Just Faith

Luke 17:5-10

October 6, 2013/World Communion Sunday

The musical Wicked which ended its run in Oklahoma City just a couple of weeks ago is based on a book by Gregory Maguire.  It tells the other side of the story, the Wicked Witch of the West’s side of the story.  The witch isn’t wicked like we’ve all been led to believe, and the so-called good people like Glinda and the Wizard aren’t so good either.  The musical version does what the best of musicals do.  It puts the sentiments of the story into music.  While some of the songs like Popular and Defying Gravity are better known, one of my favorites is the song Wonderful sung by the Wizard himself.  He’s trying to explain to Elphaba – that’s the witch’s real name – how he, a humble man, ended up in such a position of power and influence.

            "Wonderful, they called me "Wonderful"

So I said "Wonderful" - if you insist
I will be "Wonderful" And they said "Wonderful"
Believe me, it's hard to resist
'Cause it feels wonderful
They think I'm wonderful
Hey, look who's wonderful -
This corn-fed hick
Who said: "It might be keen to build a town of green
And a wonderful road of yellow brick!"

            This corn-fed hick, as he describes himself, had never been wonderful before, so it feels wonderful when the people of Oz hail him as a hero, a magician, a wizard.  He takes them at their word.  They think he’s wonderful, so by goodness, he’s wonderful.

            Probably all of us would like to be considered wonderful every once in a while wouldn’t we?  The actress Sally Field has been the butt of many jokes over the years because of her acceptance speech the night she won the Oscar for best actress.  “You like me!  You really like me!”  But don’t we all want to be liked, and even more than that, don’t we all want to be recognized for our accomplishments, for our hard work, for even the daily efforts that we make?

            I know I do.  I can’t lie to you, when I get compliments on a sermon or someone thanks me for some pastoral duty that I’ve done, it makes my day.  I can sympathize with the wizard.  When you’re told you’re wonderful, you want to believe it.  It can go to your head.  It’s intoxicating.  It’s wonderful.  It’s wonderful to be acknowledged, to be appreciated, to receive thanks after a hard day’s work. 

            And yet this is exactly opposite of what we hear from Jesus in today’s passage from Luke.  This is an uncomfortable story.  First of all we encounter the word “slave.”  Human history is overflowing with evils that we’ve perpetrated against one another – and I think slavery is among them.  I know slavery has been a terrible reality for thousands and thousands of years; and as so many of us in Oklahoma understand, human trafficking is alive and well today.  But that doesn’t’ make me any less adamant in my belief that slavery is a brutal, violent evil.  Yet in this passage Jesus speaks of slavery with seemingly no hesitation.  Even if we translate the Greek word doulos as servant, which is its other meaning, these words of Jesus still rub me the wrong way.  Shouldn’t a servant be thanked for a job well done?

            We can’t look at this particular passage without looking at the context of passages it is situated in.  This chapter is made up of lessons from Jesus to his disciples.  Jesus has gone from addressing the Pharisees at the end of chapter16 to speaking directly to his disciples at the beginning of this chapter.  His first lesson to them is that times of stumbling are going to come, but “woe to anyone by whom they come.”  It was as true then, as it is today, that there are always “little ones”, people new to the faith or struggling to follow Jesus.  In those early days of faith or conversion, it can be especially easy to fall from the path.  And this means that other more seasoned disciples have to be aware of the kinds of examples they set for these people who are still so young in their faith.  They bear a tremendous responsibility on their shoulders for the well-being of these faithful but inexperienced “little ones.” 

            Jesus tells the disciples that they must hold each other accountable for their sins.  If one of them sins, that person must be reprimanded for it.  However if that person repents and asks for forgiveness, forgiveness must be given!  Even if that person sins against you seven times, then turns back and repents seven times.  You still must forgive.

            It is the disciples’ response to these first lessons that begins our particular part of the story.  The disciples cry to Jesus, “Increase our faith!”  In other words this discipleship calling is tough, so tough we may need some extra large faith in order to handle all of it.  We need more faith to handle the responsibilities.  Otherwise we don’t stand a chance.

            But Jesus replies, “If you had faith as large as a mustard seed – and the word for “if” used here in the Greek implies that the disciples already have enough faith – then you could tell that big tree over there to pull up its roots and jump into the sea.  If you have faith that’s as small as that tiny mustard seed, and you do, trust me you do, then you can use that seemingly small faith to do great things.  Even with a small faith, you can still do big and wonderful things.

            Had Jesus stopped here, this would have still been a challenging passage, but that challenge might have felt more manageable.  But Jesus doesn’t stop here.  He goes on to tell them about a master and slave.  When the slave does what’s expected of him, he doesn’t get praise or thanks.  The slave is just doing what he’s supposed to do.  The slave is just doing what’s required of him on any particular day.  He’s just doing his duty.

            Now the interesting twist that Jesus gives to this story is that Jesus moves from the idea of the disciples and their slaves, to the disciples being slaves of God.  This makes God the slave master, adding to the discomfort we may feel reading this passage.  But whether we choose “slave” or “servant,” it still doesn’t seem right that the servant receives no thanks, no praise, no reward for the hard day’s work he’s just put in.  Everyone deserves some recognition.  We all want to be called wonderful at least once.  We all want to be thanked for what we do.

            But the point that Jesus is trying to make to his disciples is that being a disciple is not about receiving thanks.  In fact if you get in it for the thanks, for recognition and reward, then you’re in it for the wrong reasons and you’re going to have problems.  Being a disciple means being an example for others and assuming responsibility for their welfare and well being.  Being a disciple means holding each other accountable and being willing to forgive.  And being a disciple means doing our duty.  It means being a servant that is always serving without expecting a reward or praise or thanks.  Being a disciple means coming before God with humility, knowing that no matter what we do we’re never truly worthy.

            There’s no denying it, this is not an easy passage.  It seems to contradict other passages where Jesus does tell his disciples about the reward they’ll receive someday.  It seems to go against the stories when Jesus rewards the faithful steward and promises a healthy bonus for the servants who invest their talents wisely.  So frustrating and hard to swallow is this parable that one of the early church fathers, Saint Augustine, found it hard to believe these words were actually spoken by Jesus.

            As tough as this passage is, it reminds us of one of the most fundamental and basic tenets of our faith; we can never earn way into God’s kingdom or God’s favor.  Salvation is not ours because of merit or worthiness on our part; salvation comes through God’s grace alone.

            William Willimon, a preacher, teacher and at one time a Bishop in the United Methodist denomination, wrote about the night of his ordination.  He said the Holy Spirit got hold of him that night.  It took hold of him not when the choir sang, not during the preaching, not even in the presence of friends and family.  The Holy Spirit grabbed him that night when another Bishop laid his hands on him and quoted the ancient words, “never forget that the sheep committed to your charge are the ones for whom he gave his life.”  Up until that moment, Willimon was wondering if the Bishop would recognize his superior training.  He wondered if the laity would respond to his progressive and social attitudes.  Instead he heard, “the ones whom you serve are the ones for whom the Master died.”

            Did Willimon feel worthy of that calling?  No.  Do any of us?  Probably not.  But just as this parable teaches about God’s grace, it also teaches us something pretty fundamental about discipleship.  Maybe the true reward comes not in words of thanks or praise but in our day to day living as disciples.  Maybe we find our reward when we recognize that having faith, just faith, is more important than recognition.  Maybe the reward can be found in doing our duty, in always serving others, in doing what we believe to be right and true just because we should, not because of what we think we’ll get.  Maybe the reward comes when we recognize beyond any doubt that we are humble, unworthy servants and yet we keep on serving.

            Every day, around the globe, our brothers and sisters in Christ serve because that is what they are supposed to do.  And many of them serve in circumstances and situations we cannot even begin to imagine.  They are persecuted, discriminated against, forced to keep their faith underground, and yet they still serve, not expecting reward or thanks, just serving. 

            I think what Jesus wanted the disciples to understand is that the reward for discipleship comes in the doing of discipleship.  That doing may be overwhelming at times.  We may feel we need extraordinary doses of faith in order to serve.  But Jesus assures the disciples and us that we already have enough faith to do all that needs to be done.  Even faith as small as that infinitesimally tiny mustard seed is enough to move mountains.  Discipleship requires faith, just faith, even if that faith is shaky at times.  It just requires faith enough to keep walking behind the One who came into this world to love it and us.  Let all God’s children say, “Amen.”

What Don't We See?

Luke 16:19-31

September 29, 2013

            Hear these words from a rather famous ghost story. 

            Scrooge fell upon his knees and clasped his hands before his face. 

            “Mercy!” he said.  “Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?” 

            “Man of the worldly mind!” replied the Ghost, “do you believe in me or not?”

            “I do,” said Scrooge.  “I must. But why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?”

            “It is required of every man,” the Ghost returned, “that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death.  It is doomed to wander through the world – oh woe is me! – and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!”

            Again the spectre raised a cry, and shook its chain and wrung its shadowy hands.

            “You are fettered,” said Scrooge, trembling.  “Tell me why?”

            “I wear the chain I forged in life,” replied the Ghost.  “I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it.  Is its pattern strange to you?”

            Scrooge trembled more and more. 

            “Or would you know,” pursued the Ghost, “the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself?  It was full as heavy and as long as this, seven Christmas Eves ago.  You have labored on it since.  It is a ponderous chain!”

            Scrooge glanced about him on the floor, in the expectation of finding himself surrounded by some fifty or sixty fathoms of iron cable: but he could see nothing.

            “Jacob,” he said, imploringly.  “Old Jacob Marley, tell me more.  Speak comfort to me, Jacob.”

            “I have none to give,” the Ghost replied.  “It comes from other regions, Ebenezer Scrooge, and is conveyed by other ministers, to other kinds of men.  Nor can I tell you what I would.  A very little more is all permitted to me.  I cannot rest.  I cannot stay, I cannot linger anywhere.  My spirit never walked beyond our counting-house – mark me! – in life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits of our money-changing hole; and weary journeys lie before me!” from “A Christmas Carol,” by Charles Dickens.

            Many, if not most, of Charles Dickens’ stories were inspired by the inequity of the English class system and the misery of the poor.  Not only did he see this inequity in the society in which he lived, this inequity was played out in his own life as well.  It does not take a great intellectual leap, then, to see the motivation for “A Christmas Carol.”    

            Whenever I read this passage from Luke I can’t help but think about this scene between Scrooge and Marley.  Scrooge, for whatever reason, is being given a chance to redeem himself, change his ways.  Marley’s visit is the opening of the door between the living and the dead that gives Scrooge that opportunity.  The ghostly visit from Marley and the following three ghosts opened his eyes before it was too late. 

However for the rich man in this parable, it was too late.  He and Ebenezer Scrooge share a few things in common.  They were both rich; albeit the rich man in our parable lived his wealth.  His was a rich, sumptuous, extravagant life, while Scrooge’s was small and miserly.  They both had vivid examples of poverty living at their very doors.  Lazarus was a man starving to death, living outside the rich man’s gate.  He would have gladly taken crumbs from the rich man’s table.  But the only attention given to his physical condition came from the dogs that licked his sores. Bob Cratchitt worked in Scrooge’s cold, cramped office every day.  Had Scrooge really looked at him, he would have seen Bob’s poverty.  But he didn’t; not until the timely visits from Jacob Marley and the Ghosts of Christmas.  This is where the two stories diverge. 

In our passage the rich man and Lazarus both die.  All the comforts and solace that Lazarus never received in life, he now receives at Father Abraham’s side.  The rich man went to Hades and was tormented.  But he could look up and see Lazarus.  So he begs Abraham to send Lazarus to him, to dip his finger in water and give him some relief from the terrible flames.  But Abraham refuses.  He tells him, “Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony.  Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.” 

The rich man begs Abraham yet again to send Lazarus, I guess in ghostly form, to his house to warn his five brothers.  Maybe they can be saved from this torment.  Abraham reminds the rich man that his brothers have Moses and the prophets.  They’ve been warned.  They should already know all of this.  The rich man pleads again, saying that if someone from the dead comes back to warn them, they’ll repent.   Father Abraham tells the rich man that if his five brothers won’t listen to the words of Moses and the prophets, then a spirit from the dead will not convince them either.

            In “A Christmas Carol,” Dickens decided that a ghostly visitation, actually four of them, could convince a mean, miserly, miserable old man named Ebenezer Scrooge to turn his heart and change his future.  Lucky for literature and for us that he did.  His ghosts remind us, at least at Christmas, that there are others far less fortunate and far more in need than we may ever be.  It is a powerful tale.  But Luke’s gospel reminds us of the same fact at every season, at every turning of the year.  His words bear the real power.

            Jesus tells this parable in response to the Pharisees who ridiculed his words about wealth because they loved it.         It is a parable that tells of great reversal, the predominant theme in Luke.  With the coming of the kingdom, with the intersecting of the divine and the everyday, what is low shall be made high, what is high shall be made low.  What is rich shall become poor and what is poor shall become rich.  One who feasts in one life shall suffer in the next.  And so it goes with Lazarus and the rich man.  They literally switch places.  It is an abrupt shift from the parable we heard last week.  If that parable was utterly confusing, this one seems to make too much sense.  Take care of those around you now, or else you’ll pay for it later.

            Yet the Pharisees were probably not alone in their thinking about wealth.  They were operating under the belief that if one was wealthy that person was in great favor with God.  There are passages in the Old Testament that attribute wealth and good fortune, worldly success and prosperity to God.  If one is wealthy and well-fed, successful and thriving, then one is obviously receiving God’s blessings. 

            Jesus turns this belief on its head.  Certainly as many passages as there are that can be interpreted this way, there are also passages that state very clearly how the poor, the homeless, the transient, the unloved are to be cared for.  The rich man may have lived it up when he was alive, but his fortune is reversed upon his death.  And poor Lazarus, who suffered so in this life, is finally being cared for in the shelter of Abraham’s arms.

            Being wealthy may be a circumstance of good birth, good planning and just plain good luck, but that doesn’t mean that it is a blessing.  Paired with this passage from Luke is our lesson from I Timothy warning about the dangers of riches.  Longing for riches leads us into many a temptation.  It is in this passage that we read the famous maxim, “The love of money is a root of all kinds of evil.”  I’ve seen this adage cross-stitched and embroidered in a variety of ways in a variety of homes and other places.  I never thought about it much, other than it’s a good quote from the Bible.  But as much as those handcrafted works of art were visual aids to staying the course of faith, and reminders that our greed is never very far from us, I find it interesting that people generally stop with these words.  They never complete the sentence as it is in our text.  “The love of money is a root of all kinds of evil, and in their eagerness to be rich some have wandered away from the faith and pierced themselves with many pains.”

            In our eagerness to be rich.  I don’t know that I’m particularly eager to be rich, but I’m not eager to be poor either.  But no matter how broke, I believe myself to be, I am not poor.  I have so much more than so many others.  I have a car, a home, too many clothes for my closet, regular meals and the kids and I are drowning in our technological gadgets.  But I forget that.  Not only do I forget that I am far from being poor myself, I don’t see the depth of the poverty around me.  I sort of see it.  As I said last week, we in this congregation, in this neighborhood have a clear view of the poverty all around us.  But even with that, I don’t see, really see, what it is to be poor. 

            I think that’s another similarity between the rich man of this parable and Scrooge.  Neither of them saw the poverty that literally lay at their doorstep.  Maybe the real truth is that neither of them wanted to see.  Because once we see something, once the blinders come off, it’s hard to go back to being blind. 

              What don’t we see?  Who don’t we see?  Do we see the growing chasm between rich and poor, not only in this country, but around the world?  Do we see the desperate circumstances in which so many, too many people live?  What don’t we see? 

            I don’t want to be that rich man who finds out in death what he should have been doing in life.  I don’t want to be Ebenezer Scrooge who needs a night of ghosts to wake me up to the life that is in front of me.

            I don’t want any eagerness I may have to be rich to blind me to the needs of the poor right around me.  I want to work towards building up the kingdom, not just my bank account.  And I never want to forget that it is caring for the poor, ministering to the sick, and loving the unlovable that we come face-to-face with the living Christ.  I suspect that’s what I don’t see the most – the living Christ in the least of these.  But as we share the blessings of our lives with others, as we give from what we have been given, our eyes are opened.  May the God of mercy, grace and love open our eyes and our hearts to those who are right at our doorsteps, praying to be seen.  May God open our eyes to what we do not see.  Let all of God’s children say, “Amen.”

---

Dickens, Charles, "A Christmas Carol".  First published in 1843.  Published in 1986 by Bantam Books.

From Here to There

            I think my son forgot he was 12 this morning.  Lately he’s been setting his alarm so he can get up early and get going for the day.  This is a nice gesture, but so far it hasn’t worked.  The alarm sounds, he turns it off and goes back to sleep until I wake him up.  But this morning was different.  His alarm rang.  I heard him turn it off, and the next sound I heard was his feet hitting the floor.  A second later he climbed into bed with me, said, “Momma,” and went right back to sleep.

            It’s not my intent to embarrass my son by telling this story.  I doubt he was really even awake when he came into my room.  When he was little, this was a much more common occurrence.  Snuggling with mom was an expectation, not a surprise.  However at 12 he’s outgrown this.  He is well on his way into adolescence, soon to join his sister in the joyful realm of teenager.

            Oh let’s be honest.  What is so joyful about being a teenager?  Words like adolescence, puberty, and even teenager, don’t adequately describe what these years are like. The term I’m going to use is “Straits of Doom.”  Being a teenager – and as I’m discovering, being a parent of a teenager – means that more often than not you are navigating the Straits of Doom, with periodic stops at the Cliffs of Insanity.  Thank you to The Princess Bride for that particular name.  It’s not that there aren’t good times when you’re in full throttle adolescence.  There are.  While I detested Junior High (I’m old enough to remember when it was Junior High, not Middle School), High School was a better experience.  The older I got, the better it got.  I can’t claim that I became fully comfortable in my own skin until college (okay grad school, okay I’m still working on it).  But every moment of my own adolescence wasn’t terrible.  But it was hard.  I wanted to be an adult and treated as such.  I wanted the privileges of adulthood without the responsibility.  I wanted to use all of the clichés available, to be free to be me, spread my wings, fly, soar, until it got hard or scary.  Then I wanted to race right back to the safety of my parents, childhood and letting somebody else take care of me.  I write this knowing how lucky I was to have that safety net to fall back on.  Many don’t.

            I guess that is the real challenge of this time, and why adolescence feels more like traveling seasick than (insert snarky tone here) a journey of discovery into the delights of growing up.  Not only is your body suddenly a pinball machine of hormonal fluctuations; you’re also walking a thin, wildly shaky line between childhood and adulthood.  You want one but are reluctant to completely abandon the other.  Leaving childhood may be as much an occasion for grief as any other loss. 

            I know I’m not the first person to come to this realization about adolescence.  I'm sure I'm just articulating what others have already said.  However, I thought I was fairly well prepared to be a parent of teenagers.  After all, I was a teenager.  I remember.  But what I didn’t understand was the shock I feel at how quickly my children are changing.  Obviously all of life is change, but the changes I'm seeing now seem dramatically different from the changes I witnessed when they were little.  The changes of adolescence seem to be happening at a deeper level than when they were learning to talk and walk, read and ride a bike.  Author Anne Lamott, in writing about her son Sam’s experience navigating the Straits of Doom, said that when he would be in the throes of teenager-itis (my term), he didn’t seem like the person she knew as Sam at all.  So she called that person Phil, and she’d deal with Phil until Sam returned. * *

            My children are changing.  They are figuring out the world on their own terms.  They’re seeing through lenses that are distinctively their own.  Yes, those lenses are influenced by their parents and larger families, friends and experiences; but they are still forging a path that’s theirs and theirs alone.  I know that this is absolutely necessary.  I know that my job as a parent is not to make the path easier because I can’t, but to give them whatever guidance they’ll accept as they make their way.  What I didn’t expect was the helplessness.  Now I get my parents’ worry and frustration with me.  They knew that they had to do everything they could to teach me, but they couldn’t fully protect me.  They could see the rocks and heartaches and setbacks that lay in wait along those straits, but they were helpless to prevent me from crashing into them.  I see them too.  I also know my children will crash against them. They’ll hurt and be hurt.  They'll fail.  They'll encounter obstacles they didn't expect.  They’ll fall and will have to find a way to get back up.  But all of this has to happen in their own way.  I have to accept that their way won’t always be mine.  I’ll treasure moments like this morning, a moment when I can still see the precious children they were.  But along with the worry and frustration that comes with teenagers, I’m also going to be hopeful.  I'm going to look to the future, their future, with expectation.  From the moment each of them were born, they were unique, amazing, wonderful little beings.  Someday, sooner than I'd like, I'll look up and see that they've become unique, amazing, wonderful adults.   

           

** In the spirit of Anne Lamott, I’ve decided to call my kids’ alter egos Tallulah and Spike.  I don’t know why.  The names just work.