Demanding crumbs

Isaiah 56:1-8
Romans 11:1-32
Matthew 15:10-28

Do you ever feel as though, when you pray, God just ignores you? As though your prayers just aren’t good enough, or your problems aren’t important enough, for God to spend time listening, much less doing anything about it?

I don’t know where this idea comes from, but it’s a terrible feeling. It’s also blasphemy.

We often talk ourselves out of our pain and need by playing a comparison game. “At least I still have...” “At least I’m not...” Or we look at those who suffer more visibly and find ourselves saying “there but for the grace of God go I.” Which is also pretty unhelpful a thing to say, because God hasn’t given those who suffer any less grace than those who seem to have it all together. 

We’ve got to stop this game. We have to quit measuring ourselves against each other as though there is a great competition for who can suffer better or who can avoid suffering best. If your dog dies in the middle of a week where celebrities die and thousands of children are killed, God still cares about your loss. God still knows the hurt of our neighbors and children here who struggle with poverty and hunger and addiction, just as much as God knows the hurt of those children being killed by war around the world. 

Don’t imagine for a minute that God only cares about the catastrophes that make the nightly news and not about your life. Don’t imagine for a minute that God rewards your righteous work with only good health and must be punishing those doctors who contracted Ebola, either.

We try so hard to make sense out of pain. It’s only natural to try and organize the chaos inside and around us. But we can not expect that life and death and suffering and joy always make sense. 

For the suicide of a comedian to make more news than the police killing a black man holding a toy gun in the toy aisle of a store, that’s the way we think, the way we operate. 

For either of those things to happen in the first place, neither of them makes sense. Except for the terrible realities of depression and racism, of fear and despair. Because even though we know they are wrong, when we know they ultimately have no power, they still get to us in so many ways.

Okay, so this is a lot of tragedy. Some we can get away from and some is not so easy to escape, depending on who you are and where you’re from. The one common thread through it all is that when tragedy strikes, we can pray. Or someone can pray for us. When pain threatens to overtake us and those we love, we turn to Jesus and cry out “Lord, have mercy!”  When our friends and loved ones, or even complete strangers, are suffering, we cry out this long ancient prayer on their behalf, demanding God hear us, and even when it doesn’t feel like it, God does hear us.

The Canaanite woman who showed us how to do this had the tenacity to remind Jesus of who he is, regardless of her own position. She had the courage, and maybe the desperation, to demand God pay attention to the suffering of her daughter. She did not tell Jesus to leave behind his mission to his own people, but to remember that his mercy and power was bigger than just one community. He had, after all, fed over five thousand people and collected up twelve baskets of leftovers. Any of those leftovers go to the outsiders who hadn’t made it to that particular dinner? We don’t know where they went, but twelve baskets left over, how could he deny a few crumbs to this woman?

A few crumbs, after all, was all she asked for. It was all she needed. It was enough for her daughter to be made well, because it was a few crumbs of Jesus. The son of God. God with us to the end of the age. Only a few crumbs were all that she needed, and she knew there was more than enough to go around, because she had heard of this Jesus, of the things he said and did, of the kind of man he was.

It didn’t matter that she was a foreigner. That wasn’t what she was arguing. It wasn’t a question of whether she deserved healing for her daughter, if she was good enough or worthy enough. Jesus called her a dog, and she didn’t disagree with him. She wasn’t about to make her own position a stumbling block for the healing her daughter needed. “Yes, fine, a dog,” she said. “But even the dogs get scraps sometimes.” 

And that’s all she was asking. She wasn’t answered the first time she called out to Jesus, but she didn’t let that stop her from crying out. She didn’t let that stop her because she knew this Jesus was greater than the differences between them. 

She knew this Jesus was powerful and merciful and honest and holy. She knew this kind of healing was in character for his mission and ministry, and she demanded it.

Do you look at the news or hear from your neighbors and coworkers and think there are better things God ought to be doing than listening to your little personal problems? Because the God we have is a relational God. Not a God who sets the world in motion and then just sits back to watch us make a mess of things. Not a God who is going to make sure we’re registered Republicans or Democrats or even tax-paying citizens before deciding to hear or ignore our prayers. The God we have is one who knows what a splinter and a stubbed toe feel like. One who knows what it’s like to see his mother suffer because of his life choices. One who knows what it’s like because he’s decided to live the life we live.

We have a God who loves us enough to become us, no matter what it will cost him. Just to walk with us again. So why would we think he doesn’t want to hear from us when we were created to be in relationship with him? As with any relationship, it takes work and struggle and frustration, just as much as joy and laughter, but that’s the sign of being in relationship. And it’s a relationship that depends most of all on who our God is. 

We bring ourselves to it as fully as we are able, and God comes to us as fully as we can bear. And God is the one who starts it all, in our baptism, but even beyond that - somebody had to bring us to baptism, especially those of us baptized as infants. 

God reaches out to us in every time and place regardless of who and where we are. 

The Canaanite woman, the soldier who trusted Jesus could heal his servant from a distance with just a word, the kings who traveled such a long distance following a star... our God has a reach far beyond our imagination, far beyond our borders and our expectations. 

And it includes us just as much as anybody. And it includes everybody just as much as it includes us.

Whatever your life, your position, your status according to yourself or according to other people, God has ordained that all people are welcome. The prophet Isaiah reminds us that God’s house is a house of prayer for all people. And Isaiah was talking to a people who had been beaten down, abducted in war, who were trying so hard to make a new home for themselves. Isaiah reminded them they were welcome before God no matter what the war had done to them, and that their neighbors, however different, were also welcome. Not because of their own worthiness, but because God is the sort of God who works that way.

Se we bring the world before God in prayer. We pray for ourselves. We pray for the big and the small and the mundane and the miraculous, trusting that God hears and answers in some way, just because of who God is. 

And we pray and wrestle with God until we are left limping from the struggle of it, changed by our ongoing encounter with a living, mighty, mysterious, merciful Lord, who has mercy on us even when we haven’t the strength to demand it for ourselves.

Calmer of the Storms

1 Kings 19:9-18

Romans 10:5-15

Matthew 14:22-33

I love looking at the Greek in these texts that are so familiar. It slows me down when I read through them, and makes me look at the words more closely. The Bible wasn’t always written down. It was told, like campfire stories, over and over again, and everybody had their favorites. Not only their favorite stories, but their favorite images, favorite words, favorite characters.

So when I slowed down through this story, I found, all tumbled together, so much richness I hardly knew where to start. There’s Jesus, up on the mountain apart, just as it is for the prophet Elijah in the First Testament story, but Jesus is also up on that mountain as it begins to become dark, as the Greek might indicate that early twilight time, maybe even that time known by the early storytellers as the time of day when Jesus died up on a mountain apart. Somewhere between 3 and 6 pm, before full dark but still time to let go of the day and let God be God while we go and sleep in safety.

Then there’s the image of the boat, buffeted by the wind and the waves. There I found this gem, where the word can also be translated as ‘tormented.’ The disciples all together at the end of the world, tormented by the storm in the darkness. That’s the choppy water, the end of the world image. In John’s Revelation, that last letter in Scripture, way overpacked with symbolism and imagery, the peaceful end of the world, the way it is known that the Kingdom of God has come in all its fullness, is that the sea is no more. That great wide expanse of depth and wildness, which was the only thing present with God in the beginning where the creation was called forth out of chaos, that sea, in the end, will be no more. So to have the disciples, between Genesis and Revelation, tormented by this storm while they are at sea and Jesus is up on a hill apart, it is an image that sings of Good Friday.

Because what else happens? In our creeds we confess that Jesus descended into hell. And early Christian art shows an image of Christ in that place of torment, coming to all those held captive there, grabbing them by the hands and carrying them up with him into his resurrection. This is the imagery we used around those ancient campfires, and this is the image we are given when Peter begins to drown and Jesus stretches out his hand to save him.

Now, what are we to do today with these images? With these words and this language and all of the ancient faith which has carried us to where we are today?

First, it might be good to name where we are today as we see it in non-religious stories we tell. Two in particular have jumped out at me. The first, which may be surprising, is Disney’s movie “Frozen.” Because our stories tend so often to leave our faith in ancient times, or to relegate salvation to this future reality that doesn’t connect today, it is vital to name the ways we have known resurrection in our own lives. To name the storms we experience, where Jesus walks with us and carries us to save us. So the language of storms connected with me at the point of that latest animated musical, an adapted telling of the tale of the snow queen. Elsa has been brought up her whole life afraid of hurting her sister, afraid of her own gifts getting out of her control, afraid of being close to anyone. When she finally runs away to protect them all, her fear is calmed for awhile even as she is freed to “let the storm rage on.” And that storm within her is her fear. Her life of being told to hide who she is. Her constant worry that she will do something so wrong. What freedom she finds when she is alone and able to look at her power as a gift. Then she has to face the consequences of her running away, and learn how to live in community again, living by love instead of fear. But I don’t think that language of storms inside us is so far off from our own lived experience. Whether the storm is worry or anxiety or depression or insecurity or anger, we have known storms.

This past week there was a brilliant thunderstorm in the area that hit Albany much harder than it hit me in Old Chatham. Tree branches down, streets flooded. It was a mess. I was more worried for the dogs I’m watching, that they would bark themselves sick out of fear. Probably they just hid under a table. It’s a good idea to hold onto something solid when the winds blow like that.

What’s the solid thing you hold on to in a storm? I’m reminded of an old Calvin and Hobbes series, when the family is robbed and the parents are worried but Calvin thinks it’s the coolest thing. There is a series of panels where Calvin’s mom and dad are up late in bed talking about how scary it is their own home, their own place of sanctuary, has been violated. Nobody said being a grown-up would be easy, but they hadn’t counted on it being this frightening. With that said, Calvin’s mom holds tight to Calvin’s dad as her rock. And Calvin’s dad responds very honestly: “who am I supposed to hold on to? Why do I have to be the grown-up?”

I think Peter was trying too hard to be the grown-up. Trying so hard to be brave, to have the most impressive faith, to prove himself even as he was testing Jesus. But the storm was too much for him. He began to drown. He was very literally in over his head.

In today’s Gospel reading we have an image of a God who walks among us, who alone has the power to create new life out of chaos, to be the one who is steady in the storm, to defeat the powers of fear and death, to bring about salvation for all who call on him. In today’s Gospel story we have generations of campfires surrounded by people who have known storms and experienced salvation, who have called out to a storyteller, “let’s hear that one again!” because they have known it to be true. Who have added their voices to the telling because they have lived it. How have you known Jesus with you in the midst of your storms? Because, known or not, he has been there, is there, and will be there until the sea, and the storms, are no more.

Blessed and Broken and Given Freely

Isaiah 55:1-5

Ho, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price. Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy? Listen carefully to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in rich food. Incline your ear, and come to me; listen, so that you may live. I will make with you an everlasting covenant, my steadfast, sure love for David. See, I made him a witness to the peoples, a leader and commander for the peoples. See, you shall call nations that you do not know, and nations that do not know you shall run to you, because of the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, for he has glorified you. 

Romans 9:1-5

I am speaking the truth in Christ - I am not lying; my conscience confirms it by the Holy Spirit - I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart. For I could wish that I myself were accursed and cut off from Christ for the sake of my own people, my kindred according to the flesh. They are Israelites, and to them belong the adoption, the glory, the covenants, the giving of the law, the worship, and the promises; to them belong the patriarchs, and from them, according to the flesh, comes the Messiah, who is over all, God blessed forever. Amen.

Matthew 14

Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew in a boat, alone, to a lonely place. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns. And going, he saw the great multitude, he felt compassion on them and cured their sick. Now, when night came, the disciples came to him and said, “this is a lonely place, and the hour has gone; dismiss the crowds, so that going into the villages they can buy food for themselves.” But Jesus said, “It is not necessary for them to leave; you give them something to eat.” They said to him, “We only have here five loaves and two fish.” And he said, “Bring them here to me.” Then he commanded the crowds to sit down in the pasture, and taking up the five loaves and two fish, he looked up to heaven and said a blessing. Then he broke and gave the bread to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. And they all ate their fill. And they took up twelve baskets full of the broken pieces left over. And the men who ate were five thousand, besides women and children.

Sermon:

When a story seems too familiar, I try to find in it the thing that bothers me. So this morning, the thing that bothers me is the disciples. Jesus has gone away by himself, the crowds and the disciples follow him, he cures them of their diseases, the sun starts going down, and the disciples sort of get... what, annoyed? I don’t know what tone of voice they use with Jesus when they say what they say, but I would be annoyed at this point. Jesus has cured the sick who were brought to him while he was grieving the death of John the Baptist, and the disciples, maybe with good intention, to protect the time of their Rabbi, remind Jesus that it’s getting late and it is now time to send the crowds away so they can get food for themselves. It’s a bit of an “am I my brothers’ keeper?” moment. These crowds came to get something from Jesus, they got it, now let’s send them away and finally get that peace and quiet.

But Jesus isn’t finished with them. It’s not just about the curing of disease.

There’s this thing, in lots of cultures, ancient and modern, near and far away, this thing about breaking bread with other people. It builds community. It gives people time to be with one another, to be aware of one another, to consider that they all have the same basic need for survival. It was part of what got Jesus in so much trouble, this eating with the quote-unquote “wrong” people. Pharisees, tax collectors, women, Gentiles... Jesus broke bread with a lot of folks, righteous and unrighteous, self-righteous and hopeless. He shared the same source of sustenance with us, no matter our background. Which was about as close as people could get to one another.

It was this exact closeness that Paul laments in his letter to the Romans, in today’s portion of that letter especially. Jesus shared a common history, common ancestry, common tradition and scripture and worship, with the people of Israel who were killing each other over their reading of just who he was. They were disowning each other on account of him, which is not something terribly surprising to us, given human history, but painful, nonetheless. And Paul grieved for this break in the family, this splintering of his own people whom he loved so dearly, from whom came the Messiah himself in the first place!

But in today’s Gospel we see not just a filling of bellies, not just an abundance of food for the hungry thousands, but a foretaste of the feast to come.

Jesus could have cured the sick who came to him as though they were on assembly line. Could have gone bing, bang, boom, and then sent them all away. But there was more to their brokenness, more to their illness, and to ours, than just physical or mental ailment. Jesus cured their sickness, in the Greek it’s a word pronounced ‘therepeu-o,’ where we get the word therapy. But the real salvation, the more complete restoration, came in their eating together.

There is an ancient prayerbook, the earliest record of Christian liturgy, that comes from the late first century, maybe the early second, that’s somewhere around one or two generations after Jesus first walked on earth. It includes a general shape of how worship takes place, what happens in what order, including a prayer at the Eucharist which is still used in many, many churches today: “As grains of wheat once scattered on a hill were gathered into one to become our bread, so may all your people from all the ends of earth be gathered into one in you.” 

See, when those crowds came to Jesus with their sick, like lost sheep without a shepherd, Jesus had compassion on them. They were not problems to be solved. They were not issues to be dealt with. They themselves were not illnesses to be taken care of. They were his own people. His own flock. His own gathered body, there in that wilderness with him. They had followed him for healing and he gave them both that and community, both wholeness as individuals and wholeness as a community. Not only wholeness, but overflowing abundance of good, for sharing with those who had not been there gathered with them. Twelve baskets full of leftover bread. Twelve baskets for the twelve broken and scattered tribes of Israel who were to be restored in him.

Paul, writing to the Romans, had not seen that restoration in its fullness, and he grieved deeply over it. No one has yet seen it come to fruition. Certainly it seems these days that if there are even fragments of Israel left over after the violence in the Holy Land they won’t be easily bandaged and healed.

And it’s not a world easily bandaged and healed. Not easily put back together again. Not simply restored and done. The twelve disciples were part of Jesus’ work of feeding those thousands of hungry people, just as we are part of that work today in our own ways. But the real restoration, where Jesus thanks God and breaks himself open for the life of the world, is painful and difficult and deadly, and carried on the back of him who had such compassion on the crowds. The real feast is yet to come, when Jesus will gather together all of the people from all of the ends of the earth, into his own body, which has carried all of our pain. The Gospel lesson this morning is a hint of who this Jesus is, a taste of what sort of God has called and gathered us here. 

Blessed and broken, the Body of Christ is given to us, is living among us, is abounding in steadfast for us. And all who thirst are welcome.

The Kingdom of Heaven is Downright Annoying

1 Kings 3:5-12

Romans 8:26-39

Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52

Therefore every scribe who has been trained for the kingdom of heaven is like a master of a house, who breaks open the expensive champagne and brings out the good china, as well as trying new recipes and sharing the latest gadgets and gizmos. Or, rather, being trained for the kingdom of heaven, the scribe holds nothing back from the guests, spares no expense to be a good host.

Has anyone here seen the film “Babette’s Feast”? It’s a beautiful story two sisters who have given up the idea of marriage to live with their father, who is a pastor, in a very remote village in Denmark, and their unexpected friendship. The wikipedia entry explains: “Babette appears at the[ sisters’] door. She carries only a letter [from one of the sister’s previous suitors], explaining that she is a refugee from counter-revolutionary bloodshed in Paris, and recommending her as a housekeeper. The sisters cannot afford to take Babette in, but she offers to work for free. Babette serves as their cook for the next 14 years, producing bland meals typical of the nature of the congregation. Her only link to her former life is a lottery ticket that a friend in Paris renews for her every year. One day, she wins the lottery of 10,000 francs. Instead of using the money to return to Paris and her lost lifestyle, she decides to spend it preparing a delicious dinner for the sisters and their small congregation on the occasion of the founding pastor's hundredth birthday.”

It’s a beautiful story, and the way that meal transforms the community is a delight to watch. Those villagers in 19th century Denmark are determined not to enjoy the meal, because it would simply be sinful, but among them is another surprise guest, a military officer, who is overflowing with praise for each and every appetizer, soup, main dish, desert, and drink, leading them through a little experience of the kingdom of heaven, opening their eyes to the gifts that are before them. Babette spent her entire self, gave of her previous life as a renowned chef at one of the best restaurants in Paris, and spent every last penny of the lottery winnings which would have paid for her return to France, in gratitude and love for this little austere village that chided her for using onion in the daily soup because it was too fancy.

The kingdom of heaven is like that.

This last week, my mother and sister drove in from Ohio with the remainder of the books I had stored in my parents’ basement, and it felt like I was finally all put back together again. All of this moving around, from college to seminary to Internship back to seminary to Massachusetts to New York, and I couldn’t cart my books around everywhere so I left them with my parents. You thought we had a lot of books at the tag sale. And even knowing that I already had all those books I nearly bought more there on Doug and Linda’s front lawn! But books are my history, my way of charting where (and who) I have been, as well as faithful fall-backs for when I need to answer a hard question and sort of remember the source of a conversation on the topic. If I didn’t have to eat and pay rent, I’d probably spend most of my paycheck on books... and on travel to see my best friend, where we’d swap books. So when I hear this parable about somebody finding a pearl of such immense value that they sell all they have to buy it, I imagine selling all of those books. All of that history. All of that proof that I’ve earned my degrees. All of those ways to escape for a day, or to remind myself of concepts I’ve studied and the people I studied them with. All of that impressive weight of education, that I’ve wrapped myself up in for so much of my life. 

If I did, though, sell everything to buy a single pearl, it would mean I’d travel a lot lighter, though. Not have to worry about storage or unpacking or theft or misplacing things. I’d be able to get on my bike and just go... or, actually, no. To sell everything means to sell everything, so I wouldn’t have my books or my bike or my car or my sleeping bag or my computer. I’d only have that pearl, and be otherwise completely dependent.

Jesus says the kingdom of heaven is like that.

Or consider mustard seeds, and leaven (yeast). Mustard might have been a small seed growing into a big plant for birds to nest in, but it was pretty much a weed. Invasive species. Wild mustard is one of the few weeds I learned to identify at camp in Pennsylvania. And when birds nest, they stick around. And when birds stick around, they poop all over the place.

Yeast is big in the news lately, for the rise of celiac disease and the popularity of gluten-free diets. If you’ve got an allergy, you know when there’s gluten in your food as soon as you eat it, right? Or at least pretty soon after. Ants will find it even if you’ve vacuumed and swept a dozen times. And it’s everywhere, like added sugar, or like glitter after a crafting party when you just can’t seem to clean all of it up and you keep finding bits of it in odd places for days, weeks, months afterward.

The kingdom of heaven is like that.

Jesus asks his disciples, “do you understand what I’m saying?” and they nod knowingly and say ‘yes.’ They’ve just had a string of parables explained to them, that we heard over the last couple of weeks here, so by now they’ve probably caught on to the general idea, right?

But here’s something else the kingdom of heaven is like.

It’s like leaving a little lump of bread dough in the fridge under a towel at night, and in the morning that little lump has expanded to spill over the edges of that bowl. It’s like dandelion seeds that kids just blow for fun, not knowing they’re going to plant dozens of weeds nobody wants. It’s like running the lawn mower over a mushroom to kill it, but releasing all of those delicious spores everywhere so you’ll have mushroom overpopulation next season. It’s also like those birds building their nests are unwashed, frightened children escaping violence to find asylum. It’s like Israelis and Palestinians who get together in groups of fours, fives, and sixes, to grieve together their loss of loved ones in a war that seems to have no solution. It’s like ex-gang members in Chicago stepping into violent neighborhoods to interrupt shootings before they happen. It’s like a few cans of Spaghetti-o’s, a jar of peanut-butter, some farm-fresh veggies, donated to a food pantry.

It’s like giving up all that we have to be part of something so much bigger it even takes our breath away.

The kingdom of heaven will destroy your comfort. It will disrupt your calm. It will make you do things you once thought were absolutely crazy and wasteful, selling all you have for the sake of buying a field full of hidden treasure.

Or maybe, maybe on that last one the parable has more than one meaning. I mean, of course it does. Parables are never direct in their meaning, there’s always another layer to them. Or two, or three, or five. Every time you hear or read a parable it’s going to hit you differently.

In any case, this other layer, this other, additional meaning... well, first, actually, let’s take a quick jump backwards into the Old Testament story about Solomon.

Solomon was the son of a king who had a beautiful relationship with God. He himself, however, took wives of other faiths, who led him to worship other gods on the high places. Solomon was the last king of the united northern and southern kingdoms of Israel. They split in two after Solomon, to be captured and conquered each half in their turn, thanks to Solomon’s un-faithfulness to the one God, Adonai. Knowing that he was following the leading of a great and well-loved king, who had many successes in his time, Solomon asked for wisdom to help him guide those people. To be a good leader. Which is a fine thing to ask, and God granted him not only wisdom but also all of the other trappings of a successful monarchy, the wealth and victories and such.

But wisdom did not save him. He was right in his humility to know he could not rule that many people well on his own. He was right in knowing he was a different king than the man he followed. He was right in many things, he made many good decisions, he was known far and wide for his wisdom. But wisdom was not enough.

“I am convinced,” writes Paul to the Romans, “that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” That means we cannot get away, no matter how hard we try to stand on our own. No matter how often we take the gifts of God and run off and forget the gift giver. No matter what gets thrown at us when we seek that pearl of great price. Because it is not a matter of our wisdom, learned or otherwise. It is not a matter of our successes or failures. It is not a matter of our ability to be ‘good Christians,’ of having the faith to sell everything and give to the poor. It is a matter of God’s ridiculous love pouring out into the world like the very water that makes this planet habitable. Like invasive weeds, like hidden gluten, like glitter, like sand after a vacation at the beach.

This other reading of that last parable, where the man sells everything he has to go and buy the pearl, can you picture how that last parable saves us? It is the Son of Man, Jesus Christ, who gives away all that he has, even to his final breath, to obtain us. The Son of God, Christ Jesus, who seeks us out, who throws out the fishing net and gathers us all together from the ends of the earth, all sorts, all sizes and shapes and colors and ages. It is the Immanuel, God-With-Us, who is the Kingdom of Heaven among us in the here and now, giving and giving and giving, over and over, all that we need, all that we share, all that draws us into deeper relationship and more challenging faith, shaking us up that we might shake off the things which keep us from living.

The Kingdom of heaven is invading. It looks like a scrap of bread and a sip of wine. It looks like a little parish of twenty or thirty on a Sunday. It looks like it’s just another annoyance to be swept away. But just you wait until it takes root and bears fruit. Just you wait until those birds build their nests. Just you wait until you find yourself by giving yourself away. Just you wait... or, rather, wait no longer, it has already started.

Thanks be to God.

Hope in the Rock

Isaiah 44:6-8 (English Standard Translation)

Thus says the LORD, the King of Israel and his Redeemer, the LORD of hosts: “I am the first and I am the last; besides me there is no god. Who is like me? Let him proclaim it. Let him declare and set it before me, since I appointed an ancient people. Let them declare what is to come, and what will happen. Fear not, nor be afraid; have I not told you from of old and declared it? And you are my witnesses! Is there a God besides me? There is no Rock, I know not any.

Romans 8:12-25 (English Standard Translation)

So then, brothers, we are debtors, not to the flesh, to live according to the flesh. For if you live according to the flesh you will die, but if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body, you will live. For all who are led by the Spirit of God are sons of God. For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received the spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry, “Abba! Father!”  The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children then heirs - heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him. For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us. For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of him who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. For we know that they whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. And not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.

God grant me patience, and I want it now!

Have you ever prayed that sort of a prayer? I guess it’s a better feeling than being impatient. A better feeling than worrying, or getting anxious about an outcome. A better feeling than hopelessness, even if it does imply some powerlessness.

For hope that is seen is not hope. Who hopes for what they see?When we say we hope for things, we get wrapped up in them, don’t we? Hoping our team wins the game. Hoping our kids get home before curfew. Hoping somebody might hire us sooner rather than later so we don’t have to worry about choosing between rent and groceries. We hope because we are invested.

But more importantly, we hope because we have a God who is faithful. What’s the point of hoping in something or someone who isn’t reliable? That’s not hoping, that’s wishing, and while fairy godmothers are helpful from time to time, they are not god.

Though hoping for things like promotions or winning a bet isn’t exactly hoping for more than fairy godmother wishes, either, is it? Because those things we would hope for are equally fleeting to Cinderella’s midnight escape from the ball. Those things are temporary, details in the wider, deeper, higher, longer plotline of our God's story.

See, the hoping we are wrapped up in isn’t limited just to our good fortune. Paul reminds the Romans today that the entire creation is crying out in child-birth labor-pains, along with the rest of us, near and far and now and then. We are hoping with all of time and space for the hope of all eternity, in which we are so wrapped up that from it, and from each other, there can be no separation.

It is why we pray for each other, this hope. It is why we reach beyond ourselves to feed the hungry, or to eradicate Malaria, or to build Habitat houses. It is the hope that prompts us to pain with our kindred in the Holy Land, because our hope is bigger than just ourselves here and now.

And the center of our hope, it is not escapism, it is not some rising above the sins and pains of the world to reach a more purified state. It is in fact centered in a God who has come among us in precisely the very flesh and blood that we tear apart in war, the very same flesh and blood that aches with heartbreak and hunger. The very same flesh and blood that rejoices in a beautiful day and shivers in a cold wind.

The whole of creation joins in hoping for the Incarnate God, whom we name Christ Jesus, to be our peace, our shalom-wholeness, and to widen always our understanding of who we are. Hoping for a world without fear. Hoping for every moment of true worship and God-given security, by the gift of God’s self for the world.

As ones who hope with patient longing, we trust that, in our powerlessness, God is enough, in our weakness God is strong, in our confusion and our missteps, God is loving and merciful, holy and mighty, forgiving, and renewing all of the life of the world. Even when it cost him his life, Jesus has come among us to be our life and our hope and our peace.


And just when we thought we understood the extend of our hope, when we thought it had all come to an end, Easter happened, and Pentecost, and the outcome of God’s hope just keeps growing, better and better, full of grace and truth, and with us to the end of the age.

Extravagant, wasteful farming

This morning's sermon was preached from an outline, pasted below. Sometimes less is more...

Firstly, the readings (click on the underlined bit and it will open a window with the text):
Isaiah 55:10-13
Romans 8:1-11
Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

read Isaiah 55

isn’t it beautiful?

but wait, what about the soil?

reiterate the types in Matthew 13

too distracted, too shallow, too hard

yet the sower scatters freely and abundantly

what gets scattered?

Romans 8 - there is now no condemnation

none

nada

and the seeds that were eaten by birds will end up someplace, eventually

and the seeds that grew up quickly but were scorched will, over time, either feed cows

or line bird nests

and the seeds that were choked by weeds will eventually become soil

but even better still

the same sower who sows the seed all over the place

         (some would say, wastefully so)

     will plow the field, break up the hard-pack

dig up the rocks

take care of the weeds

and continue to plant seeds

(we are not the seeds)

our hearts are the soil

and God rains down all faithful promises upon us

whether or not we are ready to receive those promises

and God will continue to send forth the Word 

to cleanse our hearts 

to free our souls from those distractions that would keep us from depth of life

        to grow in us a harvest which we could never expect on our own

American Dream? God's Dream.

Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

The more things change, the more history repeats itself. Jesus could very well have the same words for us today that he did back then: What is this generation like? It is like schoolyard bullies saying: We played the flute for you and you did not dance, we played a funeral hymn and you did not cry. We wanted you to feel guilty and let us get away with murder. We wanted you to be happy and ignore the ones in pain. We wanted you to like us best because we were afraid to be left alone. We wanted to make you feel the way we feel and you did not. 

Manipulation seems to be the name of the game these days. Figuring out the rules to our advantage. We’ve been playing this game so long we don’t know how to stop. From crying our way out of a speeding ticket to those little white lies that get the boss to cut us some slack when he catches us watching cat videos at work, we even have entire TV shows dedicated to figuring out everyone’s tricks for lying, and we know what Bible verses to call on to prove our own point in whatever argument we’re in. But this game leaves us dead in two ways: either always on watch so we’re not caught in our lies, or we’re afraid of trusting anyone lest we seem gullible. 

Because you saw John the Baptizer and he was so strict you said he was possessed with a demon. But then Jesus came along and seemed to enjoy eating and drinking with people, so you called him a sinner. Make up your mind! What do you want? A prophet who fasts or a prophet who lives with the people? We want the one we do not have and get upset with the change even when it’s what we seemed to ask for. When we have a Republican President we want a Democrat, and when we have a Democrat, we want a Republican, as long as we have someone to blame. And I’m just talking about basic human nature, here. Take it for what you will, it seems we are always struggling to keep up and make everybody happy. Or sad. You know, whatever gets us what we want. Even when the only argument is ‘the ends justify the means.’

There’s this great movie my family watches every 4th of July. It’s a musical called 1776. I’ve nearly got the entire thing memorized. It was where I learned my first dirty jokes, it was where I learned the names of men like John Dickinson and Mister Livingston, it was where I learned how much the north was involved in profiting from the slave trade even if we did not own slaves up here. “Molasses to rum to slaves.” It was my first real introduction to the idea of war, when the young messenger sat down and sang about his two friends who he saw killed ‘on the very same day. And it was at Lexington, too.’ 

When I first heard of the American Dream, most clearly heard it, was from the mouth of Benjamin Franklin as he told John Dickinson of Pennsylvania ‘we’ve spawned a new nationality here. Rougher, simpler, more enterprising, less refined. We require a new nation.’ And the most important thing, from the mouth of Abigail Adams, reminding John of himself: “Commitment, Abby. There are two people of value in this world: those with a commitment, and those who require the commitment of others.”

Which is where that story connects with today’s Gospel. Commitment. We are committed, more often than not, primarily to ourselves. To our survival. To our culture. To our prosperity. We are so committed to ourselves that we have turned against one another, or away from each other. And we do it in the name of freedom. We must protect ourselves from extremists, but only the ones who wear the hijab and pray facing Mecca. We must protect our religious freedoms, but only to the point of keeping birth control away from women, and not as far as housing the homeless. We can’t let the immigrants in, lest they stay, but we certainly can’t return land or respect to the Native tribes who were here generations before Christopher Columbus ever landed. All in the name of our freedom. And whichever side of any of those arguments you find yourself on, are we free to our own opinions or only free to all think the same?

Freedom, the ideals Jefferson put down in that declaration, seems to work far better on paper than in practice, even after all of the arguing congress did over the words in the draft document. But there is a bigger freedom than even the freedom our first colonial congress argued about. Bigger than that great independence John Adams shouted about.

I do believe Abigail Adams was on to something when she reminded John of the importance of commitment. We’re just mis-directed in our commitment. The power and freedom to have commitment in the first place comes from a God who is committed to us. One hundred percent. Our commitment to others is based on the freedom that comes from no longer needing to play into the game that will get us ahead of the game. It is a freedom which extends into the entire world. Yes, we have been singing a lot of “God Bless America” this weekend, and we certainly need God’s blessing. But God also bless the Afghan and the Indian. God bless the Turk and the Romanian. God bless the Jew and the Slovakian and the Korean and the Palestinian and the German and the Croatian and whoever it was who beat us at the World Cup, and God bless the enemy and God bless the friend, because without God’s blessing how will anyone know God’s love, and without knowing God’s love, how will anyone live in God’s promised peace that passes all our understanding?

God bless us all with the yoke of Christ, the burden of love, the lightness of freedom, the faith of a child who knows his own scraped knee hurts just as much as his friend’s and that his friend’s happiness can also be his if he chooses the empathy to share the celebration. 

We do not have to protect ourselves from anyone anymore, because we are resurrection people. We do not have to prove ourselves to anyone, because we are God’s own people. We do not have to be committed to our own survival or prosperity, because God’s Kingdom of wholeness is here among us. God has taken our heavy burden of self-sufficiency and replaced it with light, with love, with the only true freedom that is our security in Christ.

It is contrary to the American dream, I know. Whether the next big thing comes by entitlement or a solid work ethic, even the American dream is not as big as God’s dream. There is no manipulation here, it’s not our game to win or lose because God has already won it for us. And we can trust that God who has spent all of history, even longer than we’ve had history, in loving us. Loving us regardless of the ways we are less than we were made to be, regardless of the ways we climb the ladder and leave each other behind, regardless of the ways we’ve been left behind, regardless of the games we play. God has broken that old game, yoked us to Christ, yokes us to one another, in this community of faith and love - where we are free to be ourselves, free to think differently from each other, free to speak differently and look different and still be welcomed to the very same table that has been feeding us all around the world for two millennia.  At this Table we are interconnected, we are interdependent, we are truly free.