An Offensive Generosity -- the latest hermenuetical offering

“An Offensive Generosity”

Matthew 20:1-16

September 18, 2011

            David Lose, a professor at Luther Seminary in the Twin Cities tells the story of a parishioner in one of the churches he served.  This woman was faithful in every way.  She was especially faithful about reading scripture.  She read her Bible daily and made sure she read the lectionary passages each week.  In fact she read ahead.  And because she read ahead, she knew when the lectionary would bring this passage around again.  So when she saw it coming, she would skip church. 

            Why?  Why was this her response to the story from Matthew?  She responded this way because this passage infuriated her.  It made her so angry that she just couldn’t bear to go to church and hear it read and preached upon.  She had been a devout churchgoer all her life.  She was in worship.  She was active in the life of the congregation.  She was there.  But the message of this passage made it clear that even those who weren’t there, or the ones who showed up late, could still be recipients of God’s grace.  And that just made her mad!

            In the WorkingPreacher podcast, Professor Lose also made the statement that this parable Jesus tells about the laborers in the vineyard is ultimately why Jesus was killed. 

            That’s a tough statement to make but then again this is a tough parable.  I’m sure the parishioner in his church is not the only one in Christendom who doesn’t want to hear this passage preached on.  I’m sure she’s not the only one who takes offense at these words from Jesus. 

            And that’s what these words are to many, many people: offensive.  The workers who get picked for work later in the day get the same wage as those who started early in the morning.  It doesn’t seem fair, does it?

            And I think that if there is an instinct that is born within each of us, it’s our need for fairness.  If you have children, if you’ve ever been around children, if you were a child, you probably remember that driving need for fairness.  I realize that in my own family, that fairness or the lack thereof is at the heart of any family discord.  In other words, my kids want things to be fair.  If one gets something and the other one doesn’t, no matter what the reason might be, I hear a chorus of “that’s not fair!” 

            Now I’m not just picking on kids for this.  Adults seem to have this instinct as well.  This is the chorus that’s echoing to me from this parable in Matthew.  “That’s not fair.”

Our story today follows Jesus trying to teach the disciples and others about what we know as the great reversal.  The first shall be last.  The last shall be first.

            The story before our story is that of the rich young man – sometimes we know him as the rich young ruler – this young man comes to Jesus wanting to know what he has to do have eternal life.  Jesus tells him to keep the commandments.  The young man wants to know which ones.  Jesus tells him.  He responds to Jesus that he has kept them.  So Jesus tells him to sell everything he owns and give the money to the poor.  The wealthy man walks away grieving because he can’t do this. 

            This answer from Jesus causes consternation among the disciples.  Peter says to him, “Look Jesus, we’ve left everything and followed you.  What’s our reward going to be?”

            Jesus assures them that at the “renewal of all things” when Jesus is seated on his throne, those who have followed him will be there by his side.  Anyone who’s left family and friends for the sake of Jesus will receive a hundredfold when it comes time to inherit eternal life.  But he also tells the disciples, you need to remember this, “the first shall be last, and the last shall be first.”

            Then he tells them this parable which is a kingdom parable. 

            The kingdom of heaven is … 

            The kingdom of heaven is like a landowner of a vineyard.  He goes to the marketplace to hire day laborers.  My understanding is that this was a real occurrence.  Laborers would position themselves in the marketplace or at some other public gathering site and wait for the possibility of work.  Hopefully a landowner or someone else would pick them for hire.  I’ve heard of homeless people doing the same thing.  In different cities, there are places where people can gather early in the morning and find work for the day.  If they’re lucky, a desperate person can make some money but only if he or she is picked.   

            So it seems that that’s what these laborers wanted.   They wanted to be picked for work.  Some of them were lucky.  They were chosen right away and spent the day tending to the vineyard.

            At 9:00 the owner of the vineyard saw that more laborers were needed, so he called some more to work for him.  He did this at noon and at three and at five as well.  With each group of workers he contracted the same wage that he contracted with the ones who were early. 

            And when it came time to pay their wages, they all got what they were promised.  They all got the wage they’d contracted for.  But the early birds got mad.  They should get more than the ones who came at 5:00.  They were the ones who worked all day long in the heat.  Why shouldn’t they get more than the ones who came late?

            But the landowner seems taken aback by their grumbling.  He’s giving them what they agreed upon.  He says to one, “Friend, I am doing you no wrong; did you not agree with me for the usual daily wages?  Take what belongs to you and go; I choose to give to this last the same as I give to you.  Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me?  Or are you envious because I am generous?”

            Are you envious because I’m generous? 

That’s a critical question.  And I would bet that more times than I’d like to admit, I am.  Because it doesn’t seem fair.  It goes against my sense of what is right and what is wrong.  I want things to be fair, and if I’ve worked longer than others, I want to be paid more.

            When I was teaching I saw this attitude all the time.  One of the assignments in my class was to participate in a group presentation.  And the grade for the group was the grade for the individual.  One person doing more than the rest of them didn’t matter.  The grade was the same.  But that’s not what most of us want most of the time, is it?  We want fairness.  And as David Lose also commented, having a developed sense of fairness isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  It is our sense of fairness that helps us understand issues of justice.  Why should some have so many when others have nothing?  Why are some people valued more because of their gender or the color of their skin or their position in society when others are devalued because of theirs?  It isn’t fair. 

            But what I understand Jesus to be saying is that the kingdom of heaven isn’t concerned with our understanding of what’s fair or not.  The kingdom of heaven is about everyone having enough.  The kingdom of heaven is about welcoming even the latest comers.  The kingdom of heaven is about grace.

            And grace, by its very definition, isn’t fair.  That’s what makes it grace. 

            The reality is that each worker in the vineyard received enough that day.  It wasn’t like the landowner cheated them.  He paid what they’d agreed to.  It’s just that he paid everyone the same.  And that stuck in the craw of the ones who got there early.  They should be rewarded with more for their longer time and effort.  But then grace would become something that’s earned.  Once again, that’s not grace. 

            And just as the workers had no cause to complain about what the landowner paid to whom, do we have any cause to complain about who receives God’s grace?  Do we have any justification for putting our own sense of fair play on what God does in the world?  I don’t think so.  But we still do it.  All the time.

            When I was in seminary I went to school with a young man named Tom.  Tom was a great guy.  Everybody liked him.  He was the life of the party.  He was entertaining and cute and the single female students, including this one, liked him.  But all the guys liked him too. 

            But Tom was a terrible student.  He just was.  He was failing some of his classes.  He was bright enough but didn’t seem to really want to be there.  His dad was a Presbyterian minister who wanted him there, and you could tell that Tom really wrestled with whether he was actually called or just trying to please his dad.

            In the spring of my first year I was out with Tom and some other friends.  Tom announced to the table that he had good news.  He’d just heard that day that he was getting a scholarship to come back to school the next year.  Everyone congratulated him, including me.  But inside I was seething.

            Tom got a scholarship?!  Tom did?!  Tom who blew off studying and showed up to class unprepared?  Tom who would rather party than be a minister?  Tom, who admitted that in some ways he was just in seminary for his dad?  That Tom?!  He was getting a scholarship?! 

            Here I was working as hard as I could in my classes.  Most of my time was spent studying.  I worked hard, I showed up, I wanted to be in seminary and I wasn’t there just because my dad wanted me to be.  I hadn’t heard that I was getting a scholarship.  Just Tom. 

            Good.   Old.   Tom.   

            It was galling to hear that news.  If it had been a story in one of the gospel passages, I wouldn’t have shown up to church to hear it preached.  It was completely and utterly and appallingly unfair.  But it was also grace.

            That’s what I’ve finally realized about the school’s decision to give Tom a scholarship.  It was grace.  Because in that second year Tom did settle down.  He worked hard.  He succeeded in classes and in other aspects of his life.  The seminary showed Tom grace and I think that grace helped him change his life.  And whether I wanted to admit it then or not, the seminary showed me grace too.  Time and time again.  In fact, I’ve been a recipient of grace more times than I can count.  And I’ve received that grace not just from an institution but from God.  That’s why I ended up in seminary in the first place.  That’s why I ended up here.  That’s why we’re all here, isn’t it?  Because of grace.  God’s offensive generosity.  Alleluia.  Amen.

The First One Up

Last night I went with some congregation members to a poetry reading at a cafe here in Shawnee.  It happens every month.  There's a featured poet who opens and closes the night.  Then there's the open mic time.  We went early to have a meal, and the emcee, a.k.a. a super nice guy, came over with a sign-up sheet.  I'd decided to bring a few poems along in case I got up the nerve to read.  So I forced myself to sign-up, thinking, "It will be good for  me.  It will be good for me."  But I must be honest.  I was terrified about reading my stuff.

I know what you're thinking.  "Amy, you preach in front of people every Sunday.  How could you be nervous about reading your poetry, especially when you're in a smaller, more intimate setting?  Plus you're not trying to persuade anyone of anything.  You're just there, reading away."  This is what you're thinking, correct?

But as it turns out, preaching a sermon and reading my poetry are two different things.  I think it's because as self-revealing as my sermons usually are, my poetry reveals a different side of me.  Even though I think that  my sermons make me accessible, they're (hopefully) looking past me to the point and interpretation I'm making about God.  But my poetry?  That's personal on a different level.  So I was nervous, okay?  Sue me.

But I did it.  I signed up.  The emcee, a truly nice man, was encouraging.  I knew, as I was signing my name, that I was the first one on the list.  Yet I still hoped and prayed that I would not be the first one up after the featured poet.  Guess what?  Sometimes prayers are answered in the way we hope.  Sometimes they aren't.  Can you discern which way my prayer went?

I was the first one up.

The emcee, such a nice man, introduced me as the newcomer to town, from somewhere up in Iowa.  I tried to look confident as I went to the mic.  I told the guitarist -- by the way, did I mention that a jazz guitarist plays along if you want while you read?  Very cool!  I told the guitarist that perhaps it would be better for all if he played louder than I spoke.  People laughed.  I wasn't kidding.

And then with a tiny bit of introduction I read my poems.  I think they were well received.  I didn't speak up enough.  But maybe if I try it again, I'll get better at that too.  I didn't want to be the first one up, but I think being the first one to go was exactly what I needed.  It forced me out of my neat little comfort zone.  And believe you me, my comfort zone is a hard place to leave.  I've spent years decorating it and getting it just the way I want.  I could probably die there.

I could probably die there.

I don't want to.

This isn't a statement of denial.  I know I'm going to die someday, hopefully a long time from now.  But do I want to die before I actually die?  Afraid to leave the safety of my zone?  Regretting that I didn't?

I understand that a poetry reading is not a life changing event.  Still it was a good step for me to take.  I hope it's one of many.  If I'm the first one up next month, I'll try not to complain.  Much.

Oh, and the following is one of the poems I read.  I've published it on a different on-line writing project, but just in case you haven't read it before.

A Villanelle

There’s none who’ll write me a sonnet but me.

No others to whisper stanza or verse.

I can’t live my life without poetry.

Mere hint of meter makes strong ones flee.

Love wilts from the gaze of stares so terse.

There’s none who’ll write me a sonnet but me.

I long to swim in a literate sea.

Yet my joy in the word is now my curse.

I can’t live my life without poetry.

Alone is lonely, O can’t you agree?

Waters too shallow to fully immerse.

There’s none who’ll write me a sonnet but me.

To hope, to dream, to risk leaving this me.

Life staged as a play I meant to rehearse.

I can’t live my life without poetry.

Backward or forward, there’s always a fee.

No gold in silence, the quiet is worse.

There’s none who’ll write me a sonnet but me.

I can’t live my life without poetry.

Why I Am ...

The following is a response I wrote several years ago in answer to a call from "Presbyterians Today" about why I'm a Presbyterian.  The magazine asked its readers to write a brief reason why they choose to be Presbyterian versus some other denomination or no denomination at all.

              For me it is all about our worship.  Growing up in a conservative, Southern denomination, I knew nothing about liturgy, Advent candles, Easter vigils or longing for signs of the Spirit at Pentecost.  But after years of pushing God away, God broke through my brick-lined resistance and guided me to an old friend’s Presbyterian Church.  My tentative steps across the threshold were like a baby’s first teetering steps into an uncertain world, but once I was in, I knew I had come home. 

            Saints and other perfect beings do not inhabit our denomination.  We posture, denounce and oppose one another, further widening the chasms between us.  But I still believe in God’s potent power found in our shared worship.  What divides us seems smaller as we sing, pray and offer thanks.  Our worship gives expression to joy and allows us to be the people God created us to be.   

And now for the update.  

It's not that I don't still believe what I wrote about being Presbyterian.  I do.  But since this is my blog and I'm not necessarily limited by word count, I feel like I can say a little more.  And I think that my answer to this question can't be limited to being a Presbyterian, but it must include why I'm a Christian as well.

When I was interviewing for my new call here in Shawnee, one of the members of the pastor nominating committee asked me why I continue to answer the call to be a pastor?  In other words, what makes me get out of bed in the morning and serve as a pastor instead of working at the local grocery store?

I had to be honest.  There are days when I'm so frustrated with being not just Presbyterian, but Christian. that I don't want to get out of bed in the morning.  All I have to do is spend some time catching up on both local and world news, and I begin to feel despair creeping into my soul.  It's not that I blame God for allowing terrible things to happen around the world.  I just can not think of God as One who steps back, hands up in defeat, saying, "Well, I tried to warn em'!"  

It's that I blame people.  We never seem to get it, do we?  We never seem to learn the lessons of violence.  Guess what?  I don't believe it cures anything in the long run; not even in the short run.  We never fully believe that most people who are poor don't choose that life.  We just don't treat other people all that well, and I find myself thinking, "Yikes! Why bother?"

But the thing about being a Christian, and a Presbyterian Christian at that, is that we claim HOPE.  To give up on hope is to give up on God and I'm just not prepared to do that.  When I reread my argument for why I'm a Presbyterian, I have to reaffirm that it is our worship that keeps me hopeful.  Sure, as a preacher and worship leader, I cannot deny that worship often falls short of our expectations.  There are plenty of times when I want to tap on the pulpit mic and make the old joke, "Is this thing on?"  But I think in worship we get a glimpse of what it means to be in relationship with one another, the kind of relationship that we read about in scripture.  Worship does have the power to overcome what divides us.  We see each other as unique members of the human family rather than by the labels we stick on one another like post-it notes of the damned.  And when it works, and even when it doesn't, worship reminds us that we are not alone, that we live for more than just ourselves.  It has the power to lift us out of our narrow world view and see the really, really big picture.

So that's why I'm a Presbyterian.  That's why I'm a Christian.  I claim my faith.  My faith has claimed me.  And even though there are times when I'd like to tell my cosmic waiter to take it back, faith really is my foundation.  

What about you?

P.S.  Presbyterians Today printed my response in their online publication, but not the actual magazine.  Published is published, right?

Seeking Place

If you follow my status updates on Facebook -- and I assume that if you're reading this it's because you know me well enough to be friends with me on Facebook -- then you know that I have recently moved.  I've left my home of eleven years in Decorah, Iowa and moved to Shawnee, Oklahoma.  My family, husband, kids and dog, are still in Iowa for at least a couple more weeks until they move down here as well. 

To say that we miss each other is a gargantuan understatement.  So to help alleviate the missing we agreed to meet halfway in Liberty, Missouri for a quick but important get together.  We chose a hotel that boasted an indoor water park as a prime source of family entertainment, and made our way to the big M.O. 

After a dinner out, we went back to our room, changed into our suits and headed for the water and some slip sliding fun.  Sadly, and strangely for a Friday night, the water slide was closed.  But the rest of the "park" was wide open.  One of the fun features were the buckets.  This is a circle of primary colored cone shaped buckets that are attached to a tall pole.  Each bucket is continuously filled with water and without warning will suddenly tip over and dump a deluge of water on the person below.  This is fun.  Did you know that?  It is.

So the kids and I began to circle around the bottom of the pole, doing our own version of a May pole dance, or as my husband observed, "Musical chairs with a twist."  We walked around and around anticipating cold water to hit at any second.  Sometimes I could walk for several minutes with the water falling just before or after me.  But then the buckets would catch up with me.  And no matter how quickly or how slowly I moved, I was getting hit, one after another.

I realized as I walked around and around that this is what my life has felt like since I moved.  I'm fine.  I'm walking.  I'm fine.  Then WHAM!  The cold water of homesickness and heartsickness plummets down on me and I'm left sputtering and disoriented, and wondering what the heck I'm doing all this for in the first place.

I had little time to really go through this when I was still in Iowa.  I was too busy getting ready for the move.  But the day after I left, as I lay in a hotel bed in Wichita, Kansas, the first wave hit.  I had no timetable for being in Shawnee, so I made myself stay in bed until I knew that I could get up, get in my car and keep driving South.  But it took quite awhile, because the only direction I wanted to go was north to Iowa. 

I've come to see that these buckets of cold water hit me not only because I miss my family, my friends and all that was familiar back in Iowa.  They hit because I feel displaced.  A lovely couple from my new church has given me temporary shelter in their home.  The congregation as a whole has done everything in their power to make me feel welcome.  I've been fed, hugged, listened to, supported, invited out, checked on, etc.  No one could have done more to show me how welcome and wanted I am.

But I don't have a home.  I don't have an address to call my own.  Finding a house has become an issue I didn't expect, and the details of that are for another blog entry, another day.  I am displaced. 

As much as I don't like it, I also understand that I have something to learn from this.  I'm not fully cognizant of what the lessons may be, but they are there.  I suspect it will be a new depth of compassion for those who really are displaced; for the refugee, the homeless, the lost, the lonely, the immigrant seeking something more.  I also know that even in the midst of my frustration and heartsickness for the ones I love, I'm lucky.  I have people in a lot of places who love me, who worry about me, who remember me.  I have a job.  And I have an ending date, even if it seems a little fuzzy.  I know that this particular transition will at some point be over.  I will have an address, my family, a new life.  I know that the displacement will end.

But what about those who don't? 

This isn't meant to be an exercise in depression.  But it has been a wake up call.  If a few weeks of temporary displacement are doing a number on my psyche, what about those who live in this state for months or years or decades?  As I said, there are lessons to be learned.  I hope I pay attention.

                                                               The "cones of death"

"Lose Count" A Sermon for September 11, 2011

“Lose Count”

Matthew 18:21-35

September 11, 2011

            As I was growing up and learning history, I would often ask my parents to recount their memories of significant historical events. 

“Where were you when you heard about the attack on Pearl Harbor?”  “Where were you when you heard about the assassination of President Kennedy?”  “What were you doing when you heard that Dr. King was shot in Memphis?” 

            Hearing their memories of these events made them more real to me.  They weren’t just dates and facts in a history book.  They affected people that I knew and loved. 

            Now it’s my turn to answer this kind of question as my children ask about historical events.  Obviously the event that weighs most heavily on all of us today is the tenth anniversary of the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. 

            My memories remain vivid.  It was a Tuesday morning.  The weather was perfect.  Clear, sunny, not too cool, not too warm.  I was holding my two- month-old son in my arms and Phoebe was watching Clifford on PBS Kids television.  Matt was off that day and he was the one to answer the phone.  I heard him greet my dad and then say, “Oh no.  Oh no.”  He came into our living room and said we had turn to the news because something was happening in New York City. 

            And then we watched the second plane fly into the World Trade Center. 

            As my brain tried to comprehend the horror that was unfolding in front of our eyes, I thought about my friend Chris who was living in Queens.  Was she in the city?  Was she near the towers?  When we learned that the flights had originated out of Logan Airport in Boston, I kept thinking that Matt had flown out of Logan just the week before.  What if the terrorists had chosen that day instead of September 11^th? 

            When Chris called a few hours later to tell me that she was all right, because she knew I’d be frantic with worry, I burst into tears; tears of relief and tears of anguish over the nightmare that the whole world was witness to.

            Any of us who were alive and old enough that day to understand what we were watching can describe their experience of September 11^th as easily as I can mine.  Certainly I don’t have the same grief from that day as someone who lost a loved one in the towers or on the planes or at the Pentagon, but the anguish we share over our memories is no less real.

            So we come today to the tenth anniversary.  It seems impossible to believe that ten years has passed since that horrible, terrible day.  And unlike some anniversaries this is not a pleasant one to commemorate.  Our nation commemorates the events of September 11^th today, but I also believe that lifting up this anniversary in our context of faith is essential.  Especially in light of the passage from Matthew’s gospel this morning.

            In the verses we read last week Jesus is instructing his disciples on how to respond to someone who sins against them.  Now Peter asks Jesus, “Lord, if someone sins against me, how many times do I have to forgive them?  Is seven times enough?” 

            Now as I understand it, seven times was far beyond the cultural norm of forgiveness.  So Peter, in offering to forgive seven times was taking the high road on this.  It’s as if he were asking, “Look, if someone wrongs me, I’m willing to go above and beyond what’s required of me for forgiveness.  I will forgive at least seven times, but after that when can I just give up and stop forgiving?  When can I write that person off?”

            But Jesus’ response makes Peter’s high road look like nothing. 

            “Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times.” 

            I don’t fully grasp the math involved in this, but different scholars on this passage write that Jesus is actually saying that Peter must forgive into infinity.  In other words, when it comes to forgiveness, lose count.

            Then Jesus goes on to tell a parable about forgiveness.  In my Bible, it’s entitled “The Parable of the Unforgiving Servant.”  And Jesus, as he often does, makes a comparison to the kingdom of heaven.

            The kingdom of heaven is like a king who wanted to settle his accounts with his slaves.  When the king started to look over all of his accounts, there was one slave who owed him ten thousand talents.  The slave was brought to him, but he couldn’t pay his debt.  So the king ordered that not only the slave but his wife and children and all of their things should all be sold to pay off the debt of the father.  The slave begs for mercy.  He falls on his knees before the king and promises that if the king will just have patience with him, the slave will pay off everything.  The king relents and shows mercy to the slave.  The king forgives the slave his debt.

            Yet almost immediately after being forgiven and released of this terrible burden, the slave crosses paths with another slave who owes him a mere hundred denarii.  The first slave grabs the second by the throat.  Visualize this, and you can imagine the first slave just throttling this other slave and demanding his hundred denarii. 

            The second slave also falls down before him and begs for mercy.  But the first slave will have none of it.  He has the second slave thrown into prison until the debt can be paid.  Now the other slaves, or servants as we can also call them, see the one thrown in prison.  And naturally they are upset by this.  So they report it to the king.  The king calls the first slave to him and rebukes him.  “I forgave you this enormous debt because you pleaded with me.  Shouldn’t you have shown mercy to your fellow slave when he did the same?”  So in his anger, the king hands the slave over to be tortured until his debt could be paid. 

            Then Jesus winds this whole story up by saying, “So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart.”

            Now I think we have to be careful to remember that this story is a parable not an allegory.  Both means of expression try to tell a larger truth about something.  But I hesitate to define God in terms of a despot king who was at first willing to punish not only the slave but the slave’s wife and children along with him, then throws the slave into a lifetime of torture when he still doesn’t get it. 

            But that being said, the larger truth here is about forgiveness.  The first slave would have had to work a lifetime, maybe more to pay off his debt of ten thousand talents.  That was a ginormous sum!  Ginormous is a technical term here.  But the king shows him mercy.  He forgives him this terrible, crushing debt.  But the second slave owed just a little relatively speaking, and the first couldn’t even be bothered with mercy.  Forgiveness was not in his vocabulary.

            It seems to me that Jesus wanted Peter and the other disciples to understand that our debts and those debts owed to us are in the same realm.  What we have been forgiven is enormous.  What we are asked to forgive seems small in comparison.  So when it comes to forgiving someone, even if we have to forgive that person over and over and over again, we have to lose count.

            And that works … until we come to today’s anniversary.  The attacks on September 11^th were no small thing.  Even those of us who weren’t directly affected by them were still affected by them.  Our nation lost the last of its innocence that day.  Two wars were set into motion because of that day.  Two wars that are still being fought.  So many lives were lost that day, so much potential wiped out.  And lives are still being lost.  There seems to be no end in sight. 

            So are we really supposed to see this as a relatively small debt to forgive compared to the enormous debt we have been forgiven?  Are we really supposed to lose count when it comes to forgiveness of that day and all the days since then?  I lost no one on the planes or in the towers or at the pentagon that day, but I struggle with forgiveness for September 11^th.  I can’t even begin to imagine how I would feel if I had lost someone – a father or a mother or a husband, a child, a friend. 

            And yet we have these words of Jesus.  Seven times isn’t enough.  Seventy-seven times.  You forgive into infinity.  You forgive until you lose count.

            I don’t know how many of you have heard of the writer Corrie Ten Boom.  She and her family were Christians who hid Jews in a secret annex of their home during World War II.  She wrote about it in her book The Hiding Place.  It’s been years since I’ve read the book, but I do know that the whole Ten Boom family was arrested. Most of them were released but Corrie and her sister Betsie were sent to several different concentration camps, finally ending at Ravensbruuck.  Betsie died there. 

            After the war Corrie was traveling to different speaking engagements around Germany, trying I believe, to tell her story and show how God’s love can overcome so much.  After one lecture, a man came up to Corrie telling her how God’s love had changed him.  She recognized him.  It was one of the guards from the concentration camp.  One of the cruel guards who had done so much harm to her and Betsie.  He asked Corrie to shake his hand. 

            She didn’t want to.  How could she?  How could she shake this man’s hand after he had caused so much pain to her and her sister?  But she realized that she was called to forgive, so she took his hand in hers.  And when she did, she felt something, a feeling of warmth and love she couldn’t fully describe.  She realized that she didn’t have to feel forgiving of someone, she just had to do it.  She just had to forgive even when she thought she couldn’t. 

            Isn’t that what we are supposed to be about?  Forgiving, even if we feel we can’t.  Could I stand in front of the people who have really hurt me in my life and shake their hand?  Could any of us stand in front of one of those hijackers and shake their hands?  It seems impossible and too much to ask.  But when I think of what I have been forgiven, I know I have to be willing to put my hand out there – again and again and again.  When it comes to forgiveness, we have to lose count, because I know for a fact, God’s lost count with me.  Alleluia.  Amen.

My thanks to WorkingPreacher.org, The Text This Week and Wikipedia as resources for this sermon.

It Seems to Me ...

It seems to me is a phrase I use often in my preaching. It seems to me that I remember reading about the potency of using this phrase in the book As One Without Authority by Fred Craddock. My memory is often a bit dim these days, so if I'm attributing the wrong phrase to the wrong author or the wrong phrase to the right author or the right phrase -- well you get my point -- then I offer my sincerest apologies. What I do remember in connection with this phrase was that it was a way for the preacher to impart theological, biblical and spiritual truths without claiming to be an expert.

Well no wonder I latched onto that! I am not an expert at this business of theology or spirituality or religion or anything else. I know when I step into the pulpit every Sunday that I take an enormous leap of faith that my understanding and interpretation of the particular passage of scripture will hold some truth, some glimmer of an insight that might mean something to somebody.

But I do think I have something to say and experiences to share. So that's what this blog is for. As a pastor and as a person, I hope this blog gives me a venue to speak up and out. And if I have any followers out there, perhaps you'll be willing to speak up as well.

So deep breath everybody. Here we go.