A New Kind of Royal -- Christ the King Sunday

John 18:33-38

November 25, 2018

            This may be a very big, very wrong assumption on my part, but I suspect that everyone here as at least heard about a certain prince who married a certain commoner last May. If my assumption is wrong – not everyone is as obsessed with them as I am – and you don’t know who I’m referring to, I’ll fill you in. Prince Harry, second son of Prince Charles and fifth in line of succession to the throne of England, married Megan Markle last May. Some of you may not care that Prince Harry and Megan Markle got married, and that’s perfectly fine. But I would be surprised if you didn’t know at least a little about them, because for one thing their wedding was all over the news. Even more, it would be hard to have missed their wedding because Megan Markle is not your typical royal. What has been so surprising and so refreshing about this royal marriage is not just that it happened, but because of who Markle is.

She is American – that should have been strike one. She is divorced – that should have been strike two. And she is of a multi-cultural background. Her mother is African American. Her father is white. That should have definitely been strike three. Once upon a time, any one of those factors would have completely and utterly knocked Markle out of the running to be royal. It has not been that many years since Prince Harry’s great uncle abdicated his throne because he was not allowed to marry his divorced American squeeze. Yes, I said, “squeeze.”

It takes permission from the Queen for a royal to marry, and she gave her grandson permission to marry this divorced American with a multi-cultural heritage. Times are a changing, and those changes are even being felt in England’s monarchy. While it would seem that most people have accepted, even embraced, Megan as a new kind of royal – after all their wedding was watched by millions of people around the globe, including yours truly – her marriage into the royal family was not welcomed by everyone. One comment that was made by a person connected with the British government was that Markle would “taint the royal blood line with her seed, making way for a black king and a Muslim Prime Minister.” I’m not making this up. I wish I were. But Megan Markle is a different kind of royal. She is a new kind of royal; one that doesn’t fit the previous mold of who a royal was and where a royal came from.

If anyone did not fit the mold of what it meant to be a royal, it would be Jesus. He was a new kind of royal indeed. Our passage from John’s gospel may seem unexpected this morning. The meeting between Jesus and Pontius Pilate is one we expect to hear during Holy Week, but on Christ the King Sunday this exchange between Pilate and Jesus rings true and relevant.

The religious authorities did not have the power to have someone executed. That was up to the Roman state. That is why Pilate was brought in. These same leaders could also not enter Pilate’s headquarters without becoming ritually unclean. So they had Jesus taken to Pilate, but would not be there to witness the conversation between the two men. The religious leaders wanted Pilate to do their dirty work for them.

Pilate must have understood this, and I imagine that if we could go back in time and listen in, we would hear his understanding in his tone of voice.

“Are you the King of the Jews?” might sound more like, “So you’re the King of the Jews, are you?”

Jesus, ever aware of the verbal traps laid for him, would not give him a direct answer in return.

“Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?”

King of the Jews would have meant something different to the religious leaders than it would have to Pilate. To Pilate, a King of the Jews would have been a political threat, a potential political upstart. A King rising from the Jews might have been someone poised to revolt against Roman rule and threaten not only Pilate’s position of power, but Roman power as well.

            But the religious leadership, those priests and scribes, saw the claim of Jesus being the King of the Jews as someone believed to be anointed as Messiah. Jesus was not just claiming to be another kind of religious authority; he was claiming to be the authority. He was the Truth, the Way, the Life. This was also a threat to their power. From both perspectives, from Pilate’s and from the religious leadership, this threat had to be eradicated. If there were going to be a King of the Jews, it could certainly not be this particular man, this very different, unexpected, very new kind of royal.

            Jesus was definitely a new and, to some, an unwelcome kind of royal. His royalty was what Pilate was trying to get at with his interrogation of him.

            When Jesus responded with his question about who told Pilate about Jesus’ kingship, Pilate answered,

            “I’m not a Jew am I? Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you done?”

            Jesus still did not give him a straight or satisfactory answer. Instead he said,

            “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.”

            Pilate just wants an answer.

            “So you are a king?”

            “You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”

            “What is truth?”

            My kingdom is not from this world. Jesus was a new kind of royal, and his kingdom was a new kind of realm. Jesus’ answer was not so much about who he was, but about where he was from. His kingship and his identity as king was and is tied up in where Jesus came from, more specifically who he came from.

            My kingdom is not from this world. That means that it does not look like the kingdoms of this world. It does not sound like the kingdoms of this world. It does not seek to rule like the kingdoms of this world. It is not like the kingdoms of this world. Jesus was and is a new kind of royal, which means that his kingdom – the kingdom of God – was a new kind of kingdom as well.

            What does this mean for us? What does it mean that Jesus, our Savior, our Sovereign and our King is a new and unexpected kind of royal with a new and unexpected kind of kingdom? I know that I have preached this before, but one thing that we need to understand about the kingdom of God is that it is not a geographic location. It is not a particular place that you can point to on a map or that you can journey to only in the next life. Amy Johnson Frykholm, a writer for The Christian Century, wrote that she used to believe the kingdom was something you could build, something that believers could definitively grasp, but she has begun to believe that the kingdom of God is something you see in glimpses, something that you recognize in a flash of a moment, a glimmer of a second.

            Whatever our understanding of the kingdom of God may be, our clearest glimpse of it is through Jesus – this new kind of royal. Through him we see that the kingdom of God is built not on authoritarianism but on servant leadership. It is built not on control, but on hope. It is built not on power but on love.

            Again, what does this mean for us? What does observing Christ the King Sunday mean for us? I think that recognizing that Jesus was and is a new kind of royal, with a new kind of kingdom is a reminder of who we are called to follow and how we are called to follow. How easy it is to get caught up in the trappings of this world’s kingdoms. How easy it is to confuse this world’s kingdoms with the kingdom of God. How easy it is to forget that the King we are called to follow is a new kind of royal, with a kingdom that is not from this world.

            That’s why this Sunday was established: as a reminder to believers of who they were supposed to be following, to whom they were supposed to pledge their loyalties and the kind of kingdom they were to participate in. So that is what we are called to do as well: to remember that our King is a new kind of royal and that we are called to follow him, to follow in his unexpected footsteps. We are called to participate in his kingdom, right now, in this time and in this place; to remember that the kingdom of God is not just a destination we reach somewhere in the future, but it is way of living. It is something that we glimpse in moments of service, in moments of sacrifice, in moments of giving and loving. Our king is a new kind of royal, with a new kind of kingdom and we are called to follow. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Blind Faith

Mark 10:46-52

October 28, 2018

            I am title challenged. In other words, I struggle with coming up with titles for my sermons, for anything I write. It isn’t that I don’t have the ability to come up with a good or catchy title for something. But with short stories or essays or poetry, the titles most often rise up out of what I’ve written. But sermons are different. Sermons are tricky. Generally, I have to come up with my sermon title before I write the sermon. That means that while I’m writing, I worry constantly about whether or not my sermon actually reflects the title I’ve given it. It’s not unusual for me to feel pressured by the title I’ve chosen; especially when I think I’ve come up with something clever and catchy. I have such a great title, but this sermon isn’t living up to it! I tell myself not to get obsessed about it. Do people really sit there and wonder why my sermon doesn’t seem to match the title? Probably not. But if you do, don’t tell me. But it still bugs me.

Brent told me a story shared from his pastor about another preacher who hated coming up with titles. He hated them so much that every sermon was entitled the same way; “Ponderings On …” And then whatever scripture passage he was preaching on would finish the title.

If I used his example, this sermon would be entitled, “Ponderings On Mark 10:46-52,” But it’s not called that. It’s called, “Blind Faith.” When I told Brent the title, he thought I was referring to the blues rock band started by Eric Claption, Ginger Baker, Steve Winwood, and Ric Greich. But that wasn’t my inspiration.

I also realized after I chose this title that the expression, “blind faith,” is sometimes used disparagingly. To some, blind faith means that the person with the blind faith has just checked out on using their brain or reason or logic at all. You just have blind faith in God or another person without any critical thinking to go along with it. But I chose the title, “Blind Faith,” because it seemed an obvious description of what is happening in this story. Bartimaeus was blind, but he is an astonishing and incredible example of faith; therefore, “Blind Faith.”

Bartimaeus’ story comes at the end of chapter 10, and essentially at the end of the first part of Mark’s gospel. Immediately after this story, Jesus makes his “triumphal entry,” into Jerusalem. He is moving ever more quickly and inexorably toward the cross. But before he and the disciples come to the Mount of Olives, and before he sends two of the disciples to fetch a colt from a nearby village, and before he enters Jerusalem on that colt’s back, and before the people lay palm branches and cloaks on the road to mark his entry, Jesus and the disciples and the large crowd following along were leaving Jericho.

Mark tells us that Bartimaeus, or Bar-Timaeus, son of Timaeus, was “a blind beggar sitting by the roadside. When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to shout out and say, ‘Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!’”

Bartimaeus may have been blind, but he was not deaf. He must have heard the commotion of a large number of people, and the sound of so many feet walking past him. He must have heard the babble of voices, the whispers of wonder, the cries of expectation, the excited discussions about this Jesus in their midst. Perhaps even before he heard Jesus and the disciples and the crowds walking by, Bartimaeus had already heard rumors about Jesus, about what this strange man of Nazareth was doing and saying. Maybe Bartimaeus just knew, just perceived in a way that went beyond the physical senses, who Jesus truly was. However he knew about Jesus, he knew about Jesus.

He started shouting to him, trying to get his attention.

“Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”

You would think that the people around Bartimaeus would have recognized what an opportunity this was for Timaeus’ son. Here is someone who could help Bartimaeus, heal Bartimaeus. Instead they tried to hush him.

“Be quiet, Bartimaeus!” “Stop shouting, Bartimaeus!” “Don’t bother the teacher, Bartimaeus!” “Who are you to cry out to him, Bartimaeus?”

But all their efforts to shush him, to quiet him, to stifle him, were naught. Bartimaeus just shouted louder.

“Son of David, have mercy on me!”

Jesus heard. Jesus stopped walking, stood still, and called Bartimaeus to him. I suspect that the same people who were trying to hush Bartimaeus were now the ones encouraging him to get up and go to Jesus.

“Hush Bartimaeus! Oh wait, he wants to see you. Go Bartimaeus!”
            However visually impaired Bartimaeus may have been, he seemed to have no mobility issues. He didn’t just get up from the side of the road, he sprang up. He threw off his cloak and jumped up from where he was sitting and went to Jesus. Jesus then asked him a question which should have seemed obvious.

“What do you want me to do for you?”

“My Teacher, let me see again.”

Without touching him, uttering a prayer, or speaking other words that would seem to bring forth healing, Jesus healed him. Jesus merely said to him,

“Go; your faith has made you well.”

Immediately, Bartimaeus, son of Timaeus, once a beggar by the side of the road, regained his sight. He saw and he followed.

What do you want me to do for you? Perhaps Jesus didn’t ask that question to be obtuse or to make Bartimaeus speak his desire. Perhaps that question was to get at the heart of what Bartimaeus really desired. He wanted to see again. Jesus gave him back his sight. When we think of a gospel with layers upon layers of meanings, we most likely think of the gospel of John. But I think there are layers in this story; there is more happening here, more being said, than a physical healing.

Don’t misunderstand me. Bartimaeus was healed of his physical blindness. But there was a seeing that went far beyond the physical. Bartimaeus could not see Jesus to have faith in him. But still he saw. He believed. He did not seem to just believe that Jesus was a healer. He called him “Son of David,” another way of saying Messiah. He called him, Teacher, my Teacher. He shouted not for healing, but for mercy. Bartimaeus had blind faith – not only because he was blind and believed, but because he was able to believe without needing to see. Jesus gave him back his sight, and what did he do? He didn’t run off and tell his friends or return to his family. He followed. He followed.

I’m not sure we are called to have blind faith, the kind of faith that chucks off reason and logic and thought. But I do think we are called to trust as deeply and as surely as Bartimaeus did. I think we are called to see how we are blind; how we walk through the world with blinders on: blind to others’ pain, blind to how our actions affect others, blind to the consequences of our sin.

The events of this past week, of yesterday, call us to remove our blinders. The violence in our world, in our country is real. As I was trying to ponder what to say in this sermon, I heard about the deadly shooting at a synagogue in Pennsylvania. People worshipping peacefully, observing the Sabbath, were gunned down by a man with death and violence and distorted vengeance on his mind and in his heart. They were our sisters and brothers. That man is our brother. The man who sent pipe bombs to so many prominent people last week; he is our brother. Believe me, I don’t like to call him that. I don’t want to admit that. I want to hate. But I cannot have blind faith. Just as Jesus restored Bartimaeus’ sight, he calls me to open my eyes, my mind and my heart. The people who are harmed are our family, and the people who do the harm are as well. And just as I am called to see this truth, to acknowledge it, I am called to live accordingly. And I am called to accountability, to admit my own culpability in the brokenness and the violence of our time. To have faith in Mark’s gospel is to follow Jesus; to follow with trust and persistence, even when we doubt. But it is also to see; to really, really see. We are called not to follow blindly, oblivious to the heartbreak of the world, focused only on our own personal relationship with Jesus. We are called to follow with eyes wide open, with hearts wide open, with minds wide open, with hands wide open. We are called to follow and to see. Jesus healed Bartimaeus. He gave him back his sight. But he also showed him mercy. Isn’t that what we are calling for? Isn’t that what we need? Mercy.

Aren’t we all in need of mercy? Aren’t we all blind in some way or another? Don’t we need to be healed? Don’t we need to finally see, to really see as if our faith depends on it?

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

The Goods

Mark 10:17-31

October 14, 2018

            Let’s assume from the very beginning of this sermon that Jesus was speaking absolutely and unequivocally truthfully. I know, I know, some of you – perhaps all of you – are thinking,

            “Amy, I always assume that Jesus was speaking absolutely and unequivocally truthfully.”

            I have no quarrel with that. I would claim it as well. But stick with me on this. Let’s all assume that Jesus was speaking absolutely truthfully in our passage from Mark. And with that assumption in mind, let us hear again these words.

            “As he was setting out on a journey, a man ran up and knelt before him, and asked him, ‘Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?’ Jesus said to him, ‘Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone. You know the commandments: ‘You shall not murder; You shall not commit adultery; You shall not steal; You shall not bear false witness; You shall not defraud; Honor your father and mother.’ He said to him, ‘Teacher, I have kept all these since my youth.’ Jesus, looking at him, loved him, and said, ‘You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.’ When he heard this, he was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions.’

            Then Jesus looked around and said to his disciples, ‘How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!’ And the disciples were perplexed at these words. But Jesus said to them again, ‘Children, how hard it is to enter the kingdom of God! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.’ They were greatly astounded and said to one another, ‘Then who can be saved?’ Jesus looked at them and said, ‘For mortals it is impossible, but not for God; for God all things are possible.’”

            Are you still assuming it’s all true? And if you are, how are you feeling right about now? I’ll be honest with you. I’m a little nervous. I’m more than a little uncomfortable, because while I am not rich I have a lot of stuff. I own a lot of things. I have a life filled with possessions. And I promise you that when I leave here today I am not going to go out, sell my possessions, and give the money to the poor. I’m not. However, as I have also agreed to assume that what Jesus says is true, I will leave here disturbed by his words and struggling with what to do with them.

            What do we do with these words, these unsettling and disturbing words about riches and wealth and the kingdom of God? First of all, let me share with you something that I learned only this past week. If you have ever been told in a sermon, perhaps one delivered by me, that the eye of a needle was a small gate into the city of Jerusalem, used for camels, it’s not true. There was no such gate. There is no evidence that any kind of gate like this ever existed. According to commentators and biblical scholars, this was made up in the nineteenth century to spiritualize this text. Why? Because thinking that Jesus was referring to an actual narrow gate makes his words sting a little less.

            And that’s what we want. We want his words to sting a little less; because when it comes to wealth and possessions, this story about Jesus’ encounter with the rich man stings. We don’t know anything about this man other than what we read in the gospels. Sometimes referred to as the “rich, young ruler,” in Mark’s gospel we only hear him referred to as a man. But whether we call him the rich, young ruler or just know him as a man of means, the way he approached Jesus was interesting.

            He clearly was not a man looking to trick or ensnare Jesus as the Pharisees did. He knelt before Jesus. The people who knelt before Jesus were the ones in need of healing, either for themselves or someone they loved. The Syrophoenician woman who begged Jesus to heal her child knelt before him. Jairus knelt before Jesus and begged him to help his daughter. To kneel was to prostrate ones’ self. It was a gesture of humility and pleading. The rich man knelt before Jesus. Clearly, he was seeking something he could not find on his own. He was driven by a need that his wealth and possessions could not fill.

            So he ran up to Jesus, knelt before him and asked the question, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

            Jesus’ initial response seems strange.

            “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone.”

            Was Jesus engaging in mutual humility? Or was he pointing out to this man who had plenty of goods that the real source of goodness was not found in people, not even in Jesus; nor was it found in possessions, in stuff? The real source of good, of the good, was only found in God. God alone is good. So even to refer to Jesus as good was to miss the mark.

            Jesus went on to say, you know your commandments. You know what they are. You shall not murder or commit adultery or steal. You shall not bear false witness. You shall honor your mother and father. Jesus added a commandment; one that we don’t find in the original Decalogue. He also said, “You shall not defraud.”

            Did Jesus say this because this man gained his wealth through the defrauding of others? Were his words based on an understanding that many of those who were wealthy were so because of exploitation of others? We don’t know. Again, that’s what Jesus said, and we are assuming that everything Jesus said was true.

            The man answered Jesus saying that he obeyed all the commandments. He followed the Law. He was not guilty of transgression against any of them. Then Mark tells us something that we do not hear in any of other gospel accounts, nor do we hear this in any story about Jesus.

            “Jesus, looking at him, loved him.”

            Jesus looked at this man, this rich man, who we assume had goods to spare, and loved him. He loved him.

            Jesus said, “You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.”

            Jesus looked at this man. Jesus loved this man. And Jesus saw that even with all this man had, with all that he owned, he still lacked something. He lacked something that money and possessions could not fill. Perhaps it was that lack, that need that drove this man to Jesus in the first place. Perhaps deep down the man realized that he was lacking, that he had a void in his life that could not be filled by stuff or things or wealth.

            “You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.”

            There are so many things to be unpacked in this story, so many levels of meaning in which to dive deeply. I could preach twenty sermons on it, and that’s a good thing. This story pushes us not only to reexamine how we see wealth, but also to consider how we see the poor. To be honest, this story is not just about what Jesus said to some man a long time ago, it is about what he says to us right now. It was not just the man who was shocked and grieved by Jesus’ words, all the others around them were shocked as well. To be rich was a sign of blessing. To be poor was a sign of God’s disfavor, even God’s curse. Are we that much different today? Isn’t poverty more often viewed as a moral failing and wealth a result of doing all the right things?

            Jesus did not chastise the man or reprove of him because of his wealth per se. But he called him to see that his wealth, his possessions; the goods that he set such store by were not really what was good. Only God is good. All good comes from God, not in spite of God. Jesus did not condemn the man’s wealth nor did he condemn the man. Jesus looked at him and loved him, and asked him to see good in something else, something bigger, something better.

            Sell all that you own, give the money to the poor, then come and follow me.

            Jesus called the man to be in a new relationship with the people around him, and Jesus called him to be in relationship with him. Get rid of what distracts you. Give away what binds you, and follow me. In Mark’s gospel especially, faith is not assenting to or ascribing to doctrine or a set of rules. Faith is about following. Faith is about relationship. If there is something that prevents you from following or being in relationship, then let it go, give it up, give it away. All those possessions, all those goods, they are nothing in light of being in relationship with Jesus; of being in relationship with our good and loving God.

            What Jesus said was true, and we have to wrestle with his truth. We have to live with it. I’ve already said that I won’t leave here today, sell what I own and give that money to the poor. I know that. But that does not excuse me from taking Jesus’ words about wealth and following and faith seriously. I cannot spiritualize this story away. I cannot write it off as being something different from what Jesus actually said. For the rest of my life, I have to face the fact that what I own can get in the way of how I live with others, how I treat others, and how I walk in relationship and faith with God.

            Yet here is the good news. Jesus looked at that man and loved him. Jesus looks at us and loves us. Jesus loves us, in spite of the fact that we can so easily fail to follow him, regardless of how many times we, like that man, walk away from him. Jesus loves us in spite of ourselves, and what is impossible for us is never, ever impossible for God. Thanks be to God. Amen.

A Community of the Broken -- World Communion Sunday

Mark 10:2-16

October 7, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “What did Moses command you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But What About You?

Mark 8:27-38

September 16, 2018

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

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

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

            “Who are the people saying that I am?”

            The students did not hesitate with their answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Who do you say that I am?

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

            “You are the Messiah.”

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

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

            “Get behind me, Satan!”

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

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

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

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

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

Room at the Table

Mark 7:24-37

September 9, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the Inside Out

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

September 2, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            But Jesus turned that tradition on its head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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