Sermon for Third Advent 2017

Preached at Grace and Canadochly on December 17, 2017
Preaching Text: Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11

Last Sunday, I had a bit of a moment. Midway through preaching my sermon at Grace, it’s just sort of hit me. I had rattled off yet another of my laundry lists of everything I think wrong with the world and, at the end of it, I just had this sick feeling. A moment where I realized, I’m just tired of this crap. I’m tired of living it.  I’m tired of talking about it. I’m burned out. I need a break. When I got to Canadochly and preaching the same sermon, when I got to that part of it, I just said, “You know what’s wrong out there. You don’t need me to tell you.” And I moved on from there.

Nietzsche, the German philosopher, once warned us about starting too long into the Abyss, into the dark parts of our reality, because after a while it starts to stare back. We start to become like it. We absorb the darkness and become dark ourselves. That’s a dangerous place for anyone of character or morality or faith to be. And I felt it happening to me.

So I decided after all that, this sermon today was going to be different. This is the Third Sunday of Advent, the Sunday of Gaudete, the Sunday of joy. The Sunday when we light the pink (technically rose) candle. The Sunday where I wear my pink shirt and put my pink scarf on as a substitute stole. The Sunday where I crack my joke about how “it takes a real man to wear pink” and tell the story about how a few generations ago pink was the boy’s color instead of the girl’s. The Sunday where all this and much more is meant to lighten our mood in the darkness of these final days of fall, when the sun sets so blasted early and rises so blasted late and it’s so blasted cold outside. It’s meant to be a day of fun. A day of joy. A day of smiles and happiness.

Yes, there’s things wrong in the world. God knows, I feel like I’ve named them all. You’ve seen them. You’ve even experienced a few of them. But there’s also a lot that’s going right. For every starving polar bear we’ve watched with horror and pity, there’s a guy rushing into a wildfire to save a frightened rabbit. There are stories of triumph over illness. Of good overcoming evil. Of the hungry being fed. Of justice flowing down like waters. Of things right and good and just. Things victorious.

Watch at your own risk. This is gut-wrenching.

Faith in humanity restored.

Sounds a little like Isaiah.

I mentioned last week the fact that scholars believe the book of Isaiah has multiple authors and is the prophecy of more than prophet. Last week’s text, Isaiah 40, was the beginning of “Second Isaiah” and took place in the last years of the horrible Babylonian exile, when the people had little to hope in. Today’s text from Isaiah 61 is the beginning of what scholars call “Third Isaiah” and it takes place after the people have been liberated from bondage and brought home in triumph and celebration.

In many ways, today’s text is God saying through the prophet, “I told you so.” I said I’d deliver you. I said you would see the Lord’s favor play out before your very eyes. I told you the ruins would be rebuilt, the desolate places made green and fertile again. I told you that you would rejoice again. I told you I would put right what has gone wrong.

The past is prelude. It’s one of the big reasons we read these ancient prophecies even when we know they are only in the most indirect sense addressed to us. But they show us what God has done before. They demonstrate how God is always at work, even in the darkest of times. And yes, the pendulum of history swings towards darker times, but it will swing back to the light again. God has promised this and God is always faithful.

If anything, that’s what Advent and Christmas are really about. The coming of the light into a dark world, a world full of all sorts of things that are wrong with it. It is not coincidence that the early Church decided to co-opt the pagan Solstice festivals as their day to mark the birth of Christ. For those festivals were celebrations of light, of its return in the midst of darkness, and that’s a theme we can all embrace.

Because there is light, even now. Two months ago, I was lying on a gurney in an Emergency Room bleeding out from a disease that has plagued me most of my life. I nearly died. And yet, I stand before you now, still alive. My daughter, despite some elements of immaturity in her like using profanity as punctuation (typical of young teenagers. I did it too.), is one the best people I know and I could not be more proud of the person she’s becoming. I have friends who love, care, and respect me. Colleagues who honor my opinions and thoughts. A beautiful wife who I love beyond words even when she ticks me off. (For what it’s worth, I’m sure I tick her off just as much if not more so.) These are gifts from God, light in the darkness, and they are what bring me joy.

And you? Stories of grandchildren. Memories of family. The singing of favorite songs (even if you can’t quite sing as well as you once did.) The beauty of a sunset. The story of triumph in a game, or a sport, or against a horrible sickness. Light in your darkness. Gifts of God. Sources of joy. They’re out there.

So look around you. See the world, not as the Abyss of Nietzsche’s warning, but as the emergent kingdom of God. See the compassion and the love and the good and the just. It may not be as common or obvious as we’d like it to be, but it is there. Because God is there. And he’s at work. Slowly, inexorably, bringing the world into what it’s meant to be. Setting right what is wrong. Doing as he promised and as he’s done before countless times for those he loves. There is joy to be found anywhere and everywhere, because God is faithful. Amen.

Sermon for Second Advent 2017

Preached at Canadochly and Grace on December 10, 2017
Preaching text: Isaiah 40:1-11

Hope. This whole season of Advent is about hope. The hope that the Christ child brings. The hope of the incarnation, of God-with-us. The hope of a new and transformed world, a place where every tear is wiped away and pain and death are no more. The hope of salvation. The hope of mercy and forgiveness. The hope of a new heaven and a new earth. The hope of everything wrong being set right.

A little over a week ago, I celebrated my 45th birthday. In those two score and five years, I have seen amazing things. Hopeful things. I have seen once lethal disease brought to heel. I have seen us journey via probes and sometimes in person into the depths of space. I have watched tyranny fall, sometimes without even a shot being fired. I’ve seen the wall come down. I’ve seen unbelievable advances in technology. I’ve seen civil rights expanded to people who once were denied. And I’ve seen God behind it all, revealing to us his continuous transforming love. Behold, he seems to say, a preview of what is to come.

History is often compared to a pendulum. It swings out and then swings back. For many of us, it seems like it’s swinging back. Many of those hopeful things I just mentioned were years or even decades ago. Now, we look out on a world and see very little to hope in.

In my original manuscript, I followed up here with a laundry list of all the things wrong in the world. But I'll admit I'm tired of talking about that. I rant and rave about it every day on my Facebook feed and I'm burning out from it all. You all know what's wrong in the world. You see it on the news and in your newsfeed everyday. Things are pretty terrible right now and you don't really need me to repeat everything all over again for you to know it.

I admit that I do not live much in hope these days. Fear has become my constant companion, which is probably why I’ve preached on it so much. I fear for my family, for my wife and myself with our health issues. I fear for my friends who at Latino or black or gay. I fear for my daughter, growing up in a world where men of power and means feel entitled to abuse and harass her. I fear for the country I love that now seems hellbent on a course backwards.

The truth is, thought, we’ve been spoiled. Very spoiled. The past 60 or so years on this planet are an anomaly of history, where we have seen unprecedented peace and prosperity. No generation before saw the world work so well in their favor as we have. Yes, there have been wars. Yes, there have been famines and disasters and disease. But not like there was before. No modern conflict even remotely compares to the brutality of the world wars. No modern disease compares to the Black Death or even the Spanish Flu of 1918 (death toll 100 million). No modern disaster equals Pompeii or the Great Kanto earthquake in Japan in 1923 (an 8.0 earthquake that killed almost 150k and leveled Tokyo).

As I said last week, as bad as things seem, they could be a lot worse.

But here’s the thing. In the midst of all those horrible horrible things that past generations of humanity have faced, God was there. God was at work in those times, slowly, incrementally, bringing the world closer to his kingdom.

Case in point is our first lesson. Isaiah 40 is the beginning of what scholars call “Second Isaiah,” a portion of the prophetic book likely spoken by a different prophet than the first 39 chapters. Yes, my friends, it seems likely there was more than one prophet identified as Isaiah (although whether that was his actual name or not is not known to us.) We know this because this second section of chapters take place at a different time than the first. They take place deep in the Babylonian exile. Jerusalem has been destroyed. The people of God have been carted off into slavery in Babylon. A generation or more has passed since those horrible events.

Slavery, conquest by a foreign power, desolation of the homeland, all nightmarish things that have come to pass upon the people of God. And yet this new Isaiah proclaims “Comfort, O comfort, my people.”  A new hope is arising. God is still at work. He will metaphorically level the mountains and the valleys. He will come with might and liberate his people. Feeding them like a shepherd.

It’s wonderful poetry, but it also came to pass. Cyrus, king of Persia, the only figure in the Bible besides Jesus to bear the title “Messiah,” would soon conquer Babylon and set free its slaves. He would help rebuild Israel and give the land back to the people. God proved faithful and brought the nightmare to an end.

It’s no coincidence that this passage that predicted the first Messiah would later be used to describe the Christ. For here again is one who will set the people free. Here again is one who would bring comfort. Here again is one who would feed his flocks as a shepherd. The nightmare will soon end.

This is how God works. Time and again, throughout the struggle of human history, God remains at work, slowly incrementally bringing his kingdom to fulfillment. Jesus was a big step, the biggest, the one who came to live, die, and rise again for the sake of all people and the whole world. For you and for me, to set us free from sin and death.

God is faithful. Yes, as the pendulum of history swings us towards darker times, he is still at work. His prophet’s cry is still “comfort, O comfort, my people” because he will. He always has. The light of God’s mercy and love will never dim even in the darkest of times. No matter what we or the world face, God is still on the throne. He will always be on the throne. He will always work to bring his people out of darkness. He will never give up on us. And in that, my friends, is our true hope. Amen.

Sermon for First Advent 2017

Preached at Grace and Canadochly on December 3, 2017
Preaching text: Mark 13:24-37

I had an interesting conversation a week or so ago. I was working on my sermon for last Sunday, for Christ the King, when Stephanie, who is a good friend of my wife who was staying with us for Thanksgiving, popped her head into my home office. She asked me what I was doing and I told her I was working on my sermon, getting ready to preach on Jesus’ famous parable of the Sheep and the Goats from the Gospel of Matthew. As that parable is one of the End Times, that got us talking about the Second Coming. Is it soon? Don’t you think things are so bad that Jesus is bound to return soon? Etc.

That answer I gave her is “No, I don’t think it’s soon.” Part of it is my historical perspective. I have a hard time believing, even as much as I loathe this age in which we live, that things are the worst they’ve ever been. I know better. Yes, the age of Trump and terrorism, AIDS and Global Warming, nuclear North Korea and a resurgent Nazi party is pretty bad. We’ve got Trump, Hillary, Kim Jong Un; bad haircuts and worse politics, but hardly as bad as the European genocide of the Native Americans, from the Spanish conquistadors to the cowboys of the Wild West. Hardly as bad as Vlad the Impaler and the reason for his nickname or Attila the Hun, the “Scourge of God” or other brutal conquerors. Hardly as bad as the Black Death, a plague that killed 1/3 the world’s population.

Hardly as bad as the original Nazis, Hitler, the Holocaust, the devastation of Europe or their allies in Japan with the rape of Nanking and still more atrocities. Krakatoa that blew a whole Indonesian island to kingdom come or Vesuvius that buried Pompeii. No, as bad as we think things are, they could be a lot worse. And if that’s our criteria for what compels our Lord and Savior to return, how the bad things have gotten, we’re in for a disappointment if we’re starting at the sky expecting his arrival any minute now.

I have to confess though there are times when I wish he would show up. I didn’t live through any of those other nightmares I mentioned, so my perspective is that of the scholar, not someone who’s actually experienced one of those monstrous events in history. So while mentally and intellectually, I know things are not as bad as they seem, emotionally I share the desire of many to see Christ return now. I see the evil of our world and it frightens me. It frightens me for the sake of my flocks, for the sake of my family and friends, and for myself; many of whom could be on the firing line if things get just a little bit worse. And I feel powerless to make a real difference in the world. The work of charity and compassion that I endeavor often makes me feel like the boy in the old story where he sticks his finger in the dike to stop the coming floor. It doesn’t feel like it matters.

So, yes, there are times I want Jesus to come back NOW. I want him here to set the world right at last. To inaugurate the new age that I often speak of in funerals, the time when evil is no more, death is put asunder, hunger and thirst are no more, and every tear is wiped away. I want the new heaven and the new earth. I want the promise of eternity fulfilled. I want the streets of gold and all that is broken put back together, restored, redeemed. I want all the things that we trust God will bring when the Kingdom comes in its fullness.

Part of it, I’ll admit is my frustration, my weariness. I’m tired. I’m burned out from trying to do good in a world that does not reward it, but instead prefers evil, deceit, and hatred. And I don’t think I’m alone. I think a lot of folks who pine for the End of Days feel the same way. “We’ve tried, Lord. We did as you asked and, despite our best efforts, the world is just as rotten as ever.” Come, Lord Jesus, and fix what we cannot.

As tempting as it is to make that our prayer, that’s not how this works. The parables of Matthew that we had over the last several weeks make clear the reality of Christ’s absence from the world.

The Bridegroom has not come, the master of the household has gone to a far country, the king is away while his sheep and goats do as they do. Our Gospel lesson today from Mark carries forth that same theme. “It is like a man going on a journey, when he leaves home and puts his slaves in charge, each with his work.”

I don’t know when the Master is returning. No one does. It very well could be today or tomorrow or a thousand years from now. It’s not for us to decide. What is ours to decide is what to do today for the sake of the Kingdom. What to do with the time we’ve been given.

Seems I’ve heard that somewhere before. Oh, yeah, Gandalf’s counsel to Frodo in my favorite books The Lord of the Rings. “So do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. There are other forces at work in this world Frodo, besides the will of evil.”

Frodo shares our frustration, having the quest of the Ring thrust upon him and having to face a Darkness so terrible it threatens the world entire. Tolkien wrote those books in part as a reflection on his own experiences in the trenches of WWI, yet another of history’s nightmares. The wisdom of his fiction reminds us, as does our own Scriptures (not coincidentally, given Tolkien’s faith), that even in the worst of times, we have work to do.

But as Gandalf said to Frodo, so it is also true for us. There are other forces at work in our world. And the work we do is not done alone. Yes, Matthew emphasized the absence of Christ in a post-ascension world. But that absence is not total. Yes, Christ no longer walks this Earth as a physical human being, but his Spirit is ever present. Paul speaks of this in our Second Lesson in his introduction to his letter to the church in Corinth. We are not lacking in any spiritual gift. We have been strengthened and enriched by a faithful God who has called us into his fellowship.

We are stronger than we know. Our voice is louder than we realize. And we can make a difference in this world. Isaiah reminds us as he reminds God that “we are ALL your people.” The hungry still need fed. The poor still need advocates. The sick need care. The world needs US. The Bridegroom is still not back. The Master of the household is still away in that far country. The king sits on his throne and lets his sheep and goats do as they please. And what shall we do? Christ came to this world to announce a kingdom of God where all the evils of the world are put right. And we believe in that kingdom, but the world Christ came to save does not. Or should I say “does not believe in it YET?” You know what makes the difference. All of us living out the work that Christ has entrusted to us until he does return.

We have work to do. Amen.

Sermon for Christ the King 2017

Preached at Canadochly and Grace on November 26, 2017
Preaching text: Matthew 25:31-46

I learned an interesting bit of trivia this week, something I had not known before. This church holiday that we mark today, the final Sunday of the Church year, is a relatively new celebration. In the early 20th century, our Roman Catholic brothers and sisters were eager to find a counter-celebration for us Protestants who celebrated Reformation Sunday. In 1925, the Pope declared the final Sunday of the church year to be a celebration of Christ’s reign over the kingdom of God, placing it over and against Reformation Day. But he also had a second reason for creating this festival, a reason even we Protestants have now embraced this supposedly- competitive celebration. To understand the Bishop of Rome’s second reason, we must consider context.

1925. What was going on in Europe during those years? What was going on in Italy specifically during that time? Oh, yeah, Mussolini and the rise of fascism. The growing power of a dark tyranny that was clouding the morals and spirit of the people. The Pope wanted to remind Christians that we are of the kingdom of God, that worldly power no matter how alluring is both temporary and feeble before the eternal power of God’s reign over all creation. Hence, he declared Christ the King Sunday to remind them that God is really in charge and how God chooses to rule his kingdom.

I think it important to remember this history, a history I will admit I did not know before now. Worldly power is always seductive. It would make things so easy. Force everyone to agree with us or else. Make laws that require people to live by our standards and our morals and our religion. No need for any of that persuading people to believe as we do, no need for fancy rhetoric or apologetics. No need for acts of charity and kindness that would convince people that God truly is love and worthy of worship. No, we can just force them, threaten them with all the might of government if don’t comply. Imprison them, kill them, throw them from their homes and businesses. Believe our way or else.

That’s not Christ’s way. Not that it’s stopped us in the past.

Long before Lord Acton uttered his famous observation about how “power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely,” our Savior understood that truth innately. He called us to evangelize, to tell good news, in our efforts to spread the faith. And how would that be done? By the same ways he did. Feeding the hungry, healing the sick, caring for the poor, uplifting the meek and outcast, embracing the broken-hearted. His way was a radical change from the way of the world, a way he ran into headlong numerous times in his earthly ministry. The Pharisees, the scribes, the chief priests, all good religious folk, but good religious folk that worshipped and desired power rather than true devotion to God.

And we see their fruits. Rejection, self-righteousness, arrogance, hate. The poor deserve to suffer. The sick should just die. The outcast are sinners. God has rejected them all. They have to earn his favor by being like us. We have wealth. We have control. We are the rulers of all and we determine what God loves, favors, and saves.

And here we go again. Here again, the evil charlatan priest rears its head, the very type I warned against in last week’s sermon. Here is the Joel Osteen, the Franklin Graham, the Pat Robertson, or the Roy Moore of every generation. Wrapped in false piety and doling out God’s grace only to those they think worthy of it. Naming as sinner and enemy of God any who dare question them or point out their sins. Hungering for power and wealth enough to give their pronouncements the threat of life and death, the power of the sword. Believe as we do or else!

The same power possessed by tyrants and dictators of every generation. The power that Jesus rejected in favor of love and sacrifice, mercy and kindness, charity and compassion. The way of the cross instead of the sword.

And now it comes to us, the same choice faced by Christians of every time and place. Do we embrace the cross or the sword? We’ve seen the choice made by so many of our fellow Christians in this day and age, to lay hold of the sword, to seek for power and caring nothing for how it corrupts the faith and those who believe. A choice that gives in to hate and fear, that rejects the very people Christ came to save, all for the sake of ruling a world that rightly belongs to God and not them.

When Jesus told his parable of the sheep and goats, it was this very choice that he was talking about. It’s the same choice Jesus himself faced when marching into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, to go to the temple to worship God or to go the Roman fortress to conquer and kill. He chose the temple. He chose the kingdom of God over the kingdom of the world. He chose the people over power. And we who are his disciples, what will we choose?

I’ve made my choice. It’s the reason I preach as I do. It’s why I get up each Sunday and talk about how important it is to care for the poor. To listen to those our society tries to reject, like people of color and people of alternate sexuality. To mind the sick, to seek equitable and fair solutions to our healthcare crisis in this country. To seek freedom for the captives, particularly when so many are imprisoned unfairly. Some may complain that because I speak of these things that I’m too political. Perhaps, but compassion, kindness, mercy should be something all people of good character strive for. It’s only because we’ve listened to the lies of the power-hungry for too long have they have become points of controversy. How sad. How far we have fallen as a society that such virtues have become vice in our eyes.

But I don’t care, because I seek to do as Christ would do. That’s the only thing that matters to me in terms of morality. I have chosen the cross and, if history takes us in even darker directions, it may mean I’ll get hung on one. So be it. Martin Luther King, Gandhi, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Nelson Mandela, Susan B. Anthony, and many many others have all faced that in one form or another for the sake of standing up for the “least of these,” so I find myself in good company.

Oh, yeah, and Jesus too, of course.

What is your choice? To give into fear and seek for the false security and easy road of power and corruption? Or to embrace the faith of Christ who came to this world to live, die, and rise again for the sake of all people, the road that calls us to suffer with the suffering, to be hungry with the hungering, and perhaps even to die for sake of the least of these? Each one of us must decide. Are we sheep or goats? Amen.

Sermon for the 24th Sunday after Pentecost

Preached at Grace and Canadochly on November 19, 2017
Preaching text: Matthew 25:14-30

Fear. We’ve been talking a lot about fear these last few weeks since I was discharged from the hospital. Two weeks ago, in light of said hospitalization and all that happened therein, we were talking about the fear of death and how it is a fake fear in light of God’s grace and love. Last week, it was the fear of everything the world throws at us, from bad politicians to terrorism to climate change to how prejudices often exaggerate the threat of our fellow human beings. These too are fake fears in the light of God’s grace and love. For what can they do to us but kill us (worst case scenario and that’s often a very slim possibility) and if we die, are we not in the Lord still?

But despite my gigantic laundry list of things we fear that I had in last week’s sermon, I did miss one. A big one. One that is just a potent and powerful in our society and often in our own hearts as any of these others. And that is the fear of God himself.

And no, I don’t mean “fear” in the old fashioned way it was often used in church in the past generations, whereby it meant to respect and honor God. No, I mean genuinely being afraid of God and what he’ll do. Scared to death of what the Almighty intends for you and for us. Fear of his wrath. Fear of his power. Fear of our own insignificance compared to the one who fashioned the whole universe on a whim. That fear I’ve not addressed yet.

It’s a fear that’s been around for a long time, longer even than we’ve known the God of the Scriptures. Religions of all sorts, from ancient pagan mythologies to modern day, have had an element of fear within them, an element certain people have often used to their own ends. Fear the gods, because they will smite you. Thor and his hammer. Zeus and his thunderbolts. Moloch and his demand for your sacrifice on his altar. Better shape up and fly right or the gods will single you out next.

Christianity, of course, has had its fair share of this sort of thing too. Sinners at the hands of an angry God and all that. Be afraid, be so afraid that you do what God tells you to do. Or, more accurately, you do what God’s human representatives here on Earth want you to do.

Of course, you see the problem. This is ripe for abuse, and it has been abused throughout all of human history. The evil priest is a trope in more stories than we can count, one who takes advantage of people’s fear of the divine to enact whatever nefarious plan he’s concocted. From Pope Alexander VI to Thulsa Doom to the Bishop of Nottingham in Robin Hood to the sexually abusing Catholic priest to Franklin Graham, representatives of the divine, fictional or real, have been exploiting our fears for their own ends for generations.

It’s the reason Karl Marx once famously wrote that “religion is the opiate of the peoples;” it’s a means of control. Straighten up, fly right, do as I say, or God is going to get you. We balk at those words because we know that’s not what faith is supposed to be about, but human history has revealed it’s been exactly that for far too long.

And yet the truth is different. Jesus did not come to control us; he came to set us free. This fear is a prison of our own making. It’s not God’s nature to be fearsome, but kind and loving. But so often we don’t see it. We don’t see it because we don’t want to.

The parable of the talents in our Gospel lesson is another of Jesus’ parables about fear. This one is more obviously so than the bridesmaids from last week, the third slave admits his actions are due to fear outright. But to understand fully why he does what he does, we must look at the lord of the story and why he does what he does. Consider, you are wealthy landowner, a person of great means. To whom do you entrust your property that will be taken care of? People of worth, people who are trustworthy, honest, hard-working. People you believe in. That’s what this lord does. He gives to one ten, another five, and another one, trusting them to do right by his wishes. The landowner has complete confidence in his servants.

And the servants should know that. The lord trusts them. The lord respects them. The lord has honored them with this task because he believes in them. But one of them is so afraid of the lord that he squanders this opportunity and blows it. The others have magnificent success, but the third fails. The third fails because he did not believe in the lord’s trust in him and was instead afraid.

Think about that in terms of our own lives. Each one of us has talents and gifts and skills and resources, things we have been given from the divine. God has entrusted those things to us because he believes in us, that he knows we can and will bear fruit for his kingdom with them. He trusts us. He believes in us. And he does that both because of and in spite of knowing everything about us. He knows our flaws...and also our strengths. He knows them better than we do and he trusts us nonetheless.

Why are we afraid of him when he has shown us such confidence?

God believes in you. God loves you. He sent his son to this earth to live, die, and rise again for you. He’s given you all that you have out of his blessing. He trusts you to go and bear fruit for him. Trust in that. If we are as the first two servants, who did trust in that, failure is not an option. Success may not always look like we think it should, but it will be success. It will be the kingdom. It will be good fruit. We cannot fail.

Don’t listen to the charlatans who want to frighten you into their own agendas and schemes. Their god is one of their own making, one that reflects their baser desires and ambitions. Trust instead in the God of Jesus Christ, who gave all for your sake, who entrusts you with talents uncounted, and knows with complete confidence what you are capable of in life. Think about that for a moment. The one who created all things believes in you. Trusts in you. Loves you enough to die for you. That’s not a god to fear. That’s a god to love and believe in. Amen.

Funeral Sermon for David Kline

Preached at Canadochly on November 18, 2017
Scripture text: Acts 9:36-42

I’m still trying to figure out if this is going to be the easiest funeral sermon I’ve ever preached or the hardest.

Easy, because, well what more can you say about David and his life. Eulogizing one of the best people on Earth is easy, simple. He was a giant, a man of virtue, compassion, generosity, creativity, and deep faith. He was a hero of mine, simply put.

David might be a bit embarrassed to hear all these accolades, but when you live your life the way he did, you’re going to impress. He had a dream and he lived it, founding his own business. A business that brought a dying art back to life and shared with so many. This sanctuary alone is testimony to how widely it was shared. We sit on his weavings in these pews and see them on the altar behind me. I wear a stole he made. And if that wasn’t enough, go in most any ELCA church in our synod and you’ll find them there. Grace church in North York where I also serve has his work on its altar at this very moment and plenty of other places too. Of course, that’s not counting the historical sites where his work is found. Or the many films it has appeared in. You know you’ve impressed someone when Hollywood production designers say “I want David Kline’s work in my historical film.”

It never went to his head though. He was always a humble man. Deeply generous; I don’t think I ever stopped by the shop without walking out with some freebie he’d given me, probably much to the chagrin of the more business-minded in his family. He wasn’t just generous with me. All of us have experienced it and many more beyond. I remember how passionate he was when we were debating here on how we would dispense the moneys this church had come into and how David wanted it to go to help people in need here in York county and elsewhere. Justice was a huge passion of his; he wanted the world set right and a fairer shake for all people.

That’s a reflection of his faith. I shared the story of Tabitha from the book of Acts in our readings because was another like David who gave and gave for the sake of others. David got it. He understood what this God stuff is really about. It’s about God taking care of us so we can take care of others. David did that, believed that, trusted in that. There was no fear in him as death approached. He knew God would be there, because he’d always been. David’s job was not to worry about that. David knew his calling was to live for others.

And then there’s all of you which is further proof of that calling. All those who he lived for. Carole, Pat, Julie, all the grand-children, all the great grand-children, all of the friends and admirers. All of whom David loved and appreciated, respected and adored. You are a part of his legacy too, the stories you can tell of who he was to you and how his presence in your life impacted you.

You see, easy. Easy to preach. Easy to talk about. David made it easy by the man he was and the life he lived.

But then there’s this simple truth that our friend, our husband and father, this man of immense quality is gone now. Words fail to convey the emotions that unpleasant truth bring about in each of us. The world is quite dim in these times and with David’s passing it has become dimmer still. One of its brightest lights has gone out.

And that hurts. It makes me angry. It makes me sad. It makes me feel all sorts of things right now, things I am desperately trying to hold inside so I can get through this homily. Things that you’re feeling too. Things that many of you are also trying to hold inside in order to get through this funeral.

And that part isn’t so easy. That part is hard. My friend is gone and I don’t know what to feel about that.

But if David could speak right now, I am certain he would point to the central truth of his life. To God and his love, his compassion, his mercy, and his salvation. The things that sustained David in this life, and more than that, drove him to be who he was. God took care of me, he might say, he’ll take care of you too.

Remember the story of Easter and what it means. Why seek you the living among the dead? God has made Christ alive once more, the first of all of us. And while we look upon a casket and a body before us now, David is alive through Christ’s promises, through his resurrection, through his Easter.

What stands before us in this place and time is temporary. For there will come a day when God will fulfill the same promises he made to David to us as well. When we will be taken care of in the moment of our death and life will come again through the resurrection of Christ. And David will be there, with that quirky little smile on his face that always seem to have when he got one over on you. “See, told you so.” I can imagine him saying, ever so fond of correcting any of us when we got it wrong. I’ll take it so I can see my friend again. And so, I’m sure will all of you.

Hold to that hope in this hard time. David lived his life in that hope and shared that hope in so many ways. That’s his legacy too and we who honor him today can do no better than to share in it also. God is good. God is love. God is life. David knew that. So can you. Amen.

Sermon for the 23rd Sunday after Pentecost

Preached at Canadochly and Grace on November 12, 2017
Preaching text: Matthew 25:1-13

The end of the world. The second coming. The Day of the Lord. The end of days. It’s a moment of history-yet-to-be that has often captured the imagination of people everywhere. Movies, from disaster films to comedies to religious, have covered the various interpretations of how it will play out. Books, TV shows, have done the same. The script is similar. Something evil and unstoppable comes: zombies, a massive plague, an alien invasion, the anti-Christ, a giant meteor, a Mayan prophecy, whatever, and in its wake come calamity, death, destruction, and (in the case of comedies) wacky hijinks. It never gets old.

It never gets old because there is something visceral and terrifying about the end of the world. The end of all things, at least as we understand it. Those comedic wacky hijinks of the apocalypse comedy are something of a nervous giggle, because deep down we know this is something truly scary and terrifying. We’re afraid. Very afraid.

In fact, many are convinced beyond all doubt that we are living in those end times right here and right now. And the reason why? There’s a lot of scary stuff out there. People are afraid. In fact, it could be claimed quite rightly to be the spirit of this age: fear, trepidation, trembling, worry, anxiety, angst, terror, horror, fear.

We are afraid.

Consider America right now. What are we afraid of? We’re afraid of people who are different: black folk, gay folk, trans folk, immigrant folk, Muslim folk, Jewish folk, atheist folk, crazy Christian folk, rich folk, poor folks, men folk, women folk, conservatives, liberals, Nazis, antiFa, gun-nuts, gun-grabbers, Trump, Hillary, and that’s not even a complete list. We’re afraid of the powers and circumstances of life: big corporations, our government, climate change, nuclear war, economic instability, will I have a job, will I have dinner, will I have healthcare, will I afford healthcare, will I afford retirement, will I afford my rent next month. We’re afraid of disease: AIDS, Ebola, SARS, cancer, etc. We’re afraid we’re not manly enough. We’re afraid of sexual predators. We’re afraid of terrorists. We folks in the church are afraid of empty pews, declining attendance, and budgets in the red. We’re afraid of EVERYTHING.

We’re so afraid, we’re killing ourselves over it. Why is there crime in the inner city? Fear, fear of no opportunities, fear of no future for our urban youth of color. Why are their mass shootings? Fear, fear of irrelevancy, fear of job loss, fear of those people. Why is there an opiod epidemic? Fear, fear of life and all its difficulties. Why does Black Lives Matter march? Fear, the cops are afraid of them and they’re afraid of the cops. Everywhere you look, we are afraid.

No wonder people are so convinced that these are the end times.

We’ve become so afraid, we’re paralyzed. We’re like the deer in headlights often times, not knowing what to do with ourselves in face of all that the world is throwing at us all at once. It’s overwhelming. We’re burned out on it all. Exhausted from being afraid, or wondering what’s around the next corner, because, God knows, they’re be something else tomorrow.

As civilized as we pretend to be, the truth of the matter is we humans really aren’t all that different from the wild animals we evolved from. Their impulse is fear, fear of predators, fear of lack, fear of everything, and while we pretend we are more advanced, it really doesn’t take much to transform us back into the savage, the animalistic, the fearsome groping in the dark for whatever safety we can find.

Proof of this lack of civility is all over the news right now. There's a special election in Alabama and one of the candidates has now been accused of molesting teenagers when he was a man in his 30s. I don't know if he's guilty or not; that hasn't been proven yet. But what is disturbing are some of his supporters, people who are saying things like "I don't care if he's a child molester, at least he's not a...liberal, or a non-Christian, or a whatever." In what universe would that even be a remotely reasonable and rational thing to say about someone so accused? None, except one where fear rules the day.

This is who we are. This is what we are. However, God knows that. And he has the answer to our fears.

Jesus’ parable in our Gospel lesson today is a curious one, because it doesn’t at first seem to be about fear, but that’s precisely what Jesus is addressing here. The metaphor of the bridegroom’s arrival is, of course, pointing to Jesus’ second coming. The return of the Lord. When his arrival is announced, the wise bridesmaids focus on his arrival; the foolish are concerned about their lamps and the lack of their oil. They focus on what they’re afraid of: running out of oil. And they leave just as the bridegroom arrives and then find themselves shut out of the celebration. If only they had remained steadfast, not worried about the oil, and focused instead on the bridegroom.

I can’t help but be reminded here of the story of Hanukkah. During the Maccabean rebellion, where the Jews rose up against their Greek overlords in the centuries between the Old and New Testaments, the rebels took back the temple from the Greeks and rededicated it to God. But they found that there was only enough oil to light the lamps for a single day, not the eight required to purify the temple properly. They burned it anyway, trusting in God to provide, and He did. The oil lasted the 8 days, which is where the modern Festival of Lights comes from.

Jesus, of course, knew this story well and it probably informed his parable. Trust in God, trust in the bridegroom, and fear not. But we have a whole world out there that does not trust, not in God, not in much of anything. How can we change that?

By making God real to people. By making his love and concern real to people. By, to borrow from Amos, making “justice roll down like waters.” By showing them that they matter, that their lives are precious, that they are loved by God because they are loved, truly loved, by CHRISTIANS.

I know for a fact that this works, because I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. My recent medical calamities are nothing new to many of you; you’ve seen me sick before. And yet, you rally to my side every time. I am surrounded every time with this immense cloud of support and love. And I’m not the only one. We do it all the time for one another. It’s second nature to us.

It needs to be second nature for us to do it for them out there too. For many of us, it already is. Keep it up! The world desperately needs what we have in here amongst ourselves. A sense of belonging. A sense of security. A sense that our lives matter and mean something to others. We are valued. We are loved. Christ came to Earth to live, die, and rise again for the sake of each and every one of us, within and without. Those are just words until we make them real to people.

The bridegroom is arriving. That’s cause to celebrate. He’s come to take away our fear. Let’s show the world how. Amen.

Pastoral Letter regarding the recent violence in our nation

Hello all,

Yesterday, a deranged man entered into a church in Texas and began shooting. When he was done, 20+ people were dead and another 20+ wounded. This follows on the heels of a driver in New York City plowing his van into a group of cyclists, killing 8. And that followed on the Las Vegas shooting that killed over 50 people and wounded over 500.

What the hell is wrong with us?

We've come to treat such event as routine. Horrific violence. Horrific murder on a mass scale. This brief list is enough for an entire nation's history, but it's just a single month's worth (and not even a complete list at that. There were 30 incidents of mass violence in the United States over last past 30 days. ONE PER DAY, PEOPLE!) They follow on an almost unending list of violence and mass murder from Columbine to Virginia Tech to Sandy Hook. We hear of these, no matter how great the atrocity, and shrug our shoulders. Price of freedom, or some such.

Bullshit.

I'm not pulling any punches in this letter, so you can expect my language to be a bit rougher than I usually express. But I am tired of seeing scared, wounded, and frightened people on TV and the Internet. I'm tired of seeing the pain and anguish of people who've had their loved ones snuffed out because of what? Senseless violence. I'm tired of cowardly politicians too afraid of their campaign donors to do something (ANYTHING) about this.

And I am tired of us being the only nation where this happens. You look across Europe and Asia and you don't see this history of mass violence. Yes, terrorism exists in places of political tension, but as brutal as that is, it at least has a purpose and a goal. What goal is there to slaughtering 20 church goers in Sunday service? What goal is there in sniping concert goers from the top floor of a casino? No, violence is the goal. And that doesn't happen elsewhere. Not on this scale.

So what's wrong with us?

The quick and easy answer is guns. We have too many guns and they are too easy to obtain. Well, point of disclosure, I'm a gun-owner. I enjoy shooting sports. But we are so past the point of no return on this it's disgusting. We absolutely need new gun laws. We absolutely need to get these deadly weapons under tighter control. And don't quote me those tired-and-false talking points about "if guns are outlawed..." and "I need my guns for my protection" and all that other bullshit. They're part of the real problem (which I'll get to below.)

I'll concede that guns are not the cause of the violence. They are however what is called in military circles a "force multiplier." They make things worse. A person who might kill one person with a knife can now kill 10 with a gun. We can't allow that. We have to intervene to prevent mass death as best we can. So far, we tried exactly NOTHING on this front. NOTHING. What the hell?

It's about mental illness. Alright, again, we've tired NOTHING on this front either. Don't just use it as a deflection from the gun issue. Let's consider some serious help to people with mental illness. The vast majority of people with mental illnesses are no more dangerous than the rest of us, but better care might help us identify those who do have the potential for violence and get them the help they need. Stop using this as a excuse and DO SOMETHING.

So what's wrong with us?

The real problem is fear. We are programmed by our media and by the powers-that-be to fear. We fear black people. We fear Muslims. We fear immigrants. We fear "coastal elites." We fear losing our jobs. We fear our government. We fear anything that is different from us.

African-Americans march in the street seeing equal rights and equal treatment and we white folk look on them with skepticism at best and outright hostility at worst. And the charlatans in charge exploit that by telling us anew how dangerous and unpatriotic and unAmerican they are! Fear them! And when we quote the NRA talking points about protecting ourselves, let's not pretend who it is we're protecting ourselves from. Black lives matter, they cry, because we full well how much they really DON'T to folks like us.

Not that we whites are doing much better in these times. A rather brilliant observer made a comment about our modern times in that we "white folk now know what it's like to be a nigger." Probably a bit of an exaggeration, but it does highlight the spirit of white America. We're disposable. Worthless. We're buried in debt to our medical and educational opportunities. We make half has much for twice the work. No one cares about us. Our lives don't matter. (The opioid epidemic is another symptom of this sense of helplessness.)

We're afraid. And we're lashing out because we life is just beating us all down.

So what are we going to do about it?

This is where I believe the Church can come in. The real Church, the one that proclaims Christ crucified and risen. The one that speaks of God's love for all people. Not the church that feeds the fear by portraying God as harsh judge and unapologetic supporter of the status quo.

Faith is the true counter to fear. When we have a God who loves and takes care of us even in the face of death, what have we to fear? Yes, life won't be any easier but we can approach it with greater strength and courage than we had before. And we can make things easier. We can reach out to our neighbors and, in very real ways, show them that they MATTER. Being there for them when they're down. Give them a shoulder to cry on, some food to eat, and help when they need it. Just as God takes care of us, he calls us Christians to take care of one another. And if we all do that, we can make a difference in so many lives.

But even more than that, we need to call for some real change. Our society is so sick. It treats all people as disposable liabilities instead of priceless assets. That needs to change and the only way it's going to do is to revamp our politics and our politicians. Enough with the voting to punish our perceived enemies. Start voting to make America a better place for all, for you and for your neighbors. Other nations take care of their citizens. We can do the same.

Let's make God's love real to people by changing lives and changing this world we live in. We are settling for hell on earth. That was never our calling. We are called into faith to be agents of change, to make things better. Now more than ever, we need to take that seriously.

Pastor Allen

Sermon for the Feast of All-Saints

Preached at Grace and Canadochly on November 5, 2017
Preaching text: Matthew 5:1-12

Valar morghulis. That’s a phrase that has entered into semi-popular parlance thanks to GRRM’s Song of Ice and Fire series of fantasy novels or (probably more accurately) from Game of Thrones, the HBO TV production based on the same. Valar morghulis. It’s well known enough that the spellcheck on my word processor knew how to spell it. It’s from a fictional language, from High Valyrian, and is the catchphrase of the dark and sinister group of assassins known as the Faceless Men. It means “All men must die.”

 All men must die. Well, doesn’t that fit our theme for today? Today is All-Saints Sunday, when we come around each year to remember and honor those who have gone before us in the Christian faith. We remember beloved family, friends, people who have impacted our lives and we reflect on how much more empty our lives are now that they are gone. This is hard day for many people. Some of you may remember a few years ago when I preached this Sunday in the shadow of the unexpected death of a friend of mine. I finished my sermon, said my Amen, sat down, and burst into tears. All men must die, yes, but when it’s OUR men or OUR women or OUR people, it hurts. A lot.

We don’t want them to go.

Today, I’m feeling a bit of ambivalence however. I certainly share with you a sense of loss on this day. I remember my friend Dan and my grandfather Bup and a whole slew of congregation members from every church I’ve served. All of whom had an impact on me. All of whom I wish were still here. But I think I have more of an Ash Wednesday perspective today and I’m not sure what to do with it. Valar morghulis. All men must die. What does it mean when I am the man?

Before you all panic, no, I am not making some grand declaration of a terminal illness or anything like that. I know that’d be an easy assumption to make after my stay at Memorial Hospital last week. But I will say that the reason I went to the Hospital was because my name very nearly appeared on today’s lists. I did go right to the edge. I very nearly died in the ER on last Tuesday morning. I did not, obviously, but I’ve been processing what that whole experience is supposed to mean ever since. Who wouldn’t?

What does it mean to die? We know many things about that. We understand the physical process of death, of how the brain starves of oxygen and its cells die. We understand very well the impact of death on others. We’ve been there; that’s why we have this day on our church calendar. We’ve all experienced the pain of the death of people we love. But there’s something detached to these approaches. They’re either too clinical or too external. What does it mean for us to die?

That’s a whole different animal. We don’t know.

And we will never know until it happens. Yes, we have what our faith believes and teaches. We have God’s wonderful promises. But there will always be that doubt, that lack of certitude in that reality. What if God isn’t out there? What if he really is a fiction? What if he doesn’t really love me? I’ve wrestled with those questions before. Most everyone of us probably have. Doubt isn’t the absence of faith, it’s part of it and wrestling with doubt is how we grow.

But I’m going to confess to you something. When the moment came for me, when I was lying there in the ER with half the staff in the hospital working on me, when my BP was 40/20 and my heartrate was near 200 because there was so little blood left in me to pump, those questions were not in my mind. It was what should have been the most terrifying moment of my life and I felt no fear. A lot of pain, a lot of curiosity about what was going on, but no fear.

Yeah, maybe it was because I didn’t know at the time how close I was. But I’ll tell you something else. I’ve obviously learned since how close I was but the questions still haven’t come. The fear, the doubt, it just isn’t there. I can’t explain why. I’m baffled as to why. But maybe I shouldn’t be. Maybe there’s something to this God stuff after all.

That peace and calm cannot be coming from within me. It has to be something outside. It has to be from firm conviction that I am loved by the Almighty, that he is watching over me, and that he will (as he has promised) take care of me NO MATTER WHAT. The promises are real. And I understand that now not just on a head level (which is where I spend most of my energy) and not even on a heart level, but deeper still. On a gut level, in my soul of souls and bone of my bones.

God isn’t blowing smoke. We hear beautiful passages like today’s Gospel, the Beatitudes from Matthew where God promises in Christ to put all that is wrong in this world right. It sounds great, but is it real? Yes, it is real. I know that now in a way I never did before. I’ve always believed, always had faith; I was not up here BSing people in my sermons for the past 15-20 years. But now, I believe it so much more than before. It’s hard to put into words. I’m not sure human language is even remotely adequate to convey what I’m trying to say.

But I can and will say this. All that God has promised to me, he’s promised to all. And our loved ones, yours, mine, have received those promises in their fullness. All for them has been put right. No more illness. No more pain. No more sorrow or hurt. No more hate and anger. The Beatitudes are not just words on paper; God’s promises are not just smoke and fairy dust and false hope. This is our gift. This is the grace we have received and will always receive from the one who loves each one of us beyond expression. Your children, your parents, your spouses, your friends, all who have gone before were loved in the same way. God has taken care of them. He has welcomed them home. Just like he’ll do with us one day. Valar morghulis. All men must die. But thanks to God through Christ, all too shall live. Amen.

Sermon for the 20th Sunday after Pentecost

Preached at Grace and Canadochly on October 22, 2017
Preaching texts: Isaiah 45:1-7, Matthew 22:15-22

We think of Jesus in many different ways: God, teacher, human being, savior, prophet, King, Lord, etc. One thing that never pops onto that last is comedian. We don’t think of Jesus as funny or witty or clever. Smart, yes, but not sly. The truth is however he was quite clever and our Gospel lesson today is proof of it. The Pharisees, his age-old enemies, are trying to trap him again, to catch him making what we’d call today a gaffe. “Is it lawful to pay taxes to Caesar or not?” Quite a question. If he says yes, they can turn the crowd against him by portraying him as a supporter of the hated Romans. If he says no, they can turn the Romans against him by portraying him as an agitator or insurrectionist. They’ve got him...or so they think.

Then Jesus escapes by making a pun.

Yeah, a pun. A play on words, a joke exploiting the different possible meanings of a word. The word in question is “image.” Imago in Latin, eikon in Greek, tselem in Hebrew. “Whose image is this on the coin of the tax?” Jesus asks them back. It is, of course, the face of Caesar Tiberius, the current ruler of Rome. But the word “image” is meant to evoke another thought, to harken those clever BIblical scholars back to the Genesis story where humankind is created in the “image of God.” Caesar’s image is on the coin, but whose image is on Caesar?

“Render unto Caesar” becomes, in a very real sense, redundant, for that too is a form of “rendering unto God.” Jesus escapes the trap but leaves us with a very different view of the world than we started with. Could it be that Caesar is an instrument of God’s will? Could it be that government serves a purpose in God’s plan? And to what end? To what purpose?

These are particularly difficult questions in these modern times and, in particular, in this country. We Americans, almost from birth, are programmed with a certain distrust and disdain for our government. “Washington” is often spoken with a sneer as if the whole city is tainted in someway by being the seat of government.

That "wretched hive of scum and villainy"

This animosity is made worse when the government is being run by “them,” that is to say the political party we don’t vote for. Those people. Those liberals! Those conservatives! We’re all full of invective when it comes to the other party running our government and all full of praise when it’s our guys in power.

I’m as guilty as anyone of this, as I’m sure you’re aware. And we all have good reason for our suspicions. As the old Spiderman saying goes, “With great power comes great responsibility” (and yes, I have a movie quote for every occasion.) Who has more power than those who make the laws that govern our land? Laws that can heal and help, or hurt and harm. We love the former (inasmuch as we’re the ones being helped) and hate the latter.

Every government, every political party, every policy proposal has its flaws, because they are the creations of human beings. Sinful flawed humans like us. But in the same way that God takes our broken selves and makes something more of them through his grace, he does also with the power-that-be of our world. The government, the corporation, the church all have their purpose in God’s plan.

Luther speaks of this in his writing. He speaks of the secular powers as the left hand of God, the Kingdom of the Left, whose purpose is to establish peace and order here on Earth. The Church is seen as God’s right hand, the Kingdom of the Right, offering grace, mercy, forgiveness, and salvation for the world to come. This is what is known as his “Two Kingdoms” doctrine. I would argue however that the kingdom of the Left serves an additional purpose. Peace and order are good and necessary for human civilization, but I also believe they are the instruments of justice in our world.

And that, that is truly when government serves the purposes of God.

Consider our first lesson. Isaiah the prophet speaks of a man named Cyrus. Who is that? Well, Cyrus is King Cyrus the Great, ruler of the Persian Empire in the 6th century BC. One of the most powerful men in the world. His empire is on the rise, threatening the borders of declining Babylon. Babylon who has enslaved God’s people for a generation. What will this new king do when he marches into town with his armies? Will he be another tyrant? Or a liberator?

The way Isaiah’s prophecy reads, it could go either way. But when Cyrus does invade and he does conquer Babylon, he proves a man of justice. He sets the slaves free, sends the Israelites home. He brings liberty to the captives, justice to the oppressed. There’s a reason he is the only other Biblical figure besides Jesus to carry the title “Messiah.” God’s anointed, come to set his people free.

What would our government look like if it served the purposes of God? We, of course, like our rhetoric about how this is supposed to be a “Christian nation,” but all too often that’s used as a bludgeon against people. People who don’t measure up morally or who worship in ways different than us. That’s not justice. To me, a Christian nation would be one that follows as best it can the teachings of Jesus: One where the poor are cared for, the sick healed, and the stranger welcomed. In many ways, that’s what our Founders truly envisioned. That’s the dream of America, a place where nothing would hinder the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness. Not poverty. Not sickness. Not the tyranny of petty men. Nothing.

Of course, the dream and the reality are often very far apart. America is still a nation made up of flawed sinful human beings and that is, as it is everywhere, reflected in our laws and government. We’re not perfect, but we could be better. As a republic, based on the idea that we have a say in how our government is run, we have a great opportunity to steer the ship of state towards or away from God’s image of justice. That question confronts everyone of us.

God used Cyrus to bring justice to his people. Jesus implies the same of Caesar. In this great republic that we live, that call now comes to us as citizens and disciples of Jesus. What are we going to do with it? Work to make truer the words of our pledge, that this is a land dedicated to “liberty and justice for all?” Or let apathy, cynicism, or selfishness lead us down a darker path, where the rights and privileges of our society are only for a few based on their skin color, gender, or economic status? The choice is before each one of us. What are we going to do? Amen.

Sermon for the 18th Sunday after Pentecost

Preached at Grace and Canadochly on October 8, 2017
Preaching text: Matthew 21: 33-46

To paraphrase Forrest Gump, “Human is as human does.” We’re an interesting lot. Full of emotion, passion, love of life, and yet also consumed by fear, hatred, and a whole host of vices we’d rather not talk about. We’re a “savage child race” as the Q being in Star Trek called us and he’s not wrong. Six or seven thousand years of civilization and we’re only now just starting to acknowledge that people who are a little bit different in terms of gender, skin color, sexual orientation, whatever might actually be human after all. Like us, the same, only different. And that’s okay. Wow, what a radical thought.

I wish that was more of a joke than it is, but for much of human history, we’ve been looking for every excuse under the sun to look down on others. Hence why I find parables like the one Jesus is telling in our Gospel to be so problematic. Without question, this is one of those texts we Christians have used to justify our persecution of the Jewish people. God loves us more than you. We’re your replacements. You rejected Christ, so we’re better than you. And so forth.

Again, I wish that was more of a joke than it is, but the blood of millions of people over the past 2000 years makes it deadly serious. But we got this text wrong. It was never meant as an indictment of the Jewish people. It was meant as an indictment of the same sort of self-righteousness that has littered our history with the corpses of those who didn’t measure up to our moral standards. Ironically, it condemns those who killed the Jews out of a misplaced sense of self-superiority rather than the Jews themselves.

It all centers on what the Pharisees were in the time of Jesus. Paul gives us some insight into their mindset in our Second lesson today. He was, after all, one of them. Zeal was their defining characteristic and they were determined to be the best most devoted most moral Jews possible. Some undoubtedly did this out of passionate love of God, but others it is clear did so in order to feel superior to others. To lord over them how much better they were at keeping the law. But regardless of whether their intentions were good or self-serving, they too had misinterpreted the Scriptures.

Now, in fairness, it’s an easy mistake to make because people have been making this same mistake since the law was first given. Consider the Ten Commandments. We all know them and if you need a refresher, they stand as our first lesson today. Look at the way they’re written. All those “Thou shalt nots” and what have you. Can you see the problem? The way the commandments are written focuses one to turn their morality inward. It’s all about me and what I do for myself in my relationship with God. That’s a problem.

If you keep reading through the rest of Exodus and the rest of the Torah, you quickly discover the Commandments are the beginning of morality, not its end. “You shall not murder” really means “Take care of your neighbor.” “You shall not covet” really means “Be satisfied with what you have.” The law now moves outward, becoming as Jesus so beautifully paraphrased it “Love your neighbor as yourself.” But so many never get that far. The Pharisees included.

Thus, over the course of the Old Testament, God has sent prophets to remind the people what the law was always supposed to be about. It’s not inward, it’s outward. Care for the less fortunate. Healing for the sick. Charity for the poor. Welcome for the stranger. It is all these things. But the self-righteous did not want to listen, often outright murdering prophets who told them what they didn’t want to hear. And then, at last comes Jesus, the Son of God, who brought the same message. And we know what they did to him.

Is the message of the parable becoming clear to you now?

The Pharisees are still with us but they’re not Jews anymore, they’re Christians. Christians caught up in their own sense of superiority, thoroughly convinced their dedication to the law makes them better people than everyone else. The Church, and in particular the American Church, is infested with them. Like they did in Jesus day, they run society. Oh, not quite as directly, but you can see their work all over the place.

The sick? Hah, healthcare is a privilege for those who deserve it. Homeless vets? Well, we prefer vets who weren’t captured or wounded or damaged, don’t we? The poor? Well, they’re all criminals, eating their steaks on the government dole. The stranger? Coming to take our jobs or worse, they could be terrorists! Bad hombres!!!

We’re a nation of Pharisees. Full of sanctimony and judgment. And people like Matthew Shepard and Trayvon Martin give silent testimony to the fact that we still are more than happy to kill and murder those who don’t measure up to our standards. And people like Martin Luther King and more recently Heather Heyer give similar testimony to what we often do to those who call us out over it.

Savage child race, indeed.

It needn’t be this way. The law of God reveals his heart, his hope that all his children here on Earth would love and care for one another. That we would work for each other’s well-being. Jesus is, in so many ways, the ultimate demonstration of that. He was one of us; he was human. And he loved his neighbors. He healed the sick. Welcomed the stranger, treated all with fairness and equity. He demonstrated in powerful ways what God’s law was really about. Not a bludgeon to beat people with nor a pedestal on top of which we are meant to stand and crow about how great we are, but a guide on how to love in God’s way.

That’s what Jesus wants of us. That’s what the Church is meant to be, a place of love and welcome to all people. Not a place that demands a moral perfection that none of us can truly reach, but a place where all can come to dwell in the love of God and neighbor. Human beings are social creatures and one other lesson of history is that we thrive best when we work together to care for one another. God knows that, and perpetually urges us toward that path. He wants what’s best for us so we, in turn, can want what’s best for one another. Amen.