A Community of the Broken -- World Communion Sunday

Mark 10:2-16

October 7, 2018

            I sat there feeling hopeless. Shame and guilt washed over me in relentless waves. The topic of our conversation had shifted, and one person dominated the discussion. What is wrong in our society, he said, is that our kids are coming out of broken homes. Homes with single moms, he said, and no fathers in sight. It is these broken homes, these broken families that are at the root of our crumbling culture.

            This was about six years ago. I was sitting in a ministerial association meeting – actually, I was hosting it, because we were in the parlor of the old church. The person talking was and is a minister in this community. It turns out, although I didn’t know it at the time, that he too has been married and divorced – more than once on both accounts. But I didn’t know that. What I did know was that I was newly separated. I was now a single mother, and if I believed what this man said, my kids were doomed.

            As he continued to talk and talk and talk, I got quieter and quieter. I didn’t know where to look. Catching the eye of another colleague was impossible. I didn’t want to look at them. I was too ashamed. I just bowed my head toward my hands, closed my eyes, and prayed that this rant would soon be over; that he would either run out of steam and stop on his own, or that someone would interrupt him. I don’t remember how it ended. I just know that it did. I held it together until the last minister left, then I sat and cried.

            I suspect that this other minister was not trying to shame me. I would like to believe that had he known my situation, he would have held his tongue or at least worked at some sensitivity. But even if he had done either of those things, I doubt that my shame and guilt would have been abated. Even if he would not have made any of those remarks, I would have still heard them. I was saying them to myself every day. I didn’t need to hear a sermon about the evils of divorce; I was preaching that sermon to myself on a regular basis.

            Hearing this passage from Mark may bring out those kinds of sermons in our heads. After all, it would seem that this passage is designed for just that purpose. Jesus was on the move again, drawing crowds and teaching them as they went. Into this setting some Pharisees came to Jesus to test him. That might be a clue to us that this passage is not just another way to condemn those who have failed in their marriages. The Pharisees wanted to test Jesus, and we know that whenever Pharisees wanted to test Jesus, there was more at stake. Testing was another way to try and trick him. They wanted to catch him up in a trap of the legal kind.

            But Jesus never fell for it. He never gave them the satisfaction. They asked a question about divorce, which was a legal issue, and he turned the law back on them.

            “Is it lawful for a man to divorce his wife?”

            “What did Moses command you?”

            “They said, ‘Moses allowed a man to write a certificate of dismissal to divorce her.’ But Jesus said to them, ‘Because of your hardness of heart, he wrote this commandment for you.’”

            Because of your hardness of heart … it wasn’t that Jesus didn’t take marriage seriously. He quoted from Genesis to show the divine intent behind marriage. He spoke privately to his disciples about remarriage being adultery. But he was pushing them to see something more, something bigger.

            Although the Pharisees asked about the lawfulness of divorce, that legality was not really in question. Even though divorce was frowned upon, it was assumed that it would sometimes happen. It was perfectly legal for a man to divorce his wife. And there was no long drawn out court process for this. He only had to write a “certificate of divorce.” As I understand it, that was basically the husband writing down, “I divorce you” and handing it to his wife. The reasons for divorce could be as simple as the wife burning the husband’s dinner just one too many times.

            Jesus was not countering the Pharisees test of lawfulness with more legalism. Jesus pushed back on their hardness of heart. A divorce was a breaking of relationship, and that breaking of relationship often left the most vulnerable in society even more vulnerable. Women had no status or power outside of their husband or other men in their family. To be divorced was to lose the protection of that man. I have said it again and again, and I will keep saying it, there is a reason why we so often hear about care for the widows and orphans. It is because women and children were the most vulnerable in that society. Divorce exponentially increased that vulnerability.

            Up to this point in the narrative, Jesus had been trying to teach the disciples and the crowds that the kingdom of God was for those who were vulnerable. It was for the least and the lost. Jesus had already pulled a child into his lap and told the disciples that welcoming such a little one, a vulnerable one, was welcoming him and welcoming the One who sent him.

            Divorce was a breaking of relationship that caused harm, real physical harm to those who were left in its wake. I know that can still be said about divorce today. It would seem that I am backing up the words said by that minister six years ago; that the troubles of our society spring from the broken family. If only families stayed together, all would be well. But here’s the thing: divorce does happen. And it hurts. It hurts like hell. And it can harm. But brokenness is not limited to divorce and divorce alone. We are broken; all of us. We are all wounded in one way or another. We are all damaged by the struggles of life. To live is to eventually be broken. To live is to eventually experience broken relationships and broken hearts. You do not have to live through a divorce to know that.

            But what makes me so sad is that when it comes to church, when it comes to being the church, we seem to forget this reality of the human condition. We seem to get it into our heads that church is the place where only the really, really good folks get to go. I have heard many people say that they were faithful members of their church … until they got divorced. Then they no longer felt like they could attend. They felt like they just weren’t good enough to sit in the pews. It was as if divorce stained them so badly, they could not get clean again.

            When I was going through my divorce, I considered leaving the ministry for those same reasons. Who was I to stand in this pulpit and preach when I had failed so terribly, so horribly? But Alice told me something at one point that helped me more than she knows. She said that going through this would make me a better minister, because I would have even more empathy, more understanding for the pain others go through. I don’t know if I have proof yet that she was right, but I do have hope.

            You see we are all broken, in one way or another. Today as we celebrate World Communion, I cannot help but think about all the people around the world who will gather at tables and altars, in large cathedrals and small storefronts, and take the bread and the cup. I cannot help but imagine all of the stories that will be brought to those tables. I cannot help but imagine hundreds of thousands of broken people gathering to hear the familiar words, “The body of Christ, the blood of Christ.”

            We are all broken. We are a community of broken people, but we are also a community of blessed people. We are a community of blessed people because God does not abandon us to our brokenness. God does not give up on us because we are broken. God calls us out of our broken places, God calls to us in the brokenness of our hearts. God calls us not only in spite of our brokenness, but maybe because of it. God calls us and God loves us. God binds up our broken hearts. God pours the balm of love and healing on the broken places and the broken relationships. God calls us to the table, broken and blessed, and tells us the good news that the kingdom is for the broken and the lost and the vulnerable. God blesses us just as Jesus blessed those children.

            We are a community of broken and blessed people. May we acknowledge our brokenness, and may we see the brokenness in others. Then may we reach out to them in love and grace, just as God reaches out to us, with love and tenderness and grace over and over again.

            We are a community of broken and blessed people. Thanks be to God.

But What About You?

Mark 8:27-38

September 16, 2018

            The city was all about power. It was named for an emperor; in fact the city itself was built for that emperor. The city’s every building, and every nuance of architecture, was designed as a tribute to that leader. It was a city of wealth. It was a city created to glorify a human being. It was a city of ostentation. It was a city of power. It was a monument to all that worldly success could bring.

            Into this city walked a teacher and his students. Others, many others, followed along behind them. But it would have been clear to someone watching this scene from afar that the twelve students grouped around the teacher were in a different relationship with him than the others in the crowds.

            They walked into this magnificent city and the teacher asked his followers a question.

            “Who are the people saying that I am?”

            The students did not hesitate with their answers.

            “Some say that you are John the Baptist. And other folks say that you are Elijah. There are some that say you may even be one of the other prophets.”

            The teacher stopped walking, turned around and looked with great intent at his students. There was a small but weighty silence, then he asked,

            “But what about you? Who do you say that I am?”

            A person watching from a distance would have noticed how taken aback the students were by this question. That silent observer might have seen the students look down at their feet, shift back and forth, look at each other, afraid perhaps to be the first one to speak.

            Except for one – one man who stepped forward, excited, head high and hands held out. Clearly this one thought he had the right answer.

            “You are the Messiah,” he said eagerly, maybe even with a slight smile creasing the corners of his mouth.

            If this one student, this bold student, expected accolades for getting it right, he must have been disappointed. The teacher did not pat him on the back, shake his hand or turn him around to face the others; an illustrious example of one who pays attention. No, the teacher put a finger to his lips and told them not to tell anyone else. Then with a renewed urgency, he began to tell them what being the Messiah really meant. He began to tell them it was more than just a title, a designation or a royal name.

            The Messiah must suffer, he told them. The Messiah must endure pain and affliction and then die. But after three days, he will rise again to new life.

            If the students were put off by their teacher’s earlier question, they were surely shocked, bewildered, even appalled by what he was telling them now. The Messiah suffer? The Messiah die? The Messiah rise again? None of this made sense. None of this fit with what they had been taught. Nothing the teacher was telling them connected with anything they knew before.

            Maybe the other students were frightened and confused, but the one, the bold one, the eager one, he was angry. He stepped forward again, and pulled the teacher a few steps away from the others.

            “Stop it!,” he told his teacher. “Stop it! Stop saying these terrible things. You’re scaring them! You’re scaring me! This is not what happens to a Messiah! Suffering? Death? No, this is not what happens to the Messiah, the one we’ve been waiting for!”

            If the bold one believed the teacher might back down, he was wrong. Instead the teacher turned his back on him, looked at the other students and said,

            “Get behind me, Satan! You are thinking about only human things, only human concerns. But you are not thinking about God. You are not thinking about divine things”

            That one student must have felt like he had been punched in the gut. How could he have gotten it all so wrong? Only seconds before he gave the right answer. Now the teacher had called him Satan. The teacher had compared him to the Most Evil One. But there was no time to ask for more understanding or clarification. There was no time to apologize or beg for forgiveness. The teacher called the others, the crowds, who were watching this drama unfold. He called them to come closer and told them that they had to make a choice. If they wanted to be his followers, if they really, truly, most sincerely wanted to follow him, then they must also pick up their cross and walk the path he walked. They must pick up their cross and follow him. Not only must they pick up their cross, they must decide if they would be willing to align themselves with him. Would they be ashamed of him? Would they deny they knew him? Or would they be willing to give up even their lives to follow?

            “But what about you?” he said. “Who do you say that I am?”

            Who do you say that I am?

            As one commentator put it, this is the moment in Mark’s gospel when we – those of us who think we know the rest of the story – finally believe that the gap between Jesus and the disciples’ understanding of Jesus will at last be bridged. In some ways, this is the moment we have been waiting for. Jesus asks, “Who do you say that I am?” and Peter, bless his heart, bold, impetuous Peter, steps up the plate and hits a verbal home run.

            “You are the Messiah.”

            Yes! He gets it! Peter, at least, finally understands just who Jesus is. But as quickly as we think the gap has closed, it reopens again; and it is even wider this time. Peter may have gotten the title right, but not what the title means. Jesus ordered the disciples to keep his identity a secret from others, but they have to know, they must know exactly what the true definition of Messiah is.

            To be Messiah is to suffer. To be Messiah is to die a violent death. To be Messiah is to rise again. To be Messiah … but Peter was having none of it. As earnestly as he uttered his confession of Jesus’ true identity, he even more earnestly rebuked Jesus for expounding on the truth Jesus was determined to share. Just as Jesus rebuked unclean spirits, he rebuked Peter as well.

            “Get behind me, Satan!”

            Jesus had undergone great temptation in the wilderness, and now he told Peter that Peter’s words were just another temptation. It was more of the same. To be the Messiah was to reject the comforts of the world and to follow a different path, a different way. It was not about enjoying suffering or hoping for suffering; it was to accept that when you reject the world, the world makes you pay for it. The people may not have been calling him Messiah, but the prophets they were comparing him to suffered. John the Baptist spoke truth to power and paid for it. Elijah spoke truth to power and suffered. Jesus knew that being the Messiah meant suffering, because it meant rejecting success on worldly terms, and to follow that Messiah, to really follow means the same for everyone who picks up their cross.

            His question to the disciples was not just a test of their knowledge about his identity. It was a question of their identity as well. But what about you? Who do you say that I am also asks, who will you say that you are?

            Karoline Lewis said that is the hardest question of all, because answering who Jesus is to us means that we also have to hold a bright light up to ourselves? If I believe, heart, mind and soul, that Jesus is the Messiah; if I believe that Jesus went to the hard places and ministered to the hard people; if I wholeheartedly accept and believe and confess that Jesus as Messiah spoke truth to power and gave hope to the hopeless, gave voice to the voiceless, then what does that say about me? What does that say about how I am living, how I am being, how I am following? Have I picked up my cross?

            To answer the question, “What about you? Who do you say that I am?” is to also answer a question about myself. You are Jesus the Messiah, the Son of God, and I want to follow you. My identity is intricately connected to yours. So who I say you are also says worlds about who I am. “Who do you say that I am” is a question that I must hear and that I must answer over and over again; because discipleship is a call, and it is one that we answer not just once but also over and over again. It is a choice that we make. Picking up our crosses and following Jesus is a daily decision. I don’t want to admit how many times I’ve looked at my cross, then turned and gone the other way. But here is the good news, and maybe it doesn’t even seem like good news, but it is. My cross is still there, still waiting for me to pick it up. I can always make the better choice. And I can always make that choice, because of God’s grace. God’s grace offers that me choice every day. And God’s grace covers me on those days when I cannot bear the weight of the cross I have been given. And it is Gods’ grace that gives me the courage and the strength to try again, to choose again, to answer the question one more time. “But what about you? Who do you say that I am?”

You are the Messiah. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Room at the Table

Mark 7:24-37

September 9, 2018

            Our dog Boris was a wonderful dog. He was gentle and sweet-tempered. Before I had human babies, he was my baby. I skipped a church meeting to stay home and finish the Snoopy cake I was making for his first birthday and birthday party. He was my kids’ first friend. When Phoebe had a sleepover, he let her and the other girls paint his nails without a whimper of protest. He was such a good and beloved dog; when he died we had a funeral for him. Along with our neighborhood friends, Sam and Sonja, we gathered in the backyard to say goodbye. We lifted up our prayers and memories, then at the end of the service Zach and Sam brought out their Nerf guns. They raised them up and gave Boris their version of a 21 gun salute. Zach told me they wanted to do that, because, “that’s what you do when someone important dies, and Boris was important.”

            Boris was a wonderful dog. I keep a framed picture of him in my den, because I will always love him and miss him. I loved him and I love him. But there was a moment in my life with Boris when I had to choose between him and Phoebe. As the saying goes, I was getting great with child, and Phoebe was an energetic two-year-old. We were outside on a spring day, maybe decorating the sidewalk with sidewalk chalk. I don’t fully remember. What I do remember is that we lived on a corner lot of two well-traveled streets. Phoebe decided to start toward one street, and Boris decided to run toward the other. Cars were coming. I chased Phoebe, which was not easy considering that I was, as I said, getting quite great with child. I hoped that Boris would have enough sense not to get hit by a car, but I didn’t hesitate to let him go while I went after my daughter. It was more important to save her. No matter how much I loved Boris, and I did and do. My child came first.

            You’ve probably already guessed that everything turned out just fine. I caught Phoebe. Boris stayed out of the street. Everyone was safe and well, and I have never questioned the choice I made. I would suspect that none of you are questioning that choice either. Of course, you had to run after Phoebe. Of course, you had to save your child first before you saved your dog, no matter how beloved he was to you. My reaction was the normal reaction of any parent, and that’s that.

            It’s all great, until we get to this passage in Mark’s gospel, and we read these words of Jesus to this Syrophoenician woman. It would seem that Jesus puts into words the choice that I made between my daughter and my dog.

            “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

            Say what? While I don’t question my choice on that day so long ago; it was a choice between an actual child and an actual dog. In this situation Jesus is comparing this woman, a human being, to a dog. There are loads of justifications proposed for why Jesus said this and how he said it; we’ll get to some of those. But it’s important to look first at what is happening in this story.

            Jesus made his way to Tyre and Sidon. This was Gentile territory. Tyre was not only a Gentile region, but it also had a history of great animosity toward the Jewish people. So not only was Jesus staying in a place that was “other,” he deliberately went to a town where he was the “other.” Culturally, he was the other in this situation. The text states that he did not want anyone to know that he was there. Perhaps he reckoned that if he stayed in a Gentile home, he would attract far less notice than if he stayed in a predominantly Jewish setting. But that was not to be. Even there in Tyre, his presence was not only noticed, but sought out.

            A woman heard about him. She had a daughter who was tormented by an unclean spirit, and she wanted Jesus to heal her child. She knew Jesus could heal her child. She went to where Jesus was staying and bowed down at his feet. She was Syrophoenician; about as “other” from Jesus as she could possibly be.

            “She begged him to cast the demon out of her daughter. He said to her, ‘Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.’”

            There it is. These are the words with which we must contend. We have to live with them, sit with them, wrestle with them. What is interesting is that the woman did not try to counter Jesus’ comparison of her to dogs. She didn’t argue that, although I would not have blamed her if she had. Instead, she turned his comparison on its head.

            “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.”

            Her answer and her unwavering faith and determination to see her daughter well reached Jesus. He answered,

            “For saying that, you may go – the demon has left your daughter.”

            If the woman spoke again, we do not have it recorded in this text. What we do know is that she left, and returned home to find that her daughter was lying on the bed, demon free.  

            As I said, we have to contend with these words of Jesus. And as I also said, there are a lot of justifications and explanations for why he said what he did, and what his words may have actually meant.

            One explanation that I have heard endlessly is that Jesus used a word for dog that meant “puppy,” or “beloved family pet.” He was not referring to a wild dog in the street. He was comparing her to a puppy. That may be true, but would you want to be compared to a puppy? If your daughter, your child, was sick and you were scared and anxious and desperate for her to be healed, is that the answer you would want? It wouldn’t be my first choice.

            Some have postulated that Jesus was not being unkind, but that it was a matter of timing. The time for the Gentiles would come, but not yet. It was not yet time for the Gentiles to be pulled into the promise of God Jesus brought. That promise was first for the children of Israel.

            Again, if this were your child, would you want to hear that it just wasn’t her turn yet?

Nope.

            Another theory to explain these words of Jesus is that he was testing her. He was testing her faith. Clearly her answer was the right one, and he told her so. She passed! She won the prize. Her daughter was healed. But at what other time does Jesus test someone’s faith before he heals them? He may have pushed people and questioned the people around him. He certainly spoke hard truths, and he wasn’t afraid to get angry if the situation warranted it. But when did he test someone before he healed them?

            Maybe what we have to do, and I have said this in other sermons on this text, is allow these words to be what they sound like. Jesus gave an unkind response to a woman in need. We don’t want to do this because it runs counter to our understanding of who Jesus was and is. But maybe that is exactly what happened.

            We believe that Jesus was both human and divine; fully human and fully divine. Wouldn’t that mean that Jesus’ had human responses, and human frailties? Jesus may have been tired and overwhelmed and needed a break. He went to this house hoping not to attract notice. But even there he was found. And he was found by this woman. Maybe in a moment of exhaustion, he responded to her the way we might: sharply, curtly and with a lack of patience and compassion.

            But she refused to be deterred. She refused to let it go or to slink away in shame. Her daughter needed healing, and she would do anything to make that happen. Maybe in this exchange, Jesus learned something from her. We have other examples in scripture of people arguing with God, questioning God, negotiating with God. We have other examples where people were determined to see God keep God’s promises. Maybe that’s what happened in this moment. Maybe Jesus learned something from her. Maybe he learned something about the scope of his own mission.

            Maybe even Jesus learned that there is plenty of room at the table, for us and for those we believe are “others.”

            Tuesday marks the 17^th anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks. It is unfair to reduce the tragedy of that day and the reasons behind it to any one single factor. Yet even as I say that, it seems to me that we humans spend a lot of time believing that there is limited room at the table. September 11^th showed the terrible, destructive consequences of that thinking taken to its extreme.

            If Jesus could learn that there is room at the table, couldn’t we? If Jesus could learn that healing one does not take away from the healing of the other, couldn’t we? If Jesus could learn that the table is big enough and the world is wide enough for all of God’s children to find a place, couldn’t we? Couldn’t we finally learn that there is room at the table for all? May we learn that lesson; may we learn it soon. Amen.

From the Inside Out

Mark 7:1-9, 14-15, 21-23

September 2, 2018

            There is a humorous television commercial out right now – an ad for the pest control company, Terminix. Here’s how it goes. The Terminix man comes to the door of a nice home. The woman who owns the house is obviously relieved that he has finally arrived. Clearly, she is in great distress about the puzzling pest problem she’s facing. You realize why it’s puzzling when the two go inside. Her home is immaculate, spotless, and sanitary to the nth degree.

            The home owner takes the Terminix man into the kitchen, bemoaning as she goes that she cannot fathom why bugs are coming into her home, because she keeps it spotless. She tells him that there isn’t a crumb of food to be found anywhere. To prove her point, she opens the doors to her pantry. There, in perfect order, are neat rows of clear containers keeping her food secure. I believe they are even arranged by color. When this woman said that not a crumb or stray speck of food could be found, she meant it.

            The Terminix man has to give her the bad news that bugs don’t always come into a home looking for food. They come to get away from the cold, to build their nests and to reproduce. She cringes in horror at the thought, and the Terminix man goes on to tell her how the company can get rid of the bugs and return her home to its pristine state once more. At the end of the commercial, he makes the mistake of putting his hand on her counter, leaving potential germs. She quickly takes care of that by moving his hand and spraying cleaner on the spot.

            The point of the ad is to sell Terminix. But it is a funny commercial, and what makes it funny to me is this woman and what is supposed to be her over-the-top neatness. But here’s the thing; while I might laugh along with others at this woman, secretly I want her pantry. I want that kind of order. I want all of my food packed securely into air-tight containers, and I want to have the kind of pantry where they can all be arranged in neat rows, arranged, if not by color, than alphabetically.

            Now that my confession is out of the way, you’re probably wondering what the heck this commercial has to do with our passage from Mark’s gospel. After all, Jesus made no mention of clutter or insects anywhere in the verses that we read, or in the verses that were left out. While the Pharisees and scribes did ask about the lack of hand washing among some of the disciples, this was not an encounter about hygiene. It was, instead, a confrontation about defilement.

            “Why do your disciples not live according to the tradition of the elders, but eat with defiled hands?”

            Looking at this question through our particular modern lens, the Pharisees and scribes don’t seem off base at all. We know about germs. We know that hand washing is one very effective way of preventing the spread of sickness and disease. Every public restroom you go in has a sign up saying that all employees must thoroughly wash their hands before returning to work. Hand washing is a given in our culture. But again, the tradition of the elders that the Pharisees and scribes referred to was not about hygiene or sanitary practices. It was about defilement. It was about being ritually clean or unclean. That’s why hands were washed and food from the market place was washed; and pots, cups and bronze kettles were washed. In one way it would seem that the world Jesus and these religious authorities lived in was divided into clean and unclean. One walked side-by-side with ritual uncleanness all the time. Because of that, observing the tradition of the elders was necessary to avoid defilement. Just as the woman in the commercial believed that keeping her home scrupulously clean would deter insect infestation, the people in Jesus’ context believed that defilement could be deterred and avoided by controlling their external reality. Defilement came from the outside, so they worked on keeping that outside in check.

            But Jesus turned that tradition on its head.

            “Listen to me, all of you, and understand: there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile. … For it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come: fornication, theft, murder, adultery, avarice, wickedness, deceit, licentiousness, envy, slander, pride, folly. All these evil things come from within, and they defile a person.”

            “For it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come.”

            From the inside out; it seems to me that was the point Jesus was making. If you want to know what defiles a person, look at what is on in the inside, not the outside. I do not think in any way that Jesus was saying that the Law didn’t matter or was unnecessary. After all, Jesus said that he came to fulfill the Law. Even though what defiles originates from the inside out, outward laws are still needed to restrain and constrain our worst impulses. Setting legal boundaries on human behavior is part of what makes societies function. But legalism is something else. That’s the issue that Jesus had with the Pharisees, the scribes and the other religious authorities. They took the Law, capital L, and expanded and extended it into lists of legal do’s and don’ts.’ They forgot that the reason God gave the people the Law, was not for the sake of legalism but for the sake of love.

            Jesus spent a lot of time trying to get people to understand that; to understand that the heart of God was the source of all love. So if you really want to know where defilement originates, you have to look at the heart. Defilement comes from the inside out, not the other way around.

            Yesterday, Brent and I made a trip down to Dallas to visit the 6^th Floor Museum at Diehly Plaza. The former name for this museum was the Texas Book Depository. It was where Lee Harvey Oswald was working when he became infamous for assassinating John F. Kennedy, the President of the United States. The 6^th floor is where Oswald made what is called the sniper’s nest. It is where he spent the day waiting for the president’s motorcade to come by, and it is where he took his rifle and fired three shots. The first one missed, the second hit the president and Governor Connelly, and the third one finished its ultimate purpose.

            This was not a lighthearted or fun museum to visit. It was sad. It was incredibly sad. It was haunting because unlike some museums, we could actually walk down the sidewalk where Oswald walked when he left the building. My fiancée is a self-described geek about this particular moment in history, so after we toured the museum, we followed the path of both the motorcade and Oswald for the rest of that day. We drove the route to Parkland Hospital, where the president was taken. We passed by the Trade Market where the president and the first lady were heading for a luncheon, and where the president was supposed to give a speech. Then we went to the boarding house where Oswald stayed during the week when he was working at the depository. We drove by the house where Oswald and his wife lived before they moved to a farther suburb, and we saw through a slat in the fence the backyard where he had his picture taken with the rifle that would be used to kill the president. We stopped at the spot where he gunned down a police officer, Officer Tippet. It is a place where an historical marker has finally been erected – not to remember Oswald, but to remember Officer Tippet. And finally we went to the Texas Theater, now another historic landmark, and saw for ourselves the place where Oswald was captured.

            It was haunting to see all these sites, but even more than that it was sad; so incredibly sad. What a waste of life. What a waste of potential and possibility, and for what? I thought about it and realized that seven children were left fatherless that day: President Kennedy’s two little ones, Officer Tippet’s three children, and Oswald’s own two little girls. And why? For what?

            As we were driving back to Oklahoma, Brent shared a story with me from Oswald’s brother, Robert. Robert went to visit his brother while he was in jail. Apparently Robert stared intently into his younger brother’s eyes, trying to understand, to fathom what would have made his brother do something like this. Perhaps he stared into his brother’s eyes trying to see a glimpse of humanity that he hoped was there.

            Oswald told him, “Don’t stare into my eyes trying to find something, brother. There’s nothing there.”

            That which defiles, that which truly defiles, comes from the inside out. Certainly our external circumstances help to shape us, even define us. But Jesus said it is what lives in the heart that defiles. The violence that we do to one another, the harm that we cause, the pain that we spread, that comes from within.

            But if that which defiles comes from the inside out, than isn’t it also true that what is most good, most kind, most loving also comes from the inside out? It is that goodness, that kindness and compassion and love that we seek to nurture in this place. It is that which we seek to nurture when we come to this table; when we remember Jesus through the breaking of the bread and the drinking of the cup. And when we come to this table, we not only enlarge the goodness that lies in our hearts, we see one another a little more as God sees us; we see one another through Christ’s eyes.

            May our God of grace help us to share all that is good from the inside out, to give more, care more, do more and love more. Thanks be to God. Amen.

This Difficult Teaching

John 6:56-69

August 26, 2018

            Back in the early 1990’s, a movie came out about the afterlife. It wasn’t your typical film that about what heaven or, for that matter, what hell may be like. Defending Your Life had a different take on what happens when you die. Daniel Miller, a man in his 30’s, divorced, working in a comfortable job, living a comfortable but non-descript sort of life, dies suddenly in a car accident. He wakes up dead and finds himself in Judgment City; it’s sort of the waiting room of the afterlife. Arriving in Judgment City is your first stop when you die. Actually, the first stop is being housed in a Judgment City hotel room to sleep, because apparently dying takes a lot out of you and the newly dead need their rest.

            What happens in Judgment City? The name is rather self-explanatory. You, actually your life, is judged. Judgment City is where you defend your life. During the day, you are in a courtroom of sorts. Like any courtroom, you have a prosecutor and you have a defense lawyer – more of an advocate really. You, your advocate and the prosecutor watch clips from your life. Then you’re asked to defend the decisions you made or didn’t make. There are two possible outcomes – you go back to earth to live a new life and get it right this time or you go … on. The “on” is never fully described. It just means that you got it right in your life on earth, and you’re allowed to go … on.

            Judgment is not based so much on morality, but on whether or not you lived your life in fear. Morality, standing up for your convictions, doing what is right, is connected to fear. It takes courage to do the right thing. Daniel Miller, played by Albert Brooks – who also wrote and directed the movie – was not a bad or immoral person. He didn’t do anything particularly wrong. But he didn’t do anything particularly memorable either. He lived a very fearful life. It probably didn’t seem so fearful when he was living it. He lived a life that many people live. It was … fine. But it turned out that most of what Daniel did and did not do was based on fear. And fear is what you are judged on. Did you live your life in fear? Then you need to go back and do life again. Learn to live without fear. Learn to be brave, to be courageous. Learn to live without fear.

            The nice thing about Judgment City is that while you defend your life during the day, at night you can have fun. You can eat anything you want without gaining a single ounce. There are restaurants and even bowling alleys – Judgment Lanes. The majority of the people in Judgment City are old, but another person close to Daniel’s age is Julia, played by Meryl Streep. Julia’s life had been full. She definitely lived without fear, or if she was afraid, she overcame it. Daniel falls in love with Julia – really falls in love. And it’s this love that finally pushes him to find his courage. He was sentenced to go back, to live life again. Julia was allowed to go on. Without giving away the ending, Daniel changes his life … or his afterlife.

            A life lived in fear is the premise of Defending Your Life. I realize that this does not meet our Christian understanding of the afterlife. But what about our life now? Do we live lives of courage or do we live lives of fear? I pose this question because I think that fear plays a part in the passage we read from John’s gospel.

            We have finally reached the end of chapter 6 in John. Next week we return to Mark’s gospel. We get a break from pondering Jesus as the bread of life, the living bread from heaven, and especially, eating his body and drinking his blood. I mean it when I say we get a break. These words are not easy to read, to preach or to understand.

            According to the text, we are not alone in finding them challenging. Those listening found them hard to swallow as well.

            “When many of his disciples heard it, they said, ‘This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?’ But Jesus, being aware that his disciples were complaining about it, said to them, ‘Does this offend you? Then what if you were to see the Son of Man ascending to where he was before? It is the Spirit that gives life; the flesh is useless. The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life.’”

            Note that it was not just any old folks who struggled with what Jesus was teaching. John refers to them as disciples. These were people who had followed Jesus, who were learning from Jesus, who believed in Jesus. They were disciples, but Jesus’ teaching about being living bread from heaven was just too much for them. They couldn’t wrap their heads around it. They couldn’t go any further, and they turned back. They turned away. They were afraid.

            The word that the New Revised Standard Version translates as “offend,” actually comes from the Greek word for scandal. Jesus asked them if his words scandalized them. To go even deeper, the root of this word literally means “stumble over.”

            Do my words, my teachings scandalize you? Do they make you stumble? Yes. The disciples who had been following Jesus stumbled over his words, and they could not find a way to get back up and keep going. It was just too much.

            What about Jesus’ words made them so fearful, other than the obvious answer that delving into his flesh and blood has an “Ew! Yuck!” factor, as we talked about last week? Remember that the underlying theme in John’s gospel is relationship. Jesus, the Word became flesh, became this flesh so that we could have a relationship with him, and through him, with God. Abiding in John’s gospel is about abiding in relationship. Staying in John’s gospel is about relationship. Jesus gave up his flesh and blood so we, the world could have a new relationship, a new life with God. Considering all of this some 2,000 years later, we might think that there should be no fear involved whatsoever. These disciples who turned away just didn’t get it. They did not have all the knowledge that we have. They were afraid because they didn’t know the rest of the story, and we who do, are not afraid.

            Or are we? Think about it. What does it take to be in a real relationship, a full relationship, an intimate relationship? It takes vulnerability. It takes intense honesty. It takes a willingness to reveal ourselves, to show ourselves with all of our flaws and failings. I think this is true in our marriages, our family relationships, and our deepest friendships. Being vulnerable, being honest, being willing to show ourselves for who we truly are is a scary thing. Staying on the surface of a relationship is much safer, much easier.

            If it is scary in our human relationships, how much more frightening is it when we consider our relationship with God? I’m not talking about a relationship based on the fear that God is going to strike us down at any moment. I’ve heard that kind of relationship preached far too often. I’m talking about recognizing that being in relationship with God calls for a deep and abiding trust. It calls for a willingness to let go of control, to realize that there is more than we can understand or explain. For us being in a relationship with God the Father comes through being in a relationship with Jesus the Son. That relationship with the Son calls us to imitate the Son. That is discipleship. We seek to follow Jesus, to be his disciples. But that means we are called to do what he did, to live as he lived. We are called to love, really love in word and in deed, the stranger, the other, those who seem most unlovable. And we are called not just to pity, but to put ourselves in their shoes, to walk their journey. Being a disciple calls us to hard places and to do hard things. This is a difficult teaching, and it is a difficult doing.

            It takes courage to love like this. It takes a letting go of our fear. But when we let go of our fear, when we step up and find this courage, we have a fullness of life that is joyful and brimming, overflowing, with love and hope. This is the abundant life that Jesus spoke of. It is a life based not on fear or caution but on love.

            It would be easy to walk away. Sometimes we do just that. I know I have. We are ever walking the line between discipleship and betrayal. Perhaps we don’t betray as Judas did, but we betray when we give into our fear, give into hopelessness. But the good news is that we are covered by grace. Jesus does not stop calling; Jesus does not give up on us or walk away from us. May we summon up our courage and let go of the fear which keeps us from living full lives; lives of discipleship, lives of love. After all where else can we go, really? Who else can we turn to? It is Jesus that has the words of eternal life. Thanks be to God. Amen.

The Living Bread

John 6:51-58

August 19, 2018

            “This is my body given for you.”

            “This cup is the new covenant sealed in my blood, shed for you for the forgiveness of sin.”

            “The body of Christ.”

            “The blood of Christ.”

            I sometimes wonder what it would be like if someone who had never heard anything about church – about Christ, about Christianity, someone with no cultural references, no memories of visiting church with their grandparents or going to Vacation Bible as a kid – walked into our church just as we were celebrating communion. What would they think? What would they hear? What would they see? What would they believe we were doing?

            I read a story in a blog I follow about preacher and scholar,Martin Copenhaver, who witnessed a moment like the one I described. The setting was a traditional church. The communion table was spread with fine linens and a beautiful chalice and plate. The minister stood and solemnly intoned the words of institution: the body of Christ, the blood of Christ. And in a moment of quiet, a holy pause, a little girl in the congregation who was really listening to what was being said, suddenly exclaimed, “Ew! Yuck!”

            It was when I was attending a Catholic Junior College that I first realized that different denominations understand what happens in the Lord’ Supper differently. Some traditions, such as Roman Catholic, Lutheran and Episcopalian, believe that the bread and wine become the body and blood. When we were discussing this belief in my required theology class, Father Dolehide asked a Catholic student what he thought about when he took the Eucharist. The young man looked somewhat shamefaced, and then he said,

            “Honestly, Father, I just close my eyes and try not to think about it.”

            My fellow student’s answer was not, “Ew! Yuck!” But the underlying sentiment was similar to that of the little girl’s. He was taught that the bread and wine became the body and blood, so he just closed his eyes and tried not to let his imagination get the best of him.

            I admit that I take comfort in our Presbyterian understanding of the Lord’s Supper. This is a communion table, not an altar. Christ is spiritually present, which means that we are eating bread and drinking wine – or grape juice. There is no mystical substitution going on. The bread stays bread and the grape juice stays juice. I take great comfort in all of that, because I get the “Ew! Yuck!” factor. If I really believed that the bread became flesh and the wine became blood, it would be a lot harder to deal with. My comfort level about communion remains high until I get to this passage from John’s gospel.

            “So Jesus said to them, ‘Very truly, I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day; for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them. Just as the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so whoever eats me will live because of me.’”

            Our English translation does not adequately describe the scandal of these words, nor the shock and disgust the people listening to Jesus must have felt. What Jesus was saying was an abomination according to the Law and prophets. It was repugnant.

            John’s gospel is metaphorical and layered with meaning, but in this case, the verbs in Jesus’ words are vivid and more literal. The first verb for eat was more like a gentle supping, but it switches to a verb that can be translated as gnawing. When Jesus spoke of eating his flesh, he wasn’t necessarily being metaphorical. He was talking about them gnawing his flesh. Was Jesus inviting the people around him to come over and take a bite of his arm or leg? No, of course not. But clearly he was trying to make a point, an intense point. I am the living bread. God gave your ancestors manna in the wilderness to sustain them, but that manna did not last. I am the living bread, I am the bread that lasts. If you want to abide in God, then you need to abide in me and I in you. You have to eat this living bread and drink this living blood.

            Abiding in John’s gospel is not just about staying someplace. Abiding in John’s gospel is about being in relationship. Jesus was making the connection between God and him; a relationship with God comes through him, the Son. And that relationship was cemented, founded, grounded, made eternal through eating his flesh and drinking his blood.

            So what does all of this mean? What does this have to do with us, not just when we’re sitting here gathered around this table, but in our everyday lives? How will digging into this strange passage from John help us on Tuesday? How does it counsel or comfort us as we just try to get through the everydayness of life?

            I think we have to go back to the first chapter of John, to those first verses, specifically to, “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” God, our God, is not just out there somewhere watching from a distance – like that popular Top 40 song from years ago. Our God is the incarnate God; as Dr. David Lose put it, the carnal God. God became one of us. The Word became flesh, our flesh. I learned this week that the Hebrew idiom, “flesh and blood,” is about a person’s whole self. If I speak of giving God my flesh and blood, then I am giving God my whole being – my heart, my mind, my body, my soul, my everything. God becoming flesh and blood in Jesus was God giving us God’s whole self, God’s whole being. God asks the same of us in return. Jesus, in dying on the cross, gave his whole self, did he not? He gave his flesh. He gave his blood.

            As strange and even gory as his words sounded, Jesus was not speaking of something cannibalistic. He was telling those who would listen, that he would give his flesh and blood to them and for them. He gives his flesh and blood to us and for us. He gives his life so that abundant life for the world, for all of us, is possible – not just in some distant future, but right now. It is about a relationship, an abiding in him, in God through him, that goes far beyond any external relationships we may have.

            To quote from Martin Copenhaver:

            “The New Testament uses many different images to express the intimate relationship between Jesus and those who believe in him, and John gives us many of the most familiar expressions of this relationship: Jesus is the shepherd and we are the sheep. He is the vine and we are the branches. He abides in God and we abide in him.

            In this passage, however, language is pressed to its limits to express the indissoluble participation of one life in another. For those who receive Jesus, his life clings to their bones and courses through their veins. He can no more be taken from a believer’s life than last Tuesday’s breakfast can be plucked from one’s body. It is the ultimate communion – the coming together, the union of the Savior and the saved.”

            “The indissoluble participation of one life in another.” Whenever we gather around this table, whenever we share the bread and drink the cup, we are remembering and renewing this indissoluble participation of our lives in Jesus and with one another. God became flesh and blood so that God’s whole self would be given to us. Jesus literally gave up his flesh and blood through death for our sake. God resurrected Jesus so that new life could be ours. Jesus is the living bread, and we are called to taste it, to eat it, to remember and know that “that his life clings to our bones and courses through our veins.” Sisters and brothers, may we all taste and see the goodness of our God.

            Thanks be to God. Amen.

Rules for the New Life

Ephesians 4:25-5:2

August 12, 2018

            Many years ago when my kids were younger, we were getting ready to go on a road trip. I no longer remember exactly which trip this was – I think our destination was somewhere out west – but our road trips usually involved long hours in the car. I would always come up with activities that would make time pass a little easier. My love of listening to audio books started on these long car journeys. But no matter how hard you try to keep folks engaged, when you’re in the car for a long period of time restlessness eventually sets in. And when restlessness reared its head the trouble would start.

            In order to create a more harmonious atmosphere for our drive, and to preserve my sanity, I sat down and created a list of rules. I printed it out and read it aloud to everyone who would share space in the car. I told everyone involved that I was bringing it with me as a reminder of how we were all expected to behave. I don’t remember my rules verbatim, but I know they sounded something like this.

            1) Sibling shall not hit, tease, annoy, irk or otherwise pester other sibling.

            2) Children shall not backtalk or sass a parent.

3) All litter, including candy wrappers, paper, straws, etc., shall be thrown away at every stop.

            4) There shall be no whining.

            5) Mom will be listened to; i.e. no interrupting, no talking over or ignoring her.

6) This trip is supposed to be fun, so everyone will have fun – whether they like it or not.

I’m sure there were more rules than that. Knowing me, I probably came up with ten; kind of a Ten Commandments of a family car trip. But we hadn’t even walked out the door of our house before at least two of the rules were broken. I don’t think we’d even reached our destination before I abandoned the whole list altogether. It was a long trip.

I’m not telling you this to disparage my children; but long trips confined in a car wear on everyone – kids and adults alike. I thought perhaps my list of road trip rules might soften the edges of the journey. But I forgot how hard it can be to abide by certain rules when you’re dealing with other human beings. That seems to be a universal reality.

My title for this sermon is not my own, meaning I didn’t pluck it out of my own imagination. Although it is not in your pew Bible, it is the subheading of this particular passage in my Bible. Rules for the New Life – everything about this particular passage is summed up in the title. We have a new life together; therefore we need new rules for how to live this life together.

You may be thinking to yourself, why are you saying it’s so hard for us to follow rules? We follow rules all the time. Our society and culture is predicated upon the assumption that most people will follow the rules. Rules set the boundaries of our society. Abiding by the rules makes it possible for us to live in society, to function in society. There have to be rules, and we all follow them. If we didn’t there would be mass chaos all the time.

Since there isn’t mass chaos all the time, it would seem safe to assume that we already know the rules that help us live together somewhat harmoniously. But these rules in our passage today read differently than say traffic rules. These are rules for the new life. And abiding by these rules can be much more difficult and challenging than taking turns at a four-way stop sign.

At first reading, it seems as though if we just obeyed these rules than everything would be hunky dory. Again, it may seem as though we already obey them. Most of us don’t go around lying, and the first rule in verse 25 is “putting away falsehood, let all of us speak truth to our neighbors …”

Does that mean that Paul thought everyone was a liar or a potential liar? No, but it does mean that it can be easier to avoid the hard truths we should speak to one another. If you were here last week, think about the passage that was read from Second Samuel. Think about the hard truth the prophet Nathan had to confront David with. David broke several of the commandments with his relationship with Bathsheba, and with setting her husband, Uriah, up to be killed on the front lines. Nathan telling David, “You are the man!” was a hard truth. Maybe other people in the king’s life would have probably just told him what he wanted to hear, not what he needed to hear. Sometimes putting away falsehood is not so much about lying as it is about truth, hard truth.

Paul went on to talk about being angry. Just as Jesus addressed conflict among his followers in the gospel of Matthew, assuming that there would be conflict, Paul rightly assumed that people would get angry. Anger is a reality, but it’s how you handle your anger that can make all the difference. Not all anger is bad. When we see injustice, oppression, cruelty, we should rightly be angry. But what do we do with our anger? How does it motivate us? What actions stem from our anger? If we respond to cruelty with more cruelty, is that being angry but not sinning?

Paul’s words about thieves should be obvious. Thieves should give up stealing. However this was not just about refraining from one bad behavior; it was about turning that behavior into something that served others. Engage in honest labor, not just for your own benefit, but for the benefit of the needy all around you.

Another rule for the New Life is one that I especially struggle with: watch my words. It’s not that I try to speak evil, but how often have my words torn down rather than built up? One admonition that my mother repeated over and over was “you can’t take back words.” That goes back to being angry, but not sinning doesn’t it? How many times have I said something in anger that I regret? More times than I’d like to admit. You can’t take back words, so let no evil talk come out of your mouths. Words that tear down cause grief to the Holy Spirit.

The community that Paul addressed came together not because they were of the same birth family or the same ethnic or cultural background. They came together out of love for God in Jesus Christ. They formed a community because God loved them first, and because they recognized that love. The seal of the Holy Spirit was what bound them together, and to tear down one another in anger grieved the Spirit that formed them.

These rules for the New Life called the community to “put away bitterness and wrath and anger and wrangling and slander, together will all malice.” But these rules were not just about what they should not do, they were also, and even more importantly, about what they should do.

“Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ has forgiven you. Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children, and live in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.”

The Rules for New Life are not just rules about what we don’t do, but are about what we are called to do. They are about who we are called to be, and how we are called to try and live with one another. The Rules for New Life are a reminder that our lives are not our own. Our lives belong to God. The Rules for New Life are a reminder that we are not just individuals taking up our own particular space in the world. We are members of one another. We belong to God, and we belong to each other.

Just this week I stumbled upon a news video from the BBC about a Greek woman known as Mama Maria. Greece has been a landing point for the thousands of people fleeing the violence and war in Syria and other places in the Middle East. Many refugees have found shelter in other European nations, but many more have been turned away. Many of these refugees have been sent back to Greece. Yet whether a refugee is just arriving to Greece or returning, Mama Maria feeds them. She owned a restaurant in her small village, and she fed them there – by the thousands. She never charged anything, she just fed them. She saw them suffering and scared and far away from home, so she did the one thing she knew could do. She fed them.

She fed them until threats against her forced her to close her restaurant. She was told repeatedly to stop doing what she was doing. But her belief that this is her calling is so strong, she refuses to stop. She can no longer feed refugees in her restaurant, but she can feed them in her home. And she does; because we are members of one another. Maybe Mama Maria would not articulate it that way, but she doesn’t have to. Her actions speak for her. In her act of feeding, she imitates God. She loves as Christ loved us.

We are members of one another. Ultimately, this is what these Rules for the New Life are all about. They are a reminder that living together in this new life is not just about restraint or refraining from bad behavior. It is about actively seeking to do what is good and kind and tenderhearted for the other. It is about forgiving. It is about imitating God; the God we know through his Son; the Son who willingly died so that we might live a new life. We are members of one another, may we follow the rules of this new life, now and always.

Thanks be to God. Amen.