old kids playing soccer for the first time? If you haven’t, you should find an opportunity to do so. They are so much fun to watch, because they’re just playing for the fun of it. At that age scoring isn’t an issue. There is no sense of one team winning and the other team losing. The kids learn to kick the ball towards one end of the field or the other. And they run. They do a lot of running. All the kids, regardless of team, chase the ball up and down the field. That’s the fun part. They just love to run, and if the ball happens to go where it is supposed to, great. But what is really fun is the running.

            When I was a little kid, I liked to run. I didn’t run with any purpose, other than it was fun. I was a child on the go. My mother used the word, “busy,” to describe me. I was constantly doing something, and running was often the quickest way to get from one activity to the next. Back then, running felt good. There were a lot of kids on my street, and we were always playing games like hide and seek, freeze tag, kick-the-can, etc. Running around in those games, I never worried that I was a fast or a slow runner. I didn’t care if I was caught or if I was ‘it.” I loved to play. I loved to have fun. And I loved running. It was fun.

            When I got older, especially when I hit adolescence, running stopped being fun. I still liked playing games, but running went from something you did just because to something you had to do for points and grades. With adolescence came physical and hormonal changes, and I couldn’t – or wouldn’t – run as fast as other kids. I was generally one of the slower runners. That shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but when we had to run the mile in gym class and our times were tracked, you didn’t want to be a slow runner. There were physical standards that you had to meet. Other kids noticed who was a fast runner and who wasn’t. Running became more about the competition than about the joy. I still had to run, but it no longer felt good.

            A few years ago, I tried to start running for exercise. I do a lot of other exercising, but I really wanted to complete a 5K. However, I soon discovered that running at an older age presented a brand new set of problems. I was not as self-conscious about how I looked running as I was when I was a teenager, but I quickly remembered that I was not a teenager in a whole of other ways. Back in the old days, I would not wake up the next day after a run stiff and sore, practically unable to move. In my childhood, I didn’t worry about bone spurs or other foot problems. I never considered the reality of charley horses waking me up during the night, or shin splints. I felt immune to the tiresome ailments and aches and pains that pop up as you get older. When I was a kid, I ran without worrying about the effects of running. It wasn’t for exercise. It wasn’t to compete. It wasn’t for a grade or to measure up. I just ran to run.

            It would seem that over the years I have developed an antipathy toward running. So why would I choose to preach from our passage in Hebrews? It’s one thing to talk about the heroes of faith, but the last two verses we read are about running; not just any kind of running, but running the race. The preacher in Hebrews seems to be making the analogy that this is a foot race of faith. We run it because we look to Jesus, “the pioneer and perfecter of our faith,” who went before us.

            An initial reading of these verses suggests that our faith is a race we either win or lose. That is the struggle that I have had with these verses, and it is one reason why I considered preaching another passage. It would seem that the preacher is exhorting the Hebrews and us to win this race, win no matter what. The problem that I have with that is not what the preacher said, but with the way these words are interpreted. If faith is a race we run, than is it a competition? Are there winners and losers? Do those who run fastest win the greater prize? Do they reach heaven first? And those who can’t run as fast or can’t run at all? What happens to them? There doesn’t seem to be a consolation prize.

            The trouble is with that word, “race.” It has so many connotations. We talk about life as a “rat race.” The world seems to thrive on competition. Business is a competition. Education is a competition. Climbing that so called ladder to success is a competition. If I reach the top first, I win. Our whole model of success is based on the belief of there being winners and losers. Surely no one wants to be considered a loser, right?

            Yet I’m not convinced that this idea of a competition is what the preacher had in mind when he offered these words. Preacher and scholar, Tom Long, wrote in his commentary on this book that the preacher was preaching to people who were exhausted. They were trying to be faithful, trying to keep going, to keep believing, to keep trusting. But their energy was flagging. Some may have been falling away from the faith, because they were just too tired to go on.

            So, as we read last week and today, the preacher lifts up example after example of people who ran the race of faith before them. They endured hardship and uncertainty. They trusted God, even when it seemed foolish to do so. Some were tortured. Some of the faithful were mocked and flogged. Some were imprisoned. Some suffered grisly, brutal deaths because they refused to be anything but faithful. There are so many examples of faith that the preacher wants to list, but he runs out of time. There are too many of them. But here’s what he wants his congregation to understand. All of these faithful people endured. All of them ran the race, and they didn’t stop running. They ran and they didn’t give up. They ran, even thought most would never see the promise of faith fulfilled – at least not in their lifetime on earth. But still they ran. They ran the race, and now they are the “great cloud of witnesses.” I get the sense that the preacher saw this great cloud of witnesses sort of as divine cheerleaders. They ran their race with faith and perseverance, and now they cheer on the next generations of runners.

            It’s almost as if the race of faith that the preacher describes is not a race where some win and some lose. It is a relay race. Those who have gone before pass the baton of faith to the next set of runners. Each generation takes the baton from the one that has gone before. That baton keeps being passed on and down from faithful to faithful to faithful and so on.

            It would seem that running the race of faith is not about winning or losing, it is about finishing. Sometimes I think I would rather give up and lose, than finish. Finishing takes endurance. Finishing takes perseverance. Finishing requires putting one foot in front of the other, no matter how exhausted I may be.

            And yes, being faithful, remaining faithful, can be exhausting. There are days when I would gladly stay in bed, leisurely read the paper, go to brunch. That’s not just on Sundays either. Being faithful is not just physically exhausting. It is mentally and emotionally exhausting. Being faithful requires mindfulness and intention. For me, being faithful means that I have to really think about what I do and what I say. Am I being the person God created and called me to be? Am I responding to others as Jesus did? Am I living out my faith, I mean really living out my faith – not just in word but in action?

            It’s exhausting. I want to trust that God’s got this; that I am moving in the right direction. But as I said last week, there is too often a dearth of signs affirming that. Sometimes being faithful is exhausting.

            How fortuitous that this passage falls in the middle of the summer Olympics. I know it may seem that I’m against competition, but it has been exciting seeing the amazing athletes competing in the different sports this past week. And I am exceedingly proud of the Americans who have won medals – especially those in swimming and gymnastics. I have to be honest, watching the women win has been incredible, but all of it has been exciting to watch.

            But one thing has made these Olympic Games are different than in other years; for the first time refugees of different nationalities have competed as one team. They carried the Olympic flag and marched to the Olympic anthem. They are athletes from different places in the world, with one thing in common: they had to flee the country of their birth and now live in no country. They are not only without home, they are without nation. The Olympics did this to highlight and emphasize the plight of refugees, and that the world has not seen a refugee crisis like this since World War II.

            If there are people who understand exhaustion, it is them. If there are people who understand perseverance and endurance, it is them. Some swam to flee the danger and violence in their country. Now they swim at the Olympics. Some ran to flee that same danger and violence. Now they run in the Olympics. These are people who understand that it is not about winning or losing, it is about finishing.

            That’s what we are about today. This race that we are running is not a competition. Running this race does not meant that if the Presbyterians win, that must mean the Baptists lose or vice versa. No, this race we are running is about finishing. We are just trying to run faithfully, to run with trust, to run with hope. Yes, we are exhausted at times, and it would be easy to give in and give up. But we hear the words of the preacher, and we see cross in front of us, and so we keep running. It doesn’t matter if we’re fast or slow, what matters is that we endure. What matters is that we persevere. What matters is that we finish. There is joy in the finishing.

            Let all of God’s children, all of us who are called to run this race, say, “Alleluia!”

            Amen.

Nevertheless

Hebrews 11:1-3, 8-16

August 7, 2016

          There’s a sound that tires make on the highway. It’s a steady thump as the wheels roll over the endless pavement. I associate that sound with the car trips of my childhood. When it was dark, and everyone but my dad, the driver, was asleep, I would listen to that thump, thump, thump and know that we were getting closer to where we were going. When I was a little girl, our main vacation destination was Minneapolis, Minnesota. That was my parents’ hometown, and that’s where the majority of our extended family lived. Because we were the rebels who went south, we were the ones who would pack up the car every summer – and sometimes at Christmas – and head the car northward.

          Getting ready to leave town was an elaborate ritual. My father was the primary driver, so he would sleep. My sister and brother would both sleep. As a treat, I would get to sleep downstairs on the couch. My mother would stay up doing every scrap of laundry she could find and finish packing. Then at about 5:30 am, we would hit the road. We weren’t even out of Nashville before everyone would fall back asleep; except my dad, thankfully. Then sometime about the middle of Kentucky, we would get to stop for breakfast.

          These were long car trips, about 14 hours. With rare exception we would make that drive in a day. I remember only one or two times when we actually stopped at motels – and that was because we got stuck in a terrible thunderstorm one summer, and hit icy roads one winter. Along with the sound of the wheels on pavement, I also could generally guess how close we were to Minnesota or Tennessee by what I could see outside of my window. Even before I could read the road signs, I could sense our location. And it wasn’t because I had memorized specific landmarks or could pinpoint exactly where we were in any given state. I knew because of the shape and contour of the land that flanked either side of the road. If we were driving through what seemed to be one enormous, never-ending farm, that was Illinois. The flatter the land became, the closer we were to Minnesota. On the return trip, I knew we were getting closer to Tennessee, because by Kentucky the land would get hilly again and the roads would get curvier and twistier. I didn’t have to read any signs to know that we getting closer to our destination.

          I wish I could read the landscape of my life that easily; especially in terms of following God’s call. Am I doing the right thing? Am I not? Was this the direction I should have chosen? How nice it would be to look at the scene around me and think, “Yep, I’m getting closer to where God is calling me. I can see it.”

          I don’t know about you, but when it comes to following God, I could use some clearer signs. I don’t need them all the time, but every once in a while it would be nice to see some indicator that I’m going where I’m supposed to. Maybe the clouds could periodically reshape themselves into an arrow pointing in the direction I should be heading. Perhaps a road sign or a billboard with specific instructions could pop up periodically. Or why can’t God email me or send me a text?

          “Amy, go here. Amy, do this.”

          It would make life and being faithful so much easier. But that’s not how it works is it? That’s not how God works. If God did work like that, we wouldn’t be talking about faithfulness, we’d be talking about certainty. Those are two different things entirely.

          In these well-known and beloved words, the preacher in Hebrews offers a description of faith, as well as a long list of folks who had the kind of faith described.

          “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Indeed, by faith, our ancestors received approval. By faith we understand that the worlds were prepared by the word of God, that what is seen was made from things that are not visible.”

          Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for. As I understand it, the Greek word translated as “assurance,” hypostasis, denotes a foundation. The assurance of faith is our foundation. We stand firmly on the foundation of faith, we build our lives on the foundation of faith. How firm a foundation is not just a hymn we sing. According to these verses, it is the essence of faith. That is our assurance.

          The verse continues with the words, “the conviction of things not seen.” We believe, we are convinced that God is present though God cannot be seen. We are convinced that there is more to this world than what meets the eye. We are convinced that God’s kingdom is here in our midst, even though physical evidence suggests the opposite. When we are faithful, we are convinced about the truth of God even though we cannot see God.

          And just in case we think that this kind of faith is impossible, the preacher gives us a roll call of, as one commentator put it, the hall of fame of the faithful. These folks serve as examples of this kind of faith. We don’t read all of those examples in our verses today, but we do read about Abraham. Abraham had a good life going. He had property and possessions. He and his wife Sarah were well-off. Their great sadness was not having children, but when it came to riches, they had those. But God said, “Go. Leave. Leave this land and go to a land, a place that I will show you. You will receive an inheritance greater than your wildest dreams. You have no children? Look at the stars in the sky, look at the sand below your feet. Your descendants will be as numerous as the stars and as countless as the sand.”

          So Abraham obeyed. He went. He followed. He left all that he had, all that he knew, all that was familiar and safe behind and he followed God. He lived as a stranger, as a foreigner in the land of promise. He never again had a home with a foundation. He never actually saw the fulfillment of God’s promise, but still he followed.

          Many thoughts come to mind when I read Abraham’s and Sarah’s story, especially through the lens of these verses in Hebrews. First, their faith overwhelms me. God said, “Go,” and they went. That’s amazing. But here’s the thing, God said, “Go.” I can’t say for sure that I’ve actually heard God’s voice telling me to go somewhere. I’ve discerned that voice in other ways, but have I heard God’s voice echoing from the sky? No. But apparently Abraham had those kinds of encounters with God. Yes, God took the form of visiting travelers, but still there seemed to be a real voice relaying definitive instructions. My first thought, then, is that surely it was easier for Abraham to be faithful because he heard that voice.

          But we don’t get the day-to-day description of their journey. I would suspect that there were times when God seemed to be taking a break from the task of leading them to this unseen land. I think it was Frederick Buechner who wrote that if you had a chance to talk with one of these faithful hall of famers, if you could tap them on the shoulder and ask them how following God was going, they might have shared a different version. Were they convinced every single day that God was leading them? Was Abraham convinced that Sarah would have a child? I mean, really? How does the preacher of Hebrews put it, “Therefore from one person, and this one as good as dead, descendants were born...”

          This one as good as dead? I suspect that even Abraham had days when he wondered and struggled and worried if God was leading them, if God’s promises of descendents and land would actually become a reality. While the birth of Isaac was the fulfillment of one promise, Abraham would never see the fulfillment of the other. He died, as did Isaac and Jacob, without seeing the entirety of God’s promises come true.

          But still, even when he may struggled, even when he may have found it all but impossible, Abraham had faith. Abraham was faithful. Abraham followed when God said, “Go.” Abraham was willing to do what God asked, even if that request was heartbreaking, terrifying and made no sense: think of God’s asking for Isaac to be sacrificed. Abraham was faithful.

          That is the challenge of faith. If we are faithful, then we are assured that we have a foundation that cannot be destroyed. If we are faithful, then we are convinced that even though we cannot see God or see in the visible world what God is doing, God is still there, acting, loving, creating. In fact what we see in the world may seem completely opposite to what we believe God is doing, nevertheless, we have faith that what we see does not negate what we don’t.

          It would seem that faith and being faithful is about trusting. William Sloan Coffin referred to it as “trusting without reservation.” Being faithful is about trusting in God’s promises. It is being assured and convinced that there is more to this world than what our senses can take in. Faith is holding fast to God’s nevertheless.

          We may hear the news each day and see the violence and the heartbreak and hatefulness that seems rampant, and wonder how God’s kingdom could possibly be in the midst of all this; but nevertheless we put our faith in the promise that it is.

          We may struggle with whether we are doing the right thing or going the right way; after all, the signs are not always easy to spot. But nevertheless, we trust that God is leading us, that God is calling us, that we are following even when we stumble and drift off course.

          It seems to me that when we trust God without reservation, we trust God’s nevertheless. I’m not saying that it’s easy. No one seems to struggle with doubt and worry more than I do. But then I remember Mother Theresa. When she died, her journals revealed that she doubted, that she wrestled with God and faith and trust. But never did she stop doing what she believed she was called to do. Never did she give into that doubt. She just kept on, being faithful, living faithfully. She lived and loved based not on what she could see but on God’s nevertheless.

          God’s nevertheless is our good news. It is our assurance. It is our conviction. We may feel that God is absent, that God has forgotten us, or that we can no longer hear God’s call, but nevertheless God is with us; God remembers, God keeps God’s promises. God is faithful to us. So may we be faithful to God.

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

          Amen.

An Alternative Treasure

Luke 12:13-34

July 31, 2016

          Last September I received a letter in the mail. I had been told by friends to expect this letter, but I was still not prepared for it when it arrived. When I saw it in the mail that day, my face flushed. My hands shook slightly. I had to sit down and collect myself before I could even open the envelope. I could not believe that my time had come to receive such a letter. Its arrival meant that I had reached a turning point in my life; a new chapter. But was I ready?

          The letter was my invitation to become a member of AARP: the American Association of Retired Persons. I was turning 50 in October, half a century, and that meant I could now join the same association that my parents belong to. Perhaps we could pool our senior discounts.

          I’m making this moment sound a wee bit more dramatic than it actually was. I had been told by friends that you get an invitation when you turn 50, so I was expecting it. I hadn’t really considered whether I would join or not, but when I read that the cost of joining wasn’t that much and I got a free gift, I signed right up. (I also got a free gift for renewing my membership. Thanks AARP!)

          Even with this invitation from AARP, turning 50 was not as traumatic as I had once believed it would be. In fact, it was fun. Being 50 hasn’t felt any different than being 49 or 48. But hitting mid-century does bring certain truths into the light. One of those truths is the reality that at some point in the somewhat nearer future, I will have to consider retirement. It’s not that close yet, but it’s much closer than it used to be. I would like to say that when I look ahead to retirement, I just focus on all the cool things I’ll be able to do – things that I don’t have the time or the means for right now. You know, traveling, taking up hobbies, learning new skills. But the truth is, when I think about retirement I don’t imagine its potential possibilities. No, when I imagine retirement I worry. I worry about being able to survive. I see those ads on television about planning for retirement, and I worry that I’m not taking that kind of planning seriously enough. I worry that by the time I am ready to retire, the cost of living will be so high that only the excessively wealthy will have the means to live comfortably.

          I worry that I’ll have to work long past retirement age, not because I want to but because I have to. I worry that I’ll need to work long past retirement age, but that I won’t be able to because of health issues or other factors. I worry that I’ll be like someone who finally retires, then dies within a month or weeks or a day of retirement. I worry that I won’t have enough. I worry that there isn’t enough time. I worry and worry and worry. My worry drives me, and not to a happy place, but to an emotional and spiritual cliff’s edge. I worry.

          Although the man Jesus described in this parable was in vastly different circumstances from my own, there is a sense that worry drove him as well.

          Jesus was once again surrounded by a crowd of people. Someone in that crowd asked Jesus to tell this person’s brother to divide the family inheritance with him. When I hear something like that, I think of the bitter disputes that can ensue between siblings over an inheritance after a family member dies. I wonder if it was this kind of rancorous fight that pushed the man to ask Jesus for arbitration. But if the man looked to Jesus for help, he did not receive it. Jesus not only told him, “No, that’s not why I’m here,” he went onto warn the people about greed and putting stock in an abundance of possessions. Then he told them a parable.

          Remember, Jesus didn’t tell parables to give people the warm fuzzies. He told them to make people think about familiar ideas, people, situations, etc. in new and unexpected ways. This parable was no different. It was about a rich man. This rich man had land that produced abundantly. As he surveyed his abundance the man thought to himself,

          “'What should l do, for I have no place to store my crops? Then he said, ‘I will do this: I will pull down my barns and build larger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods. And I will say to my soul, Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.’”

But God had other plans. God spoke to this man and said,

          “You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?”

          Think back on the man’s words. Who was he talking to? What pronouns are used consistently throughout his monologue? The answer is I and my. What should I do? I have no place to store my crops. I will do this. I will pull down my barns. I will build larger ones. I will store all my grains and my goods. I will say to my soul.

          I, my, I, my, I, my. Not once does he refer to anyone but himself. Jesus’ description was of a selfish man, true, but it was also a telling picture of a sad man. I know Jesus never used the word sad. The man didn’t seem to think of himself as sad. But I think he was. After all, he amassed all that wealth in grains and goods, but at the end of his life he only had himself to talk to. When God demanded his life, the man was alone. Jesus ended the parable with the words, “So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God.”

          Why would this parable have shocked Jesus’ listeners? The obvious answer is just what Jesus said, “So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God.” The man put a lot of energy and time into storing up treasures for himself. But storing up grain for a future date would not have been that unusual. Think back to the story of Joseph and his brothers in Genesis. Joseph received visions of famine in the land, so he made sure that plenty of grain was stored in preparation. He and his brothers were reunited because of that famine. They came to Egypt seeking food so they and their families would not starve to death.

          Surely a person who was able to store up grain was wise not foolish. That person was preparing for the future. But what did all of the man’s wealth of grain and goods do for him? He never even had a chance to use it. He amassed it, then he died. What I find particularly sad is the man’s address to his soul. Hey Soul, we’ve got this! Now we can sink back into an easy chair. Now we can eat and drink and have a great time. We’ve done it. We have secured our security.

          Except his security did not ward off death. Nothing wards off death. Death is the great leveler, the great equalizer. No matter how rich or poor, we all die. I think Jesus wanted the people around him to understand this, to realize that no amount of treasure, no amount of wealth can secure any of us from death. The man, the “barn guy” as one commentator put it, spent a lifetime building wealth, but in the end he had not built relationships. He had not built community. He was not rich toward God. That poses another question. How are we rich toward God? God does not need our wealth. God does not require money or things. How are we rich toward God? We are rich toward God through our relationships. We give offerings and tithes to this congregation, not because God needs it, and not solely for keeping the lights on – and yes, the staff paid. We give because through our offerings, through the sharing of our treasures, we are able to reach out to God’s children. We are able to do the work of God’s kingdom.

          But the barn guy Jesus spoke about did not understand that. He built his wealth, he built his barns, but he built nothing else. When he died, he was rich in stuff, but not rich in relationships, not rich in community.

         Nowhere in this text does Jesus say that wealth is inherently bad. But he warns against greed. He warns against thinking that life only consists of an abundance of possessions. Jesus’ words were not so much a diatribe about too much stuff or too much money, it’s about our tendency to believe that those things make us secure, safe. They don’t. Jesus warned against greed because it distorts our priorities and it keeps us from being in real relationship with God and with each other. Ultimately, what good is our wealth if there is no one to share it with? What good is our abundance if stays stored in barns? What good is our worldly treasure if it keeps us from claiming the alternative treasure that God gives us in abundance?

          So Jesus said, don’t worry. Don’t worry about what you will wear, what you will eat, how you will live. God clothes the ravens and the lilies of the field. They don’t sow or reap. They don’t stockpile for the future. They just live. Don’t worry.

          But herein lies the rub. We are not the ravens, nor are we the lilies of the field. The primary needs of life – food, shelter, and clothing – require some amount of money. It is hard not to worry, at least a little bit, that we will or won’t have enough to meet even those basics of life.

          Country singer and songwriter, Brandy Clark, has a song on her first album called, Pray to Jesus. The refrain goes,

          “So we pray to Jesus and we play the lotto, cause there ain’t but two ways we can change tomorrow. And there ain’t no genie, and there ain’t no bottle. So we pray to Jesus and we play the lotto. Like a bumper sticker, like a poor man’s motto. Our time is short and our time is borrowed, so we pray to Jesus and we play the lotto.”

          I think she is saying that even the most religious of us hedge our bets. We pray to Jesus, yes. But we also do whatever we can to stay afloat and stay safe and stretch for some security in this world. Yet Jesus told the people around him, and his message still speaks to us, that we should not worry. Life, abundant life, is not to be found in treasures or possessions. They cannot provide security or safety. Don’t worry. Worrying adds nothing. It will not give us one more day, one more hour.

          I know that we won’t leave today not worrying about something. Well, at least I won’t. I’ve turned worrying into an art form. But I hope that this is a reminder of what is truly treasure and what isn’t. The building on Beard Street and this building are not where our treasure lies. We do not find treasure in stuff or things. Our treasure is here, in us, in this congregation, in our relationships with one another. Our treasure is in the people we love, and even more in the people we serve. Our treasure is out there, walking down the sidewalk, queing up at the Salvation Army. Our treasure is most truly and most deeply found in the abundance that God so extravagantly gives us; the abundance of love, hope, and joy. That is an alternative treasure to the treasure of the world. That is our true treasure. That is where our heart must lie.

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

          Amen.

The First

I am the only woman pastor in the small city of Shawnee, Oklahoma. There used to be another woman minister, but she has moved on to a new call. So I'm it. When people here find out that I am the Presbyterian minister, some look surprised or confused. Others do not hide their disapproval. Some folks in other churches embrace my ministry because they like me, but that does not change their mind about a woman never being in their pulpit. I am the only one. It is a lonely place to be.

Because I spent several years serving in ministry but without my own call to a church, I stood in many different pulpits. I was often the first ordained woman to be in that position.The congregations I faced ranged from open hostility at a woman leading them to uncomfortable but trying to hide it. I understand what it means to be a woman in a man's job. I understand what it means to be put into a position of standard bearer for my gender. At one church I was the second ordained woman to serve them, but the woman before me was greatly disliked. I was told, "I had given up on lady pastors, but you're good."

While living in Richmond, Virginia in 1991, I called my parents and told them that I was discerning a call to seminary, to ministry, and that I was applying to the Presbyterian seminary in Richmond. My parents were thrilled. I think they cried. My parents are PK's (pastor's kids), and I come from a long line of ministers on both sides of my family. I asked my dad if he thought my Grandfather Busse would be proud of me. He said, "He would, but he would be spinning in his grave because you are a woman."

One of my oldest and dearest friends is also a PK. Her father was ordained, and her mother went to divinity school when we were in high school. I had no use or time for church back then. I definitely did not see ministry in my future, but I was thrilled for my friend's mom to be ordained. I was told by members of my family (not my parents) that her ordination was wrong. It went against scripture and God's will. She can certainly serve God, they told me. But why can't she just be a missionary or a teacher?

When I was a little girl I drank from two ceramic mugs that were originally given to my older sister and brother. They were red and white. One said, "Future Miss America." The other said, "Future Mr. President." I never questioned which mug was given to which sibling. Although the stereotypes about women's roles were being questioned and confronted in the years of my childhood, the strict categories those mugs represented still existed. They permeated my world. But deep down I knew that they were wrong.

I have not been a Hillary Clinton supporter. Along with my family, I worked on the local campaign for Barack Obama in 2008. While I don't completely dismiss her record and her accomplishments -- her work and advocacy for children is a great accomplishment -- I was not convinced that she would be the right choice for president in this election either. Along with many others, I decided to support her more out of my fear of a Trump presidency rather than on the merit of her abilities. But last night, as I watched her accept the nomination for President of the United States of America, I cried. I cried as I did when President Obama was nominated and elected. I cried because another wall has fallen. I cried because I feel as though one more step has been taken on the road to equity and true representation of half of this country's and the world's population.

I realize that there are many questions about Hillary Clinton that were not answered last night. I know that she struggles to present herself authentically, which is something that President Obama and our amazing First Lady have done with grace and elegance over the last eight years. While I have not always agreed with the decisions that President Obama has made, I have been unwavering in my belief in the strength and goodness of his character, and in his good intent and purpose for our nation and this planet which we share. I have not always agreed with Hillary Clinton's decisions in the past, and I imagine that will hold true for her presidency. But I do believe that she wants to continue the good that President Obama has done. I believe that her intent and purpose for this country truly is a more perfect union for her grandchildren and for all of our children.

So while I don't think she can accomplish everything she promises -- no president can -- I will hold her accountable to her promise to listen; to listen to those who are marginalized and those who are forgotten; to listen to the voices of people who, as Jon Stewart said, just want to take their place at the table. I hope that she will use the power of her position to help dismantle white privilege and the systemic injustice that it fosters. While I know that sexism has thrown barriers in my path, the color of my skin has not. It has to stop. White people have to acknowledge it in order for it to stop. I pray that Hillary Clinton will make that a priority.

Most importantly, I hope that she will be a role model of determination and empathy for my daughter and my son, just as President Obama has been. How grateful I am that my children have grown up during his presidency. To borrow from the First Lady's speech, how grateful I am that Phoebe and Zach take for granted that skin color, gender, sexual orientation, ethnicity, faith, creed, etc. are not the factors that disqualify someone from holding the highest elected office or any office, any position, anywhere, anytime. Not only do they take this reality for granted, they live it. They testify to it everyday: at school, at home, in church, and in the world through their friendships, through their words, through their actions.

I may have started this election season thinking only, "Anyone but Trump." But now I not only want Trump to be defeated, I want Hillary Clinton to be President. I want her to be given the chance. Being the first is harder than most people in the majority will ever understand. I am proud today. I am proud that she is the candidate. No matter what happens, this is a victory. The words on that mug from my childhood are being rewritten: Madame President Now.

Ask. Search. Knock.

Luke 11:-13
July 24, 2016

"Marco." "Polo." If you ever find yourself in a swimming pool with my kids and me, you'll probably hear us saying those two words, that name, over and over again.

"Marco." "Polo." For those of you who may not be familiar with this particular pool game, Marco Polo is like a water-logged hide and seek. Only the person who is "It" has to keep his or her eyes closed. The way It finds the others is by calling out, "Marco." The other players respond by saying, "Polo." Then It follows -- or tries to follow -- the sound their voices till he or she can catch one of them.

Marco Polo is the epitome of a simple game. I don't know when it came into being, but I've been playing it since I was a kid. I taught it to my kids as soon as they were old enough. We still play it when we go swimming. We played it just last week.

It is simple, but I've instituted a few rules over the years. The other players, the Polo players, have to make sure that It, or the Marco player, doesn't get hurt. Don't let It walk into the side of the pool or ram into someone else. When the kids were much younger and we would play this at the public swimming pool, I would always tell them, "Don't let mommy tag a person we don't know." There is nothing more awkward than grabbing a child you think is yours, only to open your eyes and discover it's not. There are other implied rules; when It says "Marco," the other players must respond "Polo," no matter how close It may be. You can't get out of the pool in order to get away from It. And It can't surreptitiously open her eyes to sneak a peek on the location of the other players.

Other than those few rules, when you play Marco Polo, you know that at some point you're going to be wandering blindly around the water, hands outstretched, trying to follow the different voices responding to yours. At some point "Polo" will be cried so close to you that you'll take a splashing leap and try to grab onto some part of that person; a hand, an arm. Even touching their toe is a win. "Marco." "Polo."

I probably shouldn't admit this, but sometimes when I pray I feel like I'm "It" in a game of Marco Polo with God. I sit down to pray but I'm blind. I can't see anything around me. I'm groping in the darkness, calling out, "God?" I think I hear God reply, "Amy." God must know how to throw his voice, because I splash toward one side only to discover that God is on the opposite one. I keep calling, and I keep tentatively moving forward, hoping to touch even a toe. Yet when I do think I hear God answering, I can't get to that voice fast enough before it's gone.

Yet hearing God's response, even if I can't quite follow it, still qualifies as good when it comes to praying. Because lately it seems that the times when my prayers feel most like a game of Marco Polo, it is because I'm calling out "God," but getting no response at all. God seems to have gone under the water or left the pool entirely. Yet there I am, still calling, still stumbling through the water, blind and searching, and God feels nowhere to be found.

In light of this metaphor, it would seem that God has a remarkable sense of humor and timing. Because this passage from Luke is probably the last thing I wanted to read or preach today. One commentator wrote that when the disciples said to Jesus, "Lord, teach us to pray," there is an implication that the congregation is asking the same of the preacher.

"Teach us to pray."

It would be simple enough to approach this passage by comparing it not only to our version of the Lord's Prayer has evolved, but also in comparison with Matthew's version of this prayer. Or we could talk about the different kinds of prayers. Just peruse our bulletin and you'll see several. There is a prayer invoking God's presence with us. A prayer confessing what we have and what we haven't. There is a prayer for the Holy Spirit to open our minds and hearts and eyes and ears to God's Word. We pray to dedicate. We pray to petition. We pray for intercession and for thanksgiving.

However, I think that what makes Luke's telling both unique and challenging is not the form of the prayer, but the parables that follow. Jesus did not just give the disciples words to recite and a prayer template to memorize. He told them a story that at first appears to be about what it takes to make prayers heard and answered.

A person has an unexpected guest late at night, but he doesn't have enough food in the house. So the person goes to a friend, knocks on the door, and asks for three loaves of bread. But this friend's response isn't all that friendly.

"Don't bother me! The door is locked. We're all in bed. I can't be bothered to get up and get you anything."

But Jesus said that if the first friend was persistent, his friend would get up and give him what he needs -- not out of friendship, but just to get the guy off his back.

Then Jesus said, "Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock and the door will be opened for you. For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened."

Then he continued with the analogy of a child asking a parent for a fish and getting a snake, or wanting an egg and getting a scorpion. Even we who are evil give good gifts to our kids. Won't God, the heavenly parent, give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him?

What? That's often been my initial response to this particular parable. What? Is Jesus saying that in order to get our prayers answered, we have to annoy God until God finally gives in? The Greek word translated as "persistent," would be better translated as "shameless." Does this mean that Jesus instructed the disciples to be shameless in their prayers? Was this analogy that Jesus used a description of the character of God? Or was Jesus actually describing the character of humans? If we're persistent and shameless enough, even the worst example of a human might finally answer our need. How much more so will God, who is the opposite of that, answer our prayers if we just shamelessly persist in praying?

But that begs another, harder question. How many of us have prayed and prayed and prayed, persistently, shamelessly, asking God for help, for healing, for life, and the opposite has happened? Does that mean that our prayers are not persistent and shameless enough? Are we praying wrong? We ask, and we get a painful answer. We search, but we still feel lost. We knock, and the door never opens.

The explanations that are given in those circumstances don't help. Sometimes the answer to a prayer is, "no." That may absolutely be true, but when a parent has prayed for a child to live and that child dies, it's hard to find any comfort in the "no" of God. Or we're told or we tell others, "God must have had another plan," or "we're just not meant to understand God's will." Again, this may be true, but there is no solace in it. So for some, praying becomes an exercise in futility. Foolishness. Empty words poured out to empty space. God has left the pool, but I'm still calling out, "Marco."

Yet maybe there is something else being said in this parable. Maybe Jesus was trying to teach his disciples -- and us -- another lesson about prayer and God. If we see prayer as a cosmic grocery list of our needs, hopes and wants, then when our list isn't met, when all the items aren't checked off, we feel abandoned by God; let down by God. But maybe the real nature, perhaps the real purpose of prayer, is not just to tell God what we need, but to be in constant, persistent relationship with God. After all, how do you build relationship with someone? Do you just go to that person and say, "This is what I want"? Or, do you spend time with that person, talking, listening, sitting in silence, even arguing, in order to strengthen and build that bond between the two of you?

I think it's the latter. It's not that there isn't a place for prayers of petition. That is a large part of our prayers of the people. But when we offer up our joys and concerns, are we merely praying that God will give us what we desire, or are we finding strength and comfort, courage and hope, in our relationship with God and each other -- no matter what the outcome might be?

As I said earlier, the timing of this passage must mean God has a sense of humor, because I am struggling to pray these days. I am struggling to believe that God hears and responds to my prayers -- to any of our prayers. I say that because there seems to be no end to the pain and suffering of the world. The mass shooting in Munich, the terror attack in Nice, the shootings of civilians and the shootings of police. The anger and vitriol in our politics, and the decided lack of  civility in our discourse, publicly or otherwise.

I am just world-weary, and I feel as though lately I live in a haze of grief and despair. Praying has been hard, to say the least. Yesterday morning, I woke up, trying to work on my sermon, but feeling lost as to what to say or write. I checked into social media. A friend posted an essay by Clarissa Pinkola Estes, an author, a post-trauma specialist and a psycho-analyst. The title of the essay is "We Were Made for These Times," and her first sentence is "My friends, do not lose heart." She goes on to to write a beautiful, powerful response to the suffering, hatred and fear that seems to be a looming cloud over us these days.

One quote from the essay is, "There will will always be times when you feel discouraged. I too have felt despair many times in my life, but I do not keep a chair for it. I will not entertain it. It is not allowed to eat from my plate."

I've read the essay and that quote many times now, but I have also stared intently at the picture that goes with the essay. It is of a person's hands, both dirty and grimy, nails shorn with dirt and oil around them. Both hands are wrapped in ace bandages that are as dirty as the hands themselves. The hands look as though they are in prayer. Most of the time when we see pictures of hands in prayer, they are more like a Precious Moments statue. Perfect little hands, folded perfectly. But these hands in this picture are real. They are bruised and battered. They have worked and suffered. But they still pray.

Maybe that is the persistence that Jesus taught. Maybe that is the shamelessness. Maybe praying is not about getting or not getting, finding the right way versus the wrong way. Maybe praying is about working and working and working to be in relationship with God; no matter how hard it is sometimes, no matter how tired we are, how fragile our faith. So ask. Search. Knock. Persist shamelessly in prayer, because it keeps us in relationship with our God who persistently and shamelessly loves us.

Let all of God's children say, "Alleluia!"

Amen.

Distracted

Luke 10:38-42
July 17, 2016

Many years ago, I heard a sermon by a preacher and teacher from California. He pastored a church in a low-income neighborhood where poverty and homelessness lived on the church's doorstep. The church provided several outreach ministries to their neighbors; one of those ministries was a weekly meal. Most of the folks who came to the meal ate and left. But one man took a liking to the people, the minister and the church. He started attending regularly. His name was Jim, and he was homeless. As we well know, when you're homeless showering and washing your clothes are luxuries. Dirt and grime clung to Jim -- to his skin and hair and clothing. He never smelled very good. But the people in the congregation welcomed him. They never reacted to how badly he smelled or the dirt and filth on his clothes. They never shied away from shaking his hand or sitting next to him in worship. Jim sensed their genuine welcome, and became a joyful and faithful part of their lives. He sang off key, loudly. He made sure to shake every hand during the passing of the peace. And Jim always wanted to engage the minister, the one telling this story, in long conversations about God and grace and salvation. Not only did Jim attend church faithfully on Sunday's, he would also drop by at different times during the week to say, "hello," to anyone who happened to be in. The people who were there, the secretary, the janitor, and the pastor, would always take the time to chat with him.

But one day the pastor had gone into his office and closed the door. It had been a stressful week. He had more work to do than usual, and he was behind. So he was trying to finish up reports, outline his sermon and get ready for his next meeting when there was a knock at his door. Before he could say, "come in," the door opened. It was Jim. The pastor admitted that his heart sank at the sight of Jim standing in the doorway. He was too busy. He had too much going on. He didn't have time for a long, drawn out conversation with Jim that day.

He opened his mouth to tell Jim that, but Jim spoke first.

"Pastor, I just wanted to come by and pray with you."

The pastor sighed and agreed, although he was frustrated by this interruption. He and Jim sat and bowed their heads, and Jim began to pray. He thanked God for this kind man who did so much for him and for the all the people that he led. He thanked him for always taking the time to listen and to care for the people who came to him in need. Jim thanked God for the ways the pastor taught him to be more faithful and more prayerful. As Jim prayed, tears filled the pastor's eyes. He didn't feel like an adequate teacher when it came to being faithful and prayerful. He realized that this was the first time he had prayed all day. It was the first time he had prayed more than just a quick grace before eating in several days. If anyone was being an example of faithfulness, it was Jim. Jim was teaching him, not the other way around. The pastor had been so distracted by all of his duties, that he had forgotten to pray. Prayer should have been the foundation on which every other responsibility was grounded. Instead he had let it become an afterthought. He was worried and distracted by many things, but there was need of only one thing. Jim had chosen the better part.

This pastor was distracted. So was Martha. What I am about to say I say every time we encounter this passage in our lectionary: the court of public opinion on this story gives Martha a raw deal. Marthas are necessary in this world, and they are definitely necessary in the church. If every Martha in a congregation were to sit down, the church would stop running. One of the last worship services I attended when I was at the CREDO retreat three years ago was led by two of the faculty members who were not ordained ministers. The woman who preached gave one of the best sermons on this passage that I have ever heard. Standing in front of the communion table, she looked out at this room full of ministers and said, "In your churches, all of you preside over the meal that we share at this table, but do you ever think about the person who sets the table before you get there?" I have presided over the Lord's Supper in several churches, and I guarantee you that every table in every church was set by a Martha.

So I reiterate. Martha gets the short end of the stick. I've also said this before: Martha was doing what was expected of her. She was supposed to serve. Welcoming Jesus into her home and giving him an honored place at the table was not Martha's way of vying for the Emily Post etiquette award. Martha was obeying the Law of Hospitality. She was doing what she was supposed to do - serving.
What was the problem then? Luke puts great emphasis on service and serving. Last week's story about the Samaritan was an example of that. The Samaritan served. The Samaritan did. Jesus ended his parable with the words, "Go and do likewise." What was the difference between that and Martha? The difference, as I see it, lies in Martha' s distraction. There was no joy in her service. She was worried. She was anxious. She was probably thinking about twenty different things at once. She was distracted. She was so distracted by her service that she put her guest of honor on the spot.

"Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me."

Asking your guest to confront your sister does not embody hospitality, does it? But that's where Martha's distraction and anxiety over serving took her. In trying so hard to be hospitable, she did something greatly inhospitable. Preachers often interpret Jesus' response to her as a reproach, as scolding. But as someone who has had to both calm an anxious person and also been that anxious person, I don't think Jesus was scolding her as much as he was trying to get her attention.
"Martha, Martha, listen to me. Look at me. You're worried and distracted by way too many things. Only one thing is really important. Mary's recognized that one thing and she is paying attention to it. I'm not going to stop her or take that away from her."

Contrary to the popular understanding of these sisters, I don't think Jesus was saying that Mary was the good one and Martha was the bad one. You see this even in the art inspired by this passage. Martha is standing off to the side, bowl in hand, staring sullenly at Jesus and Mary, while Mary is sitting at Jesus feet with her head illumined by a halo. However, Jesus was not comparing sister to sister, as though they were in some competition and Martha was the loser. It seems to me that Jesus was trying to refocus Martha on what was necessary in that moment.

What was necessary? Jesus said that Mary had made the right choice. She was sitting at Jesus' feet, listening to him, learning from him, being with him. Jesus was in their home, and she took advantage of that opportunity to really be in his presence. There's a part of me that thinks had Mary gotten up and helped her sister do what was required, they both could have had the chance to really be in his presence, but I may be missing the larger point. That is that sometimes we just need to be in the presence of the Lord. But here's the thing, we also need to do. We are also called to serve. Last week's story about the Samaritan and this week's story about Martha and Mary are side by side for a reason. They complement each other. The Samaritan is about the doing. Mary is about the being. Do. Be. Do. Be. Do be do be do. (I couldn't help myself.)

Yet I think there's another connection in these two stories that can be easily missed. Both the Samaritan and Mary chose the thing that was necessary and needed. A man was robbed and beaten and left half-dead by the side of the road. That would not have been the time for the Samaritan or anyone else to choose to sit and be in the presence of Jesus. On the other side of that coin, if Jesus is present in your home, sitting at your table, speaking of the kingdom of God, there is no detail of the dinner that is more important than being with him.

We who seek to follow Jesus need to do both. We need to be in his presence. We need to serve others. The question is what distracts us from doing one or both? What are we distracted by in this congregation? Are our worries about the building, membership, the future pushing us to follow God more closely or are they distracting us from doing just that?

The concerns about our building and our declining membership and our future are legitimate. There is no dispute about that. We will continue to address those concerns and wrestle with them and pray for discernment for our future together. But at the same time we cannot let them distract us from being the church, from being people who seek to be in God's presence and who seek to serve God's children. Those are the things that are needed and necessary. This broken, hurting world needs us. This broken, hurting world needs us. So may we be like Mary and may we do as the Samaritan, free from distraction.

Let all of God's children say, "Alleluia!"

Amen.

Some Samaritan

Luke 10:25-37
July 10, 2016

Thursday night, as the reports were coming in about a sniper targeting police at a peaceful Black Lives Matter protest in Dallas, Phoebe had a good friend over. They hadn't seen each other in a while, and their animated laughter was a sharp contrast to the news of the tragedy unfolding in Dallas. Phoebe came in and told me she was going to give her friend a ride home. I responded with my usual caution for her to drive carefully. But then I added, "Come straight home." I repeated that a few times before they left.

That doesn't sound all that strange or out of the ordinary. What parent doesn't send their teenage driver out of the door with those kinds of words? But when I told her to come straight home, it wasn't because I was afraid for her safety behind the wheel, it was because I was just afraid. I was gripped with a fear for her that went far beyond my concern that she might get distracted or give in to the temptation to text while driving. I was afraid for her and for her friend because I was sending them out into the night and into a country I no longer recognize. It's not that I don't know or recognize racism. I do. But never before have I felt that we were teetering on the edge of a full-blown race war.

I was afraid for Phoebe, for her friend, for my son, in a way that I never have been before. And I realized that I was getting a taste of what my friends who are black feel when they send their kids out into the world. It's what they feel when they say goodbye to their spouses in the morning, and when they get in the car to go to work or grocery shopping or just out. Will they be targeted because of the particular melanin that determines the color of their skin?

The horrific violence of this past week, the senseless deaths of two black men and five white police officers, has been almost more than I can bear. It's been more than most of us can bear. It adds to our collective heartache over the massacre in Orlando, the one year anniversary of the massacre in Mother Emanuel Church in Charleston, and the daily violence that seems to have become the norm. And into this heart sickness comes this familiar story found only in Luke's gospel: The Good Samaritan.

To say that the story of the Good Samaritan is a familiar one is an understatement. Hospitals and nursing homes and clinics bear this name. There are Good Samaritan laws. When a stranger helps someone out in a time of need, that person is referred to as a Good Samaritan. When a stranger returned Zach's lost wallet this spring, I wished that I could meet that Good Samaritan so I could thank him or her. The Good Samaritan is a story we all know ... well. However the problem with a story so well known as the Good Samaritan is that we make assumptions about it; we domesticate it. It is a good story about helping other people whether we know them or not, and that's it. Maybe if this story came from another source, that would be the total of its meaning. But this isn't just a story. It is a parable. It is a parable told by Jesus. Jesus didn't offer these parables as bedtime stories. He told them to make a point. He told them to make people think. He told them to surprise, and yes, shock his listeners. His parables weren't pablum. They packed an intellectual and emotional punch. The parable of the Good Samaritan is no different.

My source for this sermon is Amy-Jill Levine's book, Short Stories by Jesus: The Enigmatic Parables of a Controversial Rabbi. Many of you will recognize her name from her lecture series you've watched in your Sunday School class. Levine is professor of New Testament and Jewish Studies at Vanderbilt. Fluent in both ancient Hebrew and Koine Greek, Levine begins each chapter on her chosen parables with her literal translation of them. Our modern translations tell us that "a lawyer" stood up to test Jesus, and "a man" was going down to Jericho, and "a priest" was going down that road, and "a Samaritan" came near him. But the literal translation is "some." I understood this as not just a quirk in the language, but that Jesus was making the point that the man who was robbed could have been any man. Just as the lawyer and priest could have been any one in their professions. And the Samaritan could have been any Samaritan. Nowhere, in our translations or in hers, is the word "good" used. It's a title that we've added to this story. But as Levine points out, using the word "good" is condescending. It's like describing a Muslim or a Jew or a person of color as a good Muslim, Jew, person of color, implying that while most of their ilk are far from good, this one is.

So some lawyer stood up to test Jesus wanting to know about eternal life. Jesus used the Law -- supposedly the lawyer's speciality -- to answer his test. What does the Law say? The lawyer responded by quoting the Law.

"You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself."

"That's correct," Jesus told him. "Do just that, and you've got it!"

But the lawyer wanted to justify himself. He wanted to prove himself, which is never a good thing when your purpose was to test Jesus. So he pushed Jesus more and asked, "And who is my neighbor?" Levine points out that what the lawyer really wanted to know was, "who is not my neighbor?" Where are the boundary lines between who is my neighbor and who isn't? I get that I have to love my neighbor, but who do I have permission not to love? Jesus answered with our parable.

A man, any man, every man, was going down the 18 mile, steep, rocky, treacherous road from Jerusalem to Jericho. He was attacked by a gang of armed robbers, who beat him, stripped him, and left him to die. A priest, any priest, was traveling down that road. He saw the man, crossed to the other side and kept going. A Levite, came along a little later and did the same. Then a Samaritan, came after them. But when he saw the man, he stopped. He cared for him on the spot. Then he put him on his animal and took him to an inn. He tended to the man there. The next day he had to leave, but he gave the innkeeper money to take care of the man promising that when he returned he would repay the innkeeper whatever he spent out of his own pocket.  Jesus finished his story by asking the lawyer. "Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?" "The one who showed him mercy."

What really happened in the parable? It would have been no surprise to the people listening that the man was robbed. It was a dangerous road. Robberies were common. What about the priest and the Levite? They were part of the clergy of that time. Why didn't they stop? One reason, and it is a reason I've given, is that they could not touch a potential dead person because it would make them unclean. But the Law allowed, demanded even, that someone who was hurt must be cared for no matter what. The Law also demanded that a corpse should be treated with the utmost respect. So the priest and the Levite had a duty to help. As far as being unclean, they were traveling down from Jerusalem, away from the temple. Purity restrictions would not have been pressing. The truth is, they failed. They failed. They saw a person in desperate need and they failed. Perhaps they were afraid; afraid that it was a trap, afraid that they would be harmed. Whatever the reason for their fear and hesitation, they failed.

That failure most likely shocked Jesus' listeners. But then came the kicker. Levine describes something called "the rule of three." That means that when two subjects are listed, like the priest and the Levite, then the expectation was that third subject was next. They would have expected to hear about a third person finding the beaten man on the road. But they would not have expected the one who showed up: some Samaritan. A person no Jew would have expected to stop and offer aid. If Jesus would have said that a fellow Jew had stopped to help, they would have smiled and gone on their way. But it was a Samaritan, and their jaws dropped.

As I see it, it's about perspective. For that audience, the shock was that a Samaritan stopped. Today, it would be if a Christian audience heard that a member of ISIS stopped to help a Christian, or vice versa. Or, considering this past week, it might be that a black man stopped to help a white cop, or vice versa. From any of these perspectives, the person stopping to help would have stunned the listeners. It surely stunned the lawyer. Who was the neighbor? The one, the unexpected one, who showed mercy.

Looking at this parable through this lens of shock and surprise makes me realize that far too often I have been that priest and that Levite. I've failed to act out of mercy because I have been paralyzed by fear. I have to reckon with my sin of failure, and I pray not only for forgiveness but that I won't let that kind of failure happen again. However, what concerns me more today is our collective failure. I'm not pointing the finger of accusation at our congregation alone. I'm thinking of the Church with a capital C.

In his response to the violence of this week, our denomination's newly elected Stated Clerk, J. Herbert Nelson wrote that racism is "a cancer" in our country. It is a cancer of injustice, and historically the Church has responded more like the priest and the Levite than like the Samaritan. Nelson called on our denomination and on the Church as a whole to step up and lead the way in eradicating this cancer. This cancer of racism, along with all the other "isms", is contrary to the gospel and contrary to the kingdom of God. We are called to love as the Samaritan loved, to be a neighbor as the Samaritan was a neighbor.

It is a fearful task, I know. Yet in a few minutes, we will come to this table together to share a meal which followers of Jesus have been sharing for centuries. Before we actually partake of the bread and the cup, I will lift them up before you and call on us to take them in remembrance of Jesus. This kind of remembrance is not just an honoring of him or a memorial in his name. We are called to remember Jesus, to remember what he said and what he did and what he sacrificed. We are called to eat the bread and drink the cup, not merely because of tradition or ritual or expectation, but so that we may gather up our courage and find the strength to do what he did; to speak truth to power and put our lives on the line for the sake of God's children.

I believe that through remembering him, we will find that strength and that courage. We will live up to our calling to be a neighbor, to show mercy, to go and do likewise.

Let all of God's children say, "Alleluia!"

Amen.