If -- Second Sunday in Lent

Luke 4:1-13

March 10, 2019

            I’m the first to admit that I have some definitive vices. For example, I love sweets and food in general way too much. While I have plenty of others, one of the vices that I don’t possess is gambling. That does not mean I haven’t gambled. The first time I ever went to a casino was in Minnesota. I went with my brother and sister and some other family members. My mom had saved several rolls of quarter, and she gave those to us to spend. This is not something that my immediate family does on a regular basis, so I’m not sure why we planned this field trip. But I think our motivation was mainly to see what it was like. After we were done, and after I spent the entire roll of quarters on a slot machine with no winnings to show for it, I thought I could have spent that money on so many other more satisfying things; like a book or make up or chocolate. It felt like I had just thrown money away, which essentially I had. So I don’t gamble. I don’t even buy lottery tickets, because to me buying a lottery ticket feels more complicated than buying a latte. I don’t know what to ask for, and I’m too embarrassed to ask anyone else to help me.

            I don’t gamble by going to casinos or buying lottery tickets, but I will enter sweepstakes. Maybe that is also a form of gambling. I have learned that there are a lot of sweepstakes to enter. You can enter sweepstakes through the Travel Channel, through the Home and Garden network. Planning a wedding? Oh look, enter this sweepstakes and you could win a dream honeymoon or enough money to plan the lavish ceremony you’ve always wanted. I hate to admit how much money I spent buying Yoplait yogurt a few years ago, because I was entering each purchase into their sweepstakes for $100,000. I’m not proud of it. But I did it.

            And I do daydream what I would do with money, should I win it. My musings generally start with “If I were to win that money, I’d be very practical about it. The first thing I would do is pay off my debt. I would set aside a huge chunk of it for the kids. I’d help my mom and dad with anything they need. And, and, I would give a large part of it to the church.”

            I feel good about myself for my imaginary generosity should I win a big sweepstakes. And it is fun to think about what possibilities would be open to me if I just had the cash. Think about how much good I could do for others! Isn’t that wonderful?! Isn’t that great?! Except for the fact that it rests on the word if.

            If is a small but mighty word. Add what to the front of it, and it holds so much possibility and hope. What if we tried this new thing? What if we did that? What if we looked at the problem this way? What if I did win a sweepstakes, think about how much good I could do for my family and others.

However, add only to the end of it, and that hope is replaced with regret. If only I hadn’t done that dumb thing. If only I had made better choices. If only I had worked harder and daydreamed a little less.

            If. If. If. In the context of our passage from Luke, if holds other meanings. The devil uses this little conjunction in his tempting offers to Jesus.

            “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.”

            “To you I will give their glory and all this authority; for it has been given over to me, and I give it to anyone I please If you, then will worship me, it will all be yours.”

            “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you,’ and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash a foot against a stone.’”

            In the first and the last temptation, the devil uses “if” not so much as a question of Jesus being the Son of God, but as a certainty. If in these cases also means “since.” If you are the Son of God and you are, then prove it by doing this.         And in the second temptation, “if” has a conditional meaning. If you just worship me, I’ll give you all this power.

            It seems to me that “if” is the word of temptation. Clearly, it is in the way the devil used it when he tried to lure Jesus to fall in the wilderness. And it is in the other ways I described. Instead of dealing with the reality of my finances as they are, I give into the temptation to dwell in daydreams about money that will most likely never be mine. “What if I had a million dollars …” And the “if” of regret is another temptation, another trap. While we should have remorse for bad decisions and hurtful choices, to dwell on them obsessively seems to me to be a denial of grace, a denial of forgiveness, and a refusal to live in the present.

            Yes, I think “if” is a word of temptation. It certainly seems to be in the way Jesus is tempted in the wilderness. This story, found with variations in Matthew, Mark and Luke, is where we get our understanding of the human Jesus being tempted as we are, but without sin. Jesus heard the great tempting “if” of the devil, but did not give into his luring offers. But what does this story mean for us?

Is it just a story of encouragement? See Jesus had willpower and self-control, we should too. That’s great, until our willpower fails and our self-control seems to fly out the window. When we see this story as one of encouragement only, then when we fail, we fail not only ourselves, we fail Jesus. We fail God. Doesn’t that open us to the temptation of “if only”?

While this story can encourage us and can give us hope, maybe it also instructs us on what temptation and what power really are. Jesus is tempted by the devil to do things that could be used for the greater good. Turn stones into bread. Feed yourself and feed all of the other hungry people out there. Take control of all the kingdoms in the world and rule them justly and wisely and with great compassion. Throw yourself off a cliff and when God saves you, you will prove to the world just who and what you truly are.

It would be hard not to be tempted by the “if’ the devil offers. But Jesus said “no,” to all of it. Jesus didn’t say “no” because of some superhuman ability. Jesus said “no” because the power that the devil offered, the temptation of the devil’s “if” was worldly power. It was human power. It was the kind of power we think is real and right and true. It was power of ability and power of strength and power of proof. It was the tempting power of “if.” But I don’t think that’s power as God understands it. I have a feeling that power is very different to God. I think power as God understands it rests more in taking on weakness than in showing strength. I think power to God is more about sacrifice than it is conquest. I think power to God is more about faith than it is about proof.

The devil used that tempting “if” to lure Jesus into the trap of worldly power. But the devil was right in one thing; since you are the Son of God. Jesus was the Son of God. Jesus is the Son of God. Jesus knew who he was, and all the power in the world could not convince him to betray that identity.

If. Yes, it is a word of temptation. But the good news is that it is also a word of hope. For as often as we may be tempted by “if,” we also find promise in it. If we trust God, we will not be left alone. If we believe in God, we will have abundant life. If we follow in the footsteps of the Son, then even if we lose our lives, we will gain them. If we follow in the footsteps of the Son, then we will know love, real love, God’s love. And as we are loved, we are able to love others, to give love away. That’s the real power. That is the hope of “if.’

Thanks be to God. Amen.

If You Say So

Luke 5:1-11

February 10, 2019

            The only time I ever think to watch the game show, Jeopardy, is with my parents. That’s one of the things we do when I visit. We sit in the afternoon and watch Jeopardy together. This is not a forced activity; I like to watch it with them. I suspect that I probably annoy them some, because I have a tendency to call out the answer to a clue if I know it. But I always forget to put it in the form of a question. What fascinates me about the game is when they get to Final Jeopardy, which if you have ever watched the game show, it comes at the very end; obviously. There is a final clue given, and the show goes to a commercial break. When they return from break, each contestant has made a wager and written down their answer. The wagers can be anything from 0 dollars to the total amount of their winnings. If a contestant thinks he or she has the right answer, maybe they’ll wager everything they’ve earned. But if a player isn’t so sure, maybe they wager a smaller amount, hedging their bets, literally, so they don’t potentially lose everything.

            As silly as it sounds, Final Jeopardy always puts me on the edge of my seat. Will the current champion know the right answer and bet enough to win? Or will another player make a surprise comeback by risking everything and then winning everything? Sometimes there are spectacular wins, but there are also even more spectacular losses.

            If we were to put this story from Luke’s gospel into a Jeopardy game, what would it look like?

            Perhaps Jesus would offer this clue: Eternal life with God and the greatest glory in heaven and earth comes from doing this?

            Simon: What is following you on the path of discipleship!

            Ding! Ding! Ding! You have won it all Simon Peter! And the crowds on the shore go wild!

Except for that’s not what happens, is it? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to trivialize this story in any way. But the decision of the disciples to leave everything and follow Jesus would make more sense in worldly terms if Jesus had made a grand, extravagant promise of glory and eternal life. He does promise them good things with God at other times, but not in this initial call, not at this particular time. No, what Jesus said to these fishermen is this:

            “Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people.”

            And how do they respond?

            “When they had brought their boats to shore, they left everything and followed him.”

            If this were a game of Jeopardy, these fishermen would have wagered everything they had on following a man with no immediate promise of reward. So why do they do it? Isn’t that the ongoing question of this story? Why do these fishermen leave their catch, leave their business, leave their families, leave everything they knew and understood and follow Jesus – a preacher and teacher who came from as humble of circumstances as they did?

            In some ways it might be easier to answer this question based on Luke’s account than on the other gospels. In the other gospel accounts, I’m thinking of Mark specifically, we are unaware of the fishermen having any knowledge of Jesus before he walked by them and issued his call. But in Luke, we do know that they’ve encountered him before. At least Simon Peter has. In verses that we don’t read in chapter 4, Jesus healed Simon’s mother-in-law of a fever. Plus, this whole story begins with Jesus preaching to crowds so great that they were pressing in on him. Perhaps he felt that he might even be pushed into the sea. So, Jesus climbs into their boats, which were moored there at the shore and asks Simon to row him out away. There, from that boat, he continues to preach.

            What Luke tells us is that Simon and his partners had been out all night fishing, but with no luck, no catch. No catch meant no profits for that day. No catch most likely meant their stomachs would stay empty.

            The fishermen must have been tired and discouraged. They were cleaning up their boats and their nets, and probably making ready to head home until it was time to fish again. One commentator wrote that Jesus was probably a bit of a nuisance, climbing into their boat uninvited and asking them to row him out into the water. But Simon was gracious. He did what Jesus asked.

            Once the sermon was over, he asked Simon to row him out into deeper water and put out his nets. In Simon’s mind, he knew he had reached his limit and was ready to give up. He said as much to Jesus.

            “Master, we have worked all night long but have caught nothing. Yet if you say so, I will let down the nets.”

            If you say so…Simon had witnessed Jesus’ power to heal. He and his partners heard the words Jesus spoke to the crowds, and they saw the size of the crowds he was speaking to.

            Simon must have understood, even just a little bit, that Jesus was someone special, someone to be listened to. So although he was reluctant, he said, “if you say so,” then he did what Jesus asked.

            Whatever doubts Simon had about this last attempt at catching some fish soon vanished. There were so many fish in the nets that they started to break. There were so many fish in the nets that the partners in the other boat had to be called to help. There were so many fish in the nets that the boats were weighed down almost to sinking.

            Simon knew that Jesus was someone special, but when that extraordinary, miraculous catch of fish happened, Simon saw Jesus not just as a preacher or a teacher or a healer, but as divine. He may not have understood what that meant yet, but I do believe that he saw the divine in Jesus.

            I think that is what his confession is all about.

            “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!”

            It seems to me that this was not so much a confession of sin, but as a recognition by someone who has seen the sacred and the holy and realizes how unsacred and unholy he is by contrast.

            There are many times when Jesus would pardon someone of their sins. But that is not what Jesus did in response to Simon’s confession. Jesus did not say, “Go, your sins are forgiven.”

            Jesus said, “Do not be afraid.”

            Jesus said to these fishermen-soon-to-be-disciples the same thing that the angels said to the shepherds; the same thing Gabriel said to Mary.

            “Do not be afraid”

            And with those words, Simon Peter and the others left their catch of fish on the shore and followed. They wagered everything they had and they followed, not knowing if their bet would be fulfilled, but they followed anyway.

            Do not be afraid is our promise as well. It is our assurance. Because we are called to follow just as those fishermen were. We are called to go to the unknown, to cast our nets into the deep waters, waters where we cannot see the bottom. We are called to go on faith and trust, knowing nothing for certain, but believing with our whole hearts. We are called to follow, and although some may not think that the words, “do not be afraid,” are much to go on, we believe and we trust that these four words represent a greater promise, a larger life and the truest love.

            Do not be afraid. If you say so, Lord. If you say so.

            Thanks be to God. Amen.

Gracious Words?

Luke 4:21-30

February 3, 2019

            At only 11, Akeelah is carrying the weight of the world on her young shoulders. At least that is how it feels. Perhaps it’s not the weight of the world per se, but it is the weight, the burden even, of other’s expectations, desires, hopes and dreams.

            Akeelah is the lead character in the movie Akeelah and the Bee. It is one of those moves that makes you think and makes you feel and makes you glad to be alive. Akeelah is a spelling phenom from what would seem to be a stereotypical urban, predominantly black neighborhood in Los Angeles.

            Her middle school has never held a spelling bee before, but to do so would put them in the running for regionals, state and eventually the national spelling bee. It would bring much needed attention to her school district, where even the stalls of the girls’ bathrooms did not have doors. Just as sports brings money into schools, a spelling has the same potential.

            As I said, you know from the outset that Akeelah is a spelling phenom. She loves the game Scrabble, and she loves words and language. It is a love that her late father instilled in her. But she is an underachiever at school. She is bullied. She tries to hide her intelligence because it makes her stand out too much. It makes her a target for others’ anger and jealousy. But as Akeelah begins to advance in the spelling bees, and as she is preparing to go to the nationals, her classmates, her neighborhood, her family and friends all rally around her. They want her to win. People from all over help her study and memorize words. They are interviewed on human interest stories saying that they want her to win because it would be good for all of them. It would be good for their neighborhood to have a hometown girl go to the bee and win.

           Akeelah feels their love and support, but she also feels the pressure. She feels the intense weight of their expectations. And for a moment she falters. She is terrified to let anyone down. She even considers dropping out because she is so afraid of failing. She realizes that she would not just fail herself; she would fail everyone rooting for her.

            I won’t tell you the rest of the story. But if you have not seen this movie, I highly recommend that you do so. But it is a study in contrasts that while Akeelah fears failing the people of her neighborhood, in effect her hometown, Jesus had no such fear. He was not afraid of disappointing or displeasing or angering the people he grew up with. That seems apparent in our passage from Luke’s gospel today.

            I have always read this last part of the story, which began last week, through the lens that the people of Nazareth, the people who thought they knew Jesus best, just could not accept that he was who he said he was. I think that may be true in the other gospel accounts, but as I really studied what is happening here, I’m not so sure that’s the case in Luke’s telling. It seems to me that the people were initially just fine with Jesus. They were pleased and accepting, and even proud of Jesus.

            Verse 22 states it outright.

            “All spoke well of him and were amazed at the gracious words that came from his mouth. They said, ‘Is not this Joseph’s son?”

            I think in the past I have heard a sneering tone in their exclamation about him being Joseph’s son.

            “Isn’t that Joseph’s kid, you know the carpenter from down the block? He’s gotten a little bit big for his britches, hasn’t he?”

            But I think I’ve been wrong. I don’t think that was their tone. I do believe they were amazed and pleased and proud of him. It would seem that the trouble was not so much in what the people were thinking, but what in what Jesus was saying.

            “Doubtless, you will quote to me this proverb, ‘Doctor, cure yourself!’ And you will say, ‘Do here also in your hometown the things you did at Capernaum.’ And he said, ‘Truly I tell you, no prophet is accepted in the prophet’s hometown. But the truth is, there were many widows in Israel in the time of Elijah, when the heaven was shut up three years and six months, and there was a severe famine over all the land; yet Elijah was sent to none of them except to a widow at Zarephath in Sidon. There were also many lepers in Israel at the time of the prophet Elisha, and none of them was cleansed except Naaman the Syrian.”

            Is it just me or was Jesus being the aggressor? The people were amazed at his gracious words. But once Jesus pushed back at them, they were ready to throw him off a cliff. Literally. They took him to the edge of the cliff, and wanted to throw him off. But he passed through their midst and went on his way.

            So what changed? What changed between his sermon and his remarks at coffee hour? Part of me wishes that he would have done what other preachers have done; thanked everyone, then left to go get lunch. That would have saved him a whole lot of trouble. But Jesus did not avoid trouble, and it would seem that in this instance, he was determined to create trouble.

            But was that what he was doing? Was he creating trouble for trouble’s sake? Or was he pushing these folks – maybe some who had indeed known him since he was a small boy, had tousled his hair or told him to stop running or picked him up and brought him to his mother when he fell and scraped his knee – maybe Jesus was pushing them not to cause trouble, but to make them aware of their own hypocrisy. Maybe Jesus wanted them to understand that he had come not for the people who thought they were God’s own, but for the people who did not.

            Think about the two stories he quoted. There were plenty of widows in Israel who needed Elijah, but Elijah went to a widow who was an outsider. There were plenty of lepers in Israel who needed healing, but Elisha was sent to heal Naaman, a Syrian, an outsider.

            Jesus was proclaiming in the verses he quoted from Isaiah; that the good news was about good news to the poor, release to the captives, sight to the blind and letting the oppressed go free. That was good news indeed, but it was good news that was not only for the people who thought it should be for them. It was for the voiceless and the friendless and the powerless and the marginalized. And it wasn’t just for the outsiders, the others also; it was for them first. It was for the outsider and the stranger. And I think that is what set off the people of Jesus’ hometown. They would get no favors from their hometown boy. They would receive no special status because of him. He was not there for them first and only. He was there for the others.

            And he was not afraid to tell them this either.

            It was an uncomfortable truth. It was gracious words with a question mark instead of an exclamation point. It was something that perhaps they knew, but did not want to acknowledge. It was good news that seemed more like bad news.

            But here’s the thing; the gospel is good news that may also seem like bad news to us as well. The gospel calls our assumptions about who we are and where we stand with God into question. It calls our presumptions into sharp relief. The gospel may seem very much like gracious words with a question mark. The gospel makes us uncomfortable because it pushes us to see beyond ourselves, to see beyond what we think we know or understand about God, about Jesus, and about the people Jesus came to stand with and eat with and be with.

            These are gracious words, but they have a bite to them and a sting. They call us to look at ourselves and our motivations and take stock of our lives. But whether it seems like it or not, that is good news. Those are gracious words. And thanks be to God for them. Amen.

Anointed

Luke 4:14-21

January 27, 2019

            The first time I was ever asked to preach was when I was in seminary. That may sound like an obvious time and place to be asked to preach for the first time, but many of my classmates and friends had preached before they ever came to seminary. For some it was the act of preaching that opened them up to the possibility of being called into the ministry. But that was not my story.

            I was walking across campus, moving from one class to another, talking with a friend of mine. I spotted my home church pastor also walking across campus and called hello to him. Home church has a different meaning for me than some. I consider my home church to be the church I joined in Richmond, Virginia when I was an adult. I grew up in another denomination, and I would describe that church as the church I grew up in. But I don’t think of it as my “home church.” Since I was in seminary in Richmond and my home church was in Richmond, it was not unusual that I would see my pastor.

            We stopped and talked for a few minutes. Then he asked me if I would be back in Richmond for the Sunday after Christmas. I told him, “yes.” And then he asked me the big question…will you preach for me on that Sunday?

            Will I?!!! You bet I’ll preach for you!

            It was only after we parted company, and I got back to my apartment later that day, that the reality of what I had just agreed to hit me. I am going to preach. I am going to preach the Sunday after Christmas. I am going to preach in my home church the Sunday after Christmas.

            I was both excited and terrified. A friend and I sat and read through the lectionary texts for that day, so I could consider what text I might choose. My dad kept calling me with suggestions for texts. His choice was that I should preach the resurrection story from John’s gospel, focusing on Mary proclaiming that she had seen the Lord. Then I could also proclaim that more women were needed and necessary to proclaim God’s good news to the world. I told him that while I appreciated his advice, that wasn’t particularly helpful for my first sermon. Although now, I kind of wish I had preached that.

            I spent most of my time at home studying and reading and trying to think about what I would write. Finally, a few days before I left I wrote out the sermon. It was still a rough draft, but I thought I pretty much had it down. My father read it and got choked up. My mother read it and outright cried. Oh and just as an aside, in the midst of all of this, I had been in a terrible car accident a few days before Christmas. My mother’s car was totaled. I had been taken to the hospital in an ambulance. I hurt my knee, but I was fine. Yet I suspect my parents were emotional not just for the sermon, but also because I was alive to write it.

            Finally, I got back to Richmond. It was the Sunday after Christmas. I was dressed professionally in a new skirt and blouse. I stood in the pulpit and read the lesson I had chosen from the gospel of Luke. Then I began to preach. I was so nervous, I just kept my head down at first, afraid to look up at the congregation. My hands were flat against the pulpit, pushing the pages of my sermon down as if I were afraid they would suddenly fly away. But by about the second page, I had started to warm to all of this a little. I got a little more relaxed. I was making more eye contact. I was even ready to use my hands, make some gestures, become more animated. So I raised my right hand to make a point, and as my hand lifted up from the pulpit so did the page from my sermon that it was resting on. My hands were so sweaty from nerves, that the page was stuck to my hand. I quickly batted it back down to the pulpit, and carried on.

            That was my first sermon. And the sermon we read in Luke’s gospel was Jesus’first. It actually may not have been Jesus’ first sermon. But it was his first public act of ministry, and it took place in the synagogue where he grew up, in his hometown of Nazareth. Matthew, Mark and Luke all record this story of Jesus preaching to his home “church,” but only Luke places it in this particular time frame. As I said last week, each gospel writer’s choice of what they record Jesus doing first is significant. It is significant because it not only sets the stage, as it were, for Jesus’ ministry in that gospel, it also gives us another indication of what Jesus was about; what he cared about, what his focus and purpose was, and what God wanted to reveal through him.

            The wedding at Cana in John’s gospel was a sign that pointed to the abundance of God. In Luke’s gospel, Jesus preaches a sermon in his hometown. And while the verses in this week’s part of the story stop at a good place, or at least a calmer place, next week we’ll read further on and see just how ugly things turn when a hometown boy reveals he is far, far more than what the people expected.

            But for now, we end with Jesus’ words, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

            If the wedding at Cana pointed to God’s abundance, what is being revealed in this passage? What was Luke’s purpose in situating this hometown sermon by Jesus in the prominent position of his first act of public ministry? Perhaps the word “purpose” is our clue and our key.

            Jesus was filled with the power of the Spirit. When he was handed the scroll, he chose these particular words, this particular passage from Isaiah to read.

            “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

            Filled with the power of the Spirit, Jesus stood up and read this passage from Isaiah, then sat down and said essentially, “And guess what? This isn’t just a random passage about some other person. This is a passage about me. Today the scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

            What was Luke’s purpose placing this story here in the gospel? It seems to me that it was to make clear Jesus’ purpose. In using these verses from Isaiah, Jesus was making it clear not only who he was – the expected, long awaited Messiah; he was also proclaiming to the people of his hometown what his purpose was and with whom he aligned. He was anointed. The literal definition of anointed as a verb is “to be smeared with oil.” But the religious, theological definition is one who is set apart, one who has divinity conferred upon him or her.

            Jesus stood before the people who knew him since he was a boy and said I am the anointed one. I have been set apart by God. And as the anointed one, here is who I align with; here is who I have come for: the poor, the oppressed, the blind. I have come to be with those who have no voice. I have come to be with those who have no power. This is who I am and this is my purpose.

            When I stood and preached that first sermon to my home church, I was not declaring that I was the anointed one. But I was stating – without even realizing it – that not only did I sense a calling from God, but that calling may just bring me to a pulpit to proclaim the good news of the gospel. That is not only my call, but it is also my purpose.

            Jesus stood before his hometown crowd and declared his purpose. And the rest of the gospel of Luke, and Acts, turns on that purpose: to bring good news to the poor, release to the captives, recovery of sight to the blind, and to let the oppressed go free.

            We too have been called. We too have been anointed, set apart, with a purpose from God. Does our purpose align with the purpose Jesus stated in this sermon? In a few minutes we will hold our annual meeting, and we will walk our way through the packet of reports and minutes and statistics. My challenge to me, to you, to all of us is to hold what we do up to what Jesus’ purpose was and is. Are we in alignment? Are we following in his footsteps? Are we bringing good news to the poor, release to the captives, sight to the blind and jubilee to those who are oppressed? We have to do this, not only today but again and again, because our purpose should always be Jesus’ purpose. He was anointed, set apart, and we are called to follow the path he chose. What is our purpose – as individual Christians, as the church? Our purpose is Jesus’ purpose.

            Thanks be to God. Amen.

Up to the Brim

John 2:1-11

January 20, 2019

            I saw a great cartoon the other day. It depicted a human and two cats. The perspective was from the human point of view looking at the cats. You never actually see the human’s face. The cats both wear expressions of startled horror. The only words given were what the human was obviously saying to the cats.

            “You know, you can eat the food at the bottom of the bowl.”

            Perhaps this is really only funny to those of us who own cats or who have spent any time with cats. But if you have spent time with cats, you get it. You get it, because this is true all over. Now I grew up in a dog family. We never had cats. My dad is not a cat person, which is the world’s greatest understatement. But for some reason I believed the myth that cats are easier to have as pets, for renters and for people with busy families. And in some ways they are easier; until it comes to the food at the bottom of the bowl.

            My cat Pippin lets me know in no uncertain terms that he has reached apparently the inedible food at the bottom his bowl. Usually this happens about 4:30 in the morning. He used to wake me up by knocking one thing at a time off my dresser until I opened my eyes. I always knew when I slept really deeply because I would wake up to a whole pile of things knocked from my dresser to the floor. Now, he just sits by me on the bed, staring. If I don’t stir, he bats me on the forehead.

            I don’t know why cats get uptight about emptying their food bowls. Maybe it’s because they are just cats, and the dregs of last night’s dinner are not good enough. Or maybe it’s instinctive. Instinctively they know the danger of scarcity, and once that food is gone, perhaps they won’t get anymore. So rather than let it run out, they don’t eat it and turn instead to letting their human know that it’s never too early to feed the cat.

            The food may still have been plenteous at the wedding feast in Cana, but the wine had run out. The crux of this story – that Jesus turned water into wine – is fairly well-known in the larger culture. It’s something that you might hear a reference to in circles outside of the church. But the depths of this story, and perhaps even the “why” of this story, are less known.

            The wedding at Cana is just that: a wedding. But unlike the ceremony that I am currently planning, a wedding in Jesus’ culture was not just a one day event; it was at least a three day feast. I have read other commentaries that state it was a seven day feast. If you are planning to feed guests a feast for seven days, food and drink would have to be well planned and abundant. This was not just an issue of showing off. It was about hospitality. Hospitality, as you may know, was the foundation of that society. Hospitality was important. It was intentional. It was part of the Law. So for this couple and their families to run out of wine was not just about bad planning or a shortage, it was a lack of hospitality. And running out of wine would have brought shame on them.

           And hearkening back to the Old Testament, the wine was also seen as a symbol of blessing. Running out was serious. No wine, no blessing. So perhaps this gives us a better understanding of why Jesus was called in by his mother to do something about the wine. But to our ears, it may still seem somewhat frivolous. Especially as this is the first act of public ministry by Jesus in John’s gospel. Mark begins with an exorcism. Luke, as we will read next week, has Jesus preaching as his first act of ministry. Matthew tells of Jesus calling for repentance because the kingdom of heaven had drawn near. But John states that Jesus’ first act of public ministry was by replenishing the refreshments at a party that had gone off the rails. Interesting choice.

            Yet just as the wine symbolized something greater to the people at that wedding, in John’s gospel wine also symbolized something more; something deeper and more profound. Wine was an eschatological symbol. It represented God’s abundance and glory and blessing in the time to come. If that was what wine symbolized, then let’s think about how much wine Jesus produced.

            It would seem that the mother of Jesus – never called Mary in John’s gospel – was one of the first to realize that the wine was almost gone. She turned to her son for help. Jesus’ response to her sounds rude to our ears; but I think rather than rudeness it was about distancing. This isn’t our concern. My time has not yet come. But like any mother, she didn’t accept his answer. Instead she turned to the servants and told them,

            “Do whatever he tells you.”

            If Jesus was reluctant at first, he gave in. He told the servants to fill up the large stone jars meant for purification with water. And don’t just fill them, he told them, fill them up to the brim. They did as he told them. He instructed them to draw some out and give it to the chief steward – perhaps the wedding planner or head caterer in our time – and the steward was amazed at what he drank. He didn’t know where this fabulous wine came from, but he knew it was better than any wine he had ever tasted. He told the bridegroom,

            “Everyone serves the good wine first, and then the inferior wine after the guests have become drunk. But you have kept the good wine until now.”

            Clearly this was not like the wine in a box we might serve today. This was the good stuff. And it wasn’t just a taste, it was abundant. It was filled up to the brim. It was overflowing, gallon after gallon after gallon. This was the good stuff.

            This was the good stuff, filled up to the brim and overflowing for the newlyweds and their guests. And this is the good stuff filled up to the brim and overflowing for us. That is the key to this story, to this passage, abundance.

            It is an abundance of wine, filled up to the brim and overflowing. And it is an abundance of God’s love and grace, filled up to the brim and overflowing. That is the deeper meaning of this miracle at the wedding in Cana. In John’s gospel, miracles are never called miracles. They are called signs. And what do signs do but point to something else? Billboards on the road are not there in and for themselves. They point to something else. Jesus’ sign of turning water into wine points to the abundance of God’s love and grace and glory for us now and for us to come. How wonderful and amazing it is to think of God’s grace in this way, to think of the abundance of God’s love and glory, just filled up to the brim for us and for God’s world.

            Yet with thinking about all of this abundance, I cannot help but think about those people and places who are decidedly without abundance; whether it is of the material or of the physical or the emotional or spiritual kind. And I cannot also help but think of how rarely I’m willing to see abundance in my own life. How often do I lead from a place of scarcity? How often do I think only about what I don’t have, what I may never have? How different would my life be if I could trust in the abundance of God?

            I don’t think I’m alone in this. I suspect that we humans are more like the cats I described at the beginning of this sermon. Don’t we worry that once something is gone, there won’t be anymore? What would the world look if individuals focused more on abundance than scarcity? What would communities look like? What would nations look like if we saw abundance rather than scarcity; if we could just see that there is more than enough for everyone? What would this world look like if we all believed, if we all trusted that God’s abundance of love, of grace, of blessing, of the good was more than enough for everyone? What would this world look like if we trusted God and trusted that God provides not just enough, but filled up to the brim and overflowing?

            Thanks be to God. Amen.

Baptized by Fire -- Baptism of the Lord

Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

January 13, 2019

I didn’t know the term “storm chaser” when I was in high school. To be honest, I could not have conceived of anyone actually wanting to get in their car and follow a storm to see what it would do and where it would go. But had I known about storm chasers, I would have predicted that a good friend of mine would have become one. My friend loved thunderstorms. Whenever there was a thunderstorm while we were in school, she would run to the window of the classroom. If she was home, she would run out on her front porch. She loved to be close to the storm. She confided with me once that the whole world felt electrified and exciting during a thunderstorm. The world came alive in a thunderstorm. The storm’s wildness and excitement exhilarated her, and she wanted to be as much a part of the storm as possible. She wanted to be close to it. That’s why she would go outside when a big one would hit. Like I said, if I had known that storm chasers existed, I would have bet good money that my friend would become one. We’ve lost touch since high school graduation, and I suspect that in the years since, she has changed as much as I have. However some things don’t change. I suspect that she still runs to a window or a front porch whenever a big storm rolls in. I imagine she still thinks the world comes more alive when lightning lights up the sky and the heavens open with a wild frenzy.  

            I consider this person a friend, a good friend, but I was not like her. I’m not a storm person, and I certainly have no future as a storm chaser. I don’t mind rain and even some thunder, but a wild and wooly storm does not motivate me to run to the window or go stand outside on my driveway. A wild and wooly storm sends under the covers. When I was a little girl, a really bad storm sent me under the covers in my parents’ room or my sister’s. The rain would beat so hard on the roof of our house, it sounded like it was going to finally push through the ceiling and flood my bedroom.

            When I read these gospel words describing the heavens opening, this is what I think of – rain and wind and lighting and thunder – all crashing down around my head.  But in this passage from Luke, when the heavens opened something very different happened.  In this instance the heavens opening brought the voice of God, and the Holy Spirit descending on him like a dove. When the heavens opened in this story from our gospel passage, God’s voice spoke to Jesus, confirming his full identity, “You are my Son, the Beloved, with you I am well pleased.”

            The heavens opening are actually a familiar theme in Scripture. We read it in those scriptures concerning the end times. The opening of the heavens often signals that God’s presence is near or that angels or other heavenly beings are about to descend. The opening of the heavens signifies that God’s blessings, God’s mercy and God’s power are being unleashed on the world.

            All of this happens around the baptism of Jesus. Luke puts his own unique spin on the baptism of Jesus. In many ways, the baptism is described more passively than it is in Mark or Matthew, while John does not tell the actual baptism part of the story at all.

             Like John, Luke does not offer us a particular description of the baptism itself.  What we do read is that after all the people who came to John the Baptist were baptized, and after Jesus himself was baptized and praying, the heavens opened.  We could assume from what the text says that Jesus waited in line to be baptized, same as the other folks. Something else to consider is that in Luke’s gospel, the story of the baptism of Jesus follows the section where we learn that John has been imprisoned by Herod. Those are the verses left out in today’s story. John addresses the crowds that came to be baptized by him, first by calling them a brood of vipers and relating baptism very distinctly to repentance and forgiveness. Then when the crowds were duly chastised and wondered what they should do, he gave them instruction on how to live as people who have repented and been forgiven.

All of this leads to the statement in verse 15 that the people were filled with great expectation as to whether or not John was the messiah they had been waiting for. Scholars suspect that this might have been more of an issue than we realize, because all of the gospel writers go to great pains to show that John denied this vehemently.

“I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear the threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.”

As John said, he was not the one. He baptized with water, but one was coming who would baptize with the Holy Spirit and fire.

There are different connotations to the phrase, “baptized by fire,” beyond these words of John the Baptist. Martyrdom, being burned at the stake, was a baptism by fire. From what I have read the Mennonites hearken back to this meaning when they use this particular phrase. But there are other connotations as well. If you start a new job and immediately have to deal with difficulties or emergencies, you are often considered baptized by fire. One definition of the phrase is the first time soldiers face real combat. Another definition I found states that it is “any experience that tests one’s courage, strength, etc. for the first time.”

But what does it mean for us, for us who have been baptized by water, for us who will remember our baptisms a little later in the service? What does it mean for us to be baptized by the Holy Spirit and fire? Is this just a one-time event, or is it something that occurs over and over again, whenever the Holy Spirit blows through our midst? What does it mean for us to have baptism connected to the act of winnowing, of separating the wheat from the chaff?

If one understanding of baptism is that it symbolizes our adoption into the family of God, the body of Christ, the church, then does this mean that our baptisms separate us from others? Does a baptism by fire separate the good from the bad, the believers from the unbelievers? Is that what is happening in the winnowing? That’s certainly what it sounds like.

One commentator wrote that the description of One to come standing with his winnowing fork, separating the wheat from the chaff, terrified and disturbed her. It conjured up images of a “farmer God,” standing on the threshing floor separating the good folks going to heaven from the bad ones going to hell. But I wonder if something else is happening.

I have never seen wheat winnowed, but apparently the wheat is picked up on the winnowing fork and flung into the air. The wind does the work of separating. The wind pulls the chaff away from the wheat, and then the chaff is burned. If this is what happens to us with the coming of the Holy Spirit, with a baptism by fire, then maybe it isn’t so much about us being separated from them; good, saved, baptized ones from bad, unsaved, un-baptized ones. Maybe it is about the chaff within us, within each of us being lifted away, separated out. Maybe the winnowing happens within each of us. Being baptized by the Holy Spirit, baptized by fire, might just be an experience of being shaken up, stirred up, flung into the metaphorical air so that the wind can take away that chaff. Maybe being baptized by fire is about burning away that within us which keeps us from God, keeps us from being in relationship with God and with all of God’s children. Perhaps being baptized by fire is what must happen, over and over again if necessary, to burn away that chaff that exists in ourselves.

I realize that this does not necessarily sound comforting. Being baptized by fire is not a sweetness and light, warm fuzzy kind of thing. But if our baptisms claim us and name us, if they mark us as God’s own, then it seems to me that being baptized by fire, being shaken up by the Holy Spirit, is also a part of the naming and claiming and marking. It seems to me that to be baptized by the Holy Spirit and fire is not about harming but healing. It’s not about separation into eternal categories, but about being made more whole, more complete. It is about being refined and cleansed and burnished and polished until we reflect ever more clearly the image of the One in which we were made. Being baptized by the Holy Spirit and fire is good news. It is good news indeed. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Our Light Has Come -- Epiphany

Matthew 2:1-12

January 6, 2019

I wandered so aimless life filled with sin
I wouldn't let my dear savior in
Then Jesus came like a stranger in the night
Praise the Lord I saw the light
I saw the light I saw the light
No more darkness no more night
Now I'm so happy no sorrow in sight
Praise the Lord I saw the light

            Even if you’re not a country music or a Hank Williams fan, you may recognize the opening lyrics and chorus of Hank’s iconic song, “I Saw the Light.” As the song goes, his life was shut up in darkness, sin and pointless wanderings away from God. Then one day, “like a stranger in the night,” Jesus came into his life and he saw the light.

            This is a great song. I hadn’t heard it in years, and when I was thinking about using it, I went back and listened again to Hank Williams’ plaintive voice declaring that out of a life of spiritual blindness and waste, he finally saw Jesus and he finally saw the light. But did you know that the inspiration for this song really was a light? It was not a celestial light from the heavens – although perhaps it seemed like it was. It was a real, physical, tangible light.

Hank and his band were driving back to Nashville in the dead of the night after a gig somewhere. This was long before Nashville had a skyline with light that illuminated the landscape for miles. Hank looked out into that looming darkness and saw the light of the WSM radio tower. WSM was and is the station for the Grand Ole Opry, and its tower is unlike any radio tower that I have ever seen. It stands like a strange obelisk, reaching into the sky; and on that night when Hank Williams and his band mates were driving through the pitch black, the light from the WSM tower must have seemed like the light from a lighthouse guiding tired travelers home. Maybe it did indeed seem like a light from the heavens. But however Williams perceived it, it inspired this song. Praise the Lord, I saw the light!

I’m not sure that Hank Williams would have used this term, but what he described in the song was an epiphany. He saw the light, and when he saw this light, it illuminated the darkness he had been living in. If you’ve given any attention to your bulletin, you know already that today is Epiphany. Today is the feast of Epiphany, and we are now entering into the season of Epiphany; the season of light.

Although in our Christmas pageants we conflate the shepherds and the wise men together, having all of them show up at the manger on the same night, it is more likely true that the magi took several months to make their way to Bethlehem. It would have been an arduous trip. I have always been taught that these magi hailed from Persia, but one scholar that I read just recently stated that it is quite possible they came from Babylon. The magi, the title that give us our word, “magic,” were not magicians, but they were the astronomers of their day. They studied the stars. And while art and pictures, such as the one on the cover of our bulletin, depict three men on camels following a star, we don’t really know just how many magi there were. Matthew’s text gives us no count. They brought three gifts, so we assume there were three of them. Yet, regardless of their number, these men who watched the sky recognized that a great king had been born. They understood that this king was not your regular royal, and making the trip to pay him homage was the only right response. They saw the light.

How interesting that in Matthew’s gospel – a gospel which is considered by scholars to be a very Jewish centered gospel – the first people to witness to the coming of the Light of the world were gentiles. Not only were they gentiles, they were quite likely from the heart of the empire that had conquered Israel and dispersed its people to the far corners of the earth. These magi were the epitome of outsiders, others. But this did not prevent them from recognizing the birth of Jesus. Their otherness did not stop them from understanding that with the birth of Jesus, the world shifted. They were the other, but they still saw the light.

And while it is tempting to sentimentalize this story, just as we do the nativity in Luke’s gospel, the danger it describes is quite real. Our verses stop before Herod executes his horrific plan. But as biblical scholar Karoline Lewis wrote, Herod is a perfect example of what happens when oppressive power is confronted with truth.

Herod was no dummy. He knew that what the magi told him about the birth of a new king was a real threat to him and to his throne. He showed that he was willing to eradicate that threat by whatever means necessary. And he did. His quest to remain in power made refugees of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, and it wreaked death and slaughter on innocents and their families.

No, the story of the magi, the story of Epiphany is not a sweet story. Nor is it a sentimental one. But it is the story of God that we see throughout the arc of the Bible. It is the story of God working through unlikely people in uncertain circumstances to bring about God’s purposes for this world, for God’s children, for us. The story of Epiphany is light shining in the darkness.

The story of Epiphany is our story. We still live in a dangerous and dark world. It is a world still filled with Herods, willing to end threats to their power by whatever means necessary. But our world is also God’s world. And God is still working God’s purposes through unlikely people from unlikely places and in unlikely circumstances. God is still calling us to see God’s light shining in the darkness. Epiphany is a season, but it is also a reality. It is wherever we see the light of God. It is whenever we feel compelled to follow a star.

Take a moment and think of when you have experienced epiphany, of when you have seen the light of God. Take a moment and remember your own stories. Epiphany does not belong to the magi. Epiphany is ours. It is our moments of seeing the light. It is our witness to the birth of a baby and to the resurrection of a Son. It is our stories. So think of a moment, a time, a place when you have seen the light. Think of this and give thanks that our light has come. I’ve seen the light. You’ve seen the light. Praise the Lord, we’ve seen the light.

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