"Joy for the Journey" (Third Sunday of Advent)

Isaiah 35:1-10

1 The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus 2 it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing. The glory of Lebanon shall be given to it, the majesty of Carmel and Sharon. They shall see the glory of the Lord, the majesty of our God. 3 Strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees. 4 Say to those who are of a fearful heart, "Be strong, do not fear! Here is your God. He will come with vengeance, with terrible recompense. He will come and save you." 5 Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; 6 then the lame shall leap like a deer, and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy. For waters shall break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert; 7 the burning sand shall become a pool, and the thirsty ground springs of water; the haunt of jackals shall become a swamp, the grass shall become reeds and rushes. 8 A highway shall be there, and it shall be called the Holy Way; the unclean shall not travel on it, but it shall be for God's people; no traveler, not even fools, shall go astray. 9 No lion shall be there, nor shall any ravenous beast come up on it; they shall not be found there, but the redeemed shall walk there. 10 And the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.

            By now, most of you (if not all of you) have your trees up, nativities out, lights strung, and stockings hung. You’ve been listening to songs like “Jingle Bells” and “Frosty the Snowman” for at least a few days, and you’ve probably already watched Christmas Vacation, Elf, Miracle on 34^th Street, some adaptation of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, or my personal favorite and forever Christmas classic Ernest Saves Christmas at least once. You may have already gone to company Christmas parties or tacky sweater parties where white elephant gifts were exchanged. Maybe you’ve already eaten your weight in white fudge Oreos, sausage balls, and all kinds of dips and cheese balls. Why, I bet some of you even still have hot cider on your breath or a half-eaten candy cane in your pocket! It’s December 11^th, the third Sunday of Advent, but everywhere we look it seems like it’s Christmas.

            I wonder when that happened. In what year did Christmas begin to just suddenly show up? I mean, when I was a kid it felt like Christmas took forever and a day to come around. I was pretty young when I came to learn what the phrase “slow as Christmas” means. Every year as a kid, it felt like the days between the start of the school year in August and December 25^th were at least 40 hours long and they just got longer as the calendar flipped around to December. I remember all that excitement, all that anticipation, all that wishing that Christmas Day would just get here, that I would shut my eyes on whatever day it was and when I opened them again it would be Christmas morning. Of course, it was always sort of anti-climactic: the day would eventually arrive; I’d get up early, open presents, change out of sleeping clothes to get in the car and head over to my dad’s or my mom’s house (depending on what year it was and whose house I woke up in on Christmas morning); from there, we would travel to my grandmother’s house to eat dinner and swap presents; at some point in the afternoon, we’d decide we had all had enough of each other and load up to head back home or to other relatives’ houses, and by the time we wound up back home the day would be over, and all that longing, all that waiting, all that anticipation would be over—and it’d all feel just a little bit underwhelming.

            It’s sort of that way as an adult too, I suppose. We place so much pressure on Christmas Day, on shopping for gifts for people who already have more than they need, on attending parties, programs, functions, and events that have more to do with obligation and habit than celebration and joy, on trying new recipes, perfecting old ones, wearing the right clothes, or hoping for perfect weather. The season becomes all about that one day, and we pile so much expectation upon it that we collapse under it all when it doesn’t turn out the way we want it or when it’s all over and we realize we’ve put so much work into something that took so long to get here but is over in the blink of an eye. When we celebrate Christmas this way, there may be joy, but it’s only for a day and then it’s on to whatever’s next on the calendar (usually the New Year’s celebration).

            That’s why I like to celebrate the season of Advent. Advent forces us to wait, to live with the anticipation, to hope, to look forward without looking over what’s right in front of us. In the recognition of Advent there is a necessity to not solely focus on the destination, but to find joy in the journey, in the waiting, in the meantime. In Advent, it can’t just be about the gifts, the schedules, the parties, the presents, the dinners, and the dates on a calendar; it’s about marking time with themes like hope, peace, (as we reflect today) joy, and love. By marking time with the recognition of Advent, December 25^th becomes a day for which we’ve prepared, a day whose meaning isn’t lost in wrapping paper and shuffling between parents’ homes. When we focus only on the day (as many tend to do outside of the tradition of Advent) there may be joy for that day, but when we embark on the journey of Advent, there is joy along the way, joy that prepares our hearts, minds, and spirits for the ultimate joy of that day to which we most look forward.  

            Of course, finding joy on the journey isn’t always easy. A journey takes time, and time requires patience. Even the smoothest road becomes monotonous, and the most luxurious car seat begins to feel uncomfortable when one’s posterior has occupied it for hours on end. The straightest highways inevitably become crowded with traffic when there’s an accident, road work, or rush hour in the city. There are people you meet on the way that cause confusion, people who seem to like slowing others down and messing folks up. It isn’t always easy finding joy on the journey, and that’s why I think we become so preoccupied with the destination, whether it’s Christmas Day, a vacation spot, or our own home after being away for so long.

            By the second half of the sixth century B.C., the people of Judah cold only dream of home, a destination for which they had longed since being exiled to Babylon by the emperor Nebuchadnezzar. Jerusalem had been destroyed, the temple looted and razed, and now those who had once sat in comfort in their own homes in Judah had little more than the hopes, visions, and dreams of the prophets who were exiled with them.

Then, along came the Persians. When the Persians conquered Babylon, the king Cyrus allowed the exiles to return to Jerusalem (he was actually called “Messiah” by the same prophet of our text this morning in chapter 45, verse 1).  No doubt the journey seemed long, dangerous, and there were likely those who had just rather stay put in their new homes, even if they were in a far-away land. It was out of this atmosphere of hesitant hope that another prophet in the line of Isaiah arose (scholars sometimes refer to this prophet as “Third Isaiah”); his prophetic career took place in exile, just before the captives would return to Judah with Ezra and Nehemiah to rebuild their cities and their temple.

In the text before us this morning, this prophet Isaiah tells about blossoming deserts that shall rejoice with singing, about the strengthening of weak hands, the firming of feeble knees, the encouragement of the fearful, the giving of sight to the blind, the unstopping of deaf ears, the leaping of those who were once lame, of waters flowing in the once-parched desert. It’s an image of a rough way made smooth, a dangerous direction made safe, a wide wasteland made navigable by a grand, holy highway leading to the very pace they’d all want to go. It’s a vision of safety, a vision of hope, a vision of joy as it describes a highway free of the “unclean,” a path void of the dangers that were once typical of such places in the wilderness.  It’s a vision—not of the destination, but of the journey, and it’s a vision of joy on the journey.

Now, at first, I want this passage to be about the stress-free journey that comes for those of us who are faithful to God’s calling, those of us who find ourselves listed among “the redeemed.” I want to read these words about blooming deserts and traffic-free highways as words that speak to the ease with which one might experience this life on the way to a glorious rest in eternity. I want to do that…I want to believe that. I want to believe that the journey of faith is like my idealized Christmas morning, full of joy, warm feelings, and without a seeming care in the world, but I know that’s not how it is. I know the journey of faith is more like the days leading up to Christmas: sure there are joyful days, moments like those we experience when we gather with friends for good food or come into this room to worship, but there are also those difficult days, those days when the wind is too cold to keep the chill out of my bones, those days when someone else’s frustrations are turned on me simply because I was an easy target, those days when nothing goes my way and all I want to do is go to bed, but there’s still work to be done.

The journey, it seems, is almost always more complicated than the destination. It’s even there in the words from this prophet Isaiah—though one might miss them if one reads too fast. Yes, the prophet speaks about a transformed desert and a holy highway, but he also talks about hands that need strengthening, knees that are feeble, eyes that can’t see, and ears that can’t hear. He makes commands of those traveling on the journey to help those who are otherwise handicapped, those with the weak hands and deaf ears, but that isn’t always easy, and it implies that there are those on this journey who need help, those who aren’t necessarily fit to make the journey alone. Not only that, but the prophet says that on this highway God is paving, “the unclean shall not travel on it” (I suppose that’s good news; after all, you don’t want those kinds of folks slowing you down, getting in the way, messing everything up) …no traveler, not even fools, shall go astray.” Now, that bit about fools not going astray sounds great—if you’re a fool, but if you’re one of the “non-fools” it sounds a bit disappointing. After all, if a fool can’t wander off, that means that fool will be on the same road with you, and that same fool might tend to swerve into your lane or ride the brakes for fifteen miles or drive behind you with his high beams on. This journey won’t be taken on a gravy train with biscuit wheels. In fact, you’ll have to walk! The prophet says so: “the redeemed shall walk there.” Already, I can hear some folks saying, “You know, this place ain’t really that bad. Let’s just stay here.”

And in some ways, I think that’s exactly how this thing called faith is—it’s a journey, complete with ups and downs, with folks who need your help, folks who will slow you down, folks who are way on up the road from you, fools who’ll get in the way and cause confusion. There may not be the great dangers others might face who don’t travel on this same heavenly highway, but it is still a journey, complete with uncertainty and frustration, doubt and misdirection, the helpers and the helpless, the fools and the arrogant. It’s a journey that requires us to want to take it, to want to leave where we are even now, even though where we are is safe, comfortable, and certain. Faith is more than a destination; it’s the joy found in the journey.

The Christian life isn’t only about finding joy in a hoped-for destination in the “sweet by and by.” It’s about finding joy in the journey in spite of weak hands and feeble knees, in spite of fearful hearts, blind eyes, and deaf ears. It’s about finding joy when the desert is dry or when the water springs up from unexpected places. It’s about finding joy when the highway is paved smooth and the travel is easy and when there are potholes and fools going the wrong way.

That’s why I think we need Advent, why we need these signposts along the journey to remind us of hope, peace, and (this morning) joy. We need to be reminded that the birth of Christ isn’t just about some resting place on the other side of the grave; it’s about finding joy in God’s creation, about finding joy on this journey of faith. We may look forward to Christmas Day, but we need to be reminded of the ways in which Christ is born into our lives every day, just as we may look forward to the joys of heaven, but we need to be reminded of the ways in which Christ is calling us to bring the joys of heaven to reality here on this side of eternity. Perhaps this Advent, we need to be reminded that just as Christmas isn’t a single day, a destination on our calendars, faith isn’t a destination. Perhaps as much as we need to wait, to prepare ourselves for the arrival of the Christ child through the season of Advent, we need to wait, to prepare ourselves for the arrival of God’s kingdom through the days, weeks, months, and years of our lives, of this journey called faith.

May we take these precious few days we have leading up to Christmas and see in them the precious few days we have on this earth, days we have to journey on in faith, and may we find in them the joy that comes from a faith that lived out in flesh and blood, in hands and feet, a faith lived out in this journey we share together. Amen.

"When Creation Goes Right-side Up" (Second Sunday of Advent)

Isaiah 11:1-10

1 A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots. 2 The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord. 3 His delight shall be in the fear of the Lord. He shall not judge by what his eyes see, or decide by what his ears hear; 4 but with righteousness he shall judge the poor, and decide with equity for the meek of the earth; he shall strike the earth with the rod of his mouth, and with the breath of his lips he shall kill the wicked. 5 Righteousness shall be the belt around his waist, and faithfulness the belt around his loins. 6 The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them. 7 The cow and the bear shall graze, their young shall lie down together; and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. 8 The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder's den. 9 They will not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain; for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea. 10 On that day the root of Jesse shall stand as a signal to the peoples; the nations shall inquire of him, and his dwelling shall be glorious.

            This week, I came across an article from The Washington Post with these words comprising the first paragraph: “BANI SAIFAN, Yemen — The family of Osama Hassan faced a wrenching choice as his tiny body wasted away. Should they use the little money they had, in a time of war, to take the 2-year-old to a hospital? Or should they buy food to feed their other children? His family chose food.”[1]

            The article includes pictures of hopeless parents holding the skeletal bodies of their young children (some just days before their deaths), a picture of an 18-year-old girl who looks like a woman entering her second century of life, and the haunting images of hospital beds with tiny, twig-like legs sticking out of white sheets and stacked rocks on the scratched ground, marking where the bodies of at least a dozen children lay. Was there some sort of widespread disease taking the lives of these children? No. Was there some deep drought that had struck the crops and the livestock so that food was scarce and the children couldn’t eat? No. Were their parents too lazy to work, too busy trying to make money to feed their families that they overlooked the needs of the very children they were working so hard to feed? No. Then why are they dying? Why are their already tiny bodies wasting away to skin, bones, and bloated bellies? One word: war.

            On Friday, November 18, in the Syrian city of Aleppo, nurses and medical staff rushed to evacuate patients from a local hospital, even grabbing babies from incubators (some of them undernourished and at least one with medical tubes still attached). The hospital had been badly damaged and those babies and other patients needed to be relocated in order to receive adequate medical attention and to keep themselves safe.[2] What happened to that hospital? Had there been an earthquake? No. A terrible storm? No. Had there been some kind of freak accident that caused the power to go out and some of the walls to come crashing down? No. There had been an air raid on the city, and bombs were being dropped, even on the hospital. What caused sick babies to be snatched from their incubators and already sick and suffering patients to flee from a hospital? One word: war.

            In the African country of Nigeria at least 400,000 children are at risk of starvation, 2.6 million people have been driven from their homes and displaced, and at least 6.3 million are dealing with hunger and potential starvation.[3] Has the economy crashed? Is there no food coming in? No. The country has been under the oppression of the terrorist group Boko Haram for seven years. It’s not a natural disaster, not an economic crisis driven by poor investments and greedy lenders. It’s one word: war.

            Of course, it’s not just in far-away lands where the effects of war are felt. I remember living in Waco, Texas, a city that houses a VA hospital, a city where patients from that hospital would walk out its front doors and down the streets of the city. They’d walk down the highways and service roads along Interstate 35. I’d see some of them standing in the medians of busy intersections, waving wildly at the cars that passed. I’d see some of them digging through the trash cans at gas stations, sitting on the curbs of streets right off an exit, holding a cardboard sign. I had friends who told me stories about large groups of them living together in the “hobo jungles” in the park, in torn tents and half-rotted furniture. Once, they were young men and women with hopes and dreams about futures filled with families. Now, their memories keep them up at night, drive them to irrational behavior, force them to seek sanity in cheap, glass bottles or tiny pills they trade among themselves. What happened? Poor life decisions? Bad upbringing? No. It’s that same word again: war.

            It’s not supposed to be like this, you know? This world, it isn’t supposed to be like this. We humans were not created for conflict, for fighting, for war. Creation wasn’t meant for this, and it shows. We’ve not only scarred each other, but we’ve scarred the very earth with our fighting. Why, there are even some places left uninhabitable on this world because of our wars, and the very thing that drives so many nations to fight is warping the weather patterns of our only planetary home in such a way that looks frightening to many. The world isn’t supposed to be like this. I suppose, however, if there is to be any consolation, any slight solace to be found in the seemingly unending conflicts of our present age, it is to be found in the reality that humankind has been this way for centuries, that such turmoil and war have not entered this world in the last few generations, but seem to have been around as long as there were at least two (groups of) people with varying ideas and an unwillingness to compromise.

            The effects of war we see today were just as prevalent in the times of the first prophet Isaiah, somewhere towards the end of the eighth century B.C. Isaiah had heard of the devastation caused by the Assyrians, how they had conquered the Northern Kingdom of Israel, how they were laying waste to nations across the region, how they were turning their aggression towards the Southern Kingdom of Judah. Isaiah prophesied in the wake of Uzziah’s death of God’s coming judgement on Judah for the ways the nation was beginning to follow in the same paths of negligence, greed, and idolatry that had ensnared the Northern Kingdom. The prophet spoke of God’s coming judgement, yet he foretold of a remnant that would survive, a small number who would live to see a new day dawn for the people. It’s in that spirit of optimism that Isaiah speaks the poetic words we’ve heard this morning.

            To be honest, though, these words seem a bit…well…crazy. I mean, the prophet speaks about shoots growing out of dead stumps, about a coming king who will judge by “righteousness” and “faithfulness”—not by what he sees and hears (you know, the senses most folks in positions of authority tend to use to make decisions and pass judgement). The prophet speaks about wolves lying down with lambs, leopards taking naps with baby goats, calves, lions, and fat baby sheep snuggling together while a little child rounds them up like a shepherd. He talks about cows and bears grazing in the same field while their babies play together. He speaks of a coming day filled with vegetarian lions and poisonous snakes so timid children can play with them! What is all this? What had the prophet eaten (or drunk) before he gave this prophecy? Wolves don’t live with lambs—they eat them! Cows and bears can’t graze in the same field; bears have been known to like beef! And I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to let Kohl down on the same ground if I even hear there’s a snake nearby! It just doesn’t make sense! Green shoots growing out of stumps, no hurting or destroying taking place on the “holy mountain”—I’m sorry, but I don’t pay real close attention to the news and even I know there’s hurting, killing, bombing, fighting, and all sorts of conflicts happening on that same mountain, and much of it is because so many people believe that mountain to be holy!

            It all just seems crazy—impossible. It seems impossible to think that such peace, such tranquility, could ever exist in this world. It seems impossible to stop people from bombing one another over disagreements about imaginary lines. A future where no child will go hungry on account of war, famine, greed, or even natural disaster seems impossible. A time when people will cease hating one another because of where they live on this planet, or the color of their skin, or which book they call holy, or how much oil, money, or gold they have, it just seems impossible. To imagine a world where peace—the sort of peace we hope for when we light the second candle of Advent—reigns and the thought of raising arms against another human being is recognized for the sin it is…well, that just seems impossible, as if all of creation is turned upside down. Well, maybe it is.

            Maybe that’s the point of all of this. Maybe that’s the point of this season and our need to wait, to hope, for peace. Maybe creation is upside down. Maybe this world is so messed up, so irreversibly, impossibly soaked with sin that to fix it, to put it back right, is impossible. Maybe it is impossible for sheep, wolves, bears, cows, snakes, and children to all live together without one biting the other. Maybe it is impossible for hurting, destroying, fighting, and conflict to cease on the “holy mountain” or anywhere in this world for that matter. Perhaps the peace we long for, the peace for which we’ve lit this candle today, perhaps such peace is truly impossible. Perhaps it is as impossible as a new, green shoot sprouting from a cut, dead stump. Maybe it’s as impossible as a nine-month-pregnant virgin. Maybe it’s as impossible as the Creator of the universe, the One who set the stars on fire, being born to a teenage girl and her soon-to-be husband in some barn about behind a motel. Perhaps it is as impossible as angels singing to shepherds and Magi following a star to worship a toddler with expensive gifts. Perhaps peace is as impossible as the death of God upon a cross or his resurrection three days later. Maybe…Maybe it is that impossible to turn creation right-side up, and if it is…well…thanks be to God, for a shoot will grow from a stump, a wolf will shack up with a lamb, a lion will eat hat from the bail, a baby will play with a snake, violence will meet its end, and the Babe of Bethlehem, the incarnate God, the crucified Christ, the resurrected Savior, the Prince of Peace will reign. Hallelujah! Amen.

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[1] From the article “In Yemen’s war, trapped families ask: Which child should we save?” on The Washington Post’s website (accessed 12/2/2016): https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/middle_east/in-yemens-war-trapped-families-ask-which-child-should-we-save/2016/11/30/c2240cf4-7d60-4132-989f-2128b077efbb_story.html?hpid=hp_hp-top-table-main_yemenhunger-735pm%3Ahomepage%2Fstory&utm_term=.969b84453e85#comments

[2] From Al-Jazeera: “Syria war: Air raid hits children's hospital in Aleppo.” (accessed 12/3/2016): http://www.aljazeera.com/news/2016/11/air-strike-hits-children-hospital-syria-aleppo-161118163200380.html

[3] From The Zimbabwe Star: “Boko Haram: 400,000 children at risk of starvation in Nigeria.” (accessed 12/3/2016): http://www.zimbabwestar.com/index.php/sid/249896065

"In the Days to Come" (First Sunday of Advent)

Isaiah 2:1-5

1 The word that Isaiah son of Amoz saw concerning Judah and Jerusalem. 2 In days to come the mountain of the Lord's house shall be established as the highest of the mountains, and shall be raised above the hills; all the nations shall stream to it. 3 Many peoples shall come and say, "Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob; that he may teach us his ways and that we may walk in his paths." For out of Zion shall go forth instruction, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem. 4 He shall judge between the nations, and shall arbitrate for many peoples; they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more. 5 O house of Jacob, come, let us walk in the light of the Lord!

            One of my favorite movies is from 1997, an Italian movie written and directed by Roberto Benigni. It is a movie about a husband and wife who own a little book shop, and together they have a son. It is during their son’s birthday party that the story takes a dark turn: you see, it takes place in the early 1940s, during World War II, and this man (Guido), his uncle (Eliseo), his wife (Dora), and their son (Joshua) are Jews. Guido, Eliseo, and Joshua are arrested during Joshua’s birthday party and forced on a train bound for a concentration camp. When Dora hears of their capture, she volunteers to board a train headed for the same camp.

            It isn’t long after their arrival that Guido’s uncle is sent to the gas chambers. The terrors of the camp are real, yet Guido does his best to protect his son from them, to give him hope amid such horror. So, he tells his son that they are a part of a great, complicated game, and in order to win the prize (his very own tank!) Joshua must do everything his father tells him to do. Guido uses his imagination and charm to convince his son to hide, to be quiet, to stay out of sight of guards and even other prisoners in the camp.

Eventually, news reaches the camp that the Allies have won and are on their way to liberate the camp. The Nazis begin to abandon the camp, burning records, corpses, and executing prisoners. The place is wild with the sounds of dogs barking, guns firing, and men and women screaming. Guido takes his son Joshua and convinces him to hide in a box, telling him that he has won the prize but he must do this final thing if he is to claim it. As Joshua hides in the box, Guido heads to the other side of the camp in an attempt to find his wife, Dora. He’s captured by a Nazi soldier. The soldier leads him in front of the box where Joshua is hiding. After making eye contact, Guido gives his son a wink and mockingly marches in front of the box. The soldier leads him around the corner and down an alley. We hear the rifle fire. It’s one of the most heartbreaking scenes in any movie. Yet, it’s also a powerful image of hope, because, you see, hope is most keenly felt by those who are broken, by those at the end of the line, by those who would otherwise have nothing left to call them on. Guido’s hope was for his son, a hope in what lies beyond the terror, a hope for what waits in the unforeseen future, a hope that is bigger than the present and even our very selves. It’s that kind of hope we celebrate on this first Sunday of Advent.

It’s the hope of which the prophet Isaiah speaks in our text this morning. Isaiah talks about what will happen “In days to come,” but at the time the prophet first spoke these words, “the days to come” seemed bleak. The nation was on the brink of destruction, and God was calling them out for their iniquities through the prophet: they had been greedy, absorbed in their own self-interest, those in power had been corrupted, and the religion of the day was little more than lip-service and habitual ritual[1] (I suppose it sounds a bit familiar…). The Lord had threatened to pour out his wrath on the people, to turn his hand against them. God was angry with the nation because it had forgotten its calling, overlooked the teachings of Torah to find power, wealth, and prominence among the nations. There was political tension in the atmosphere as the Syro-Ephraimitic war had been raging, catching the southern kingdom of Judah and its capital Jerusalem in its crossfire.[2] The “days to come” seems filled with fear, anxiety, and uncertainty as the Lord’s wrath seemed eminent and the world around them spun out of control, yet the prophet says, “In days to come the mountain of the Lord's house shall be established as the highest of the mountains, and shall be raised above the hills; all the nations shall stream to it.”

            Here the world is falling apart and things seem terrible, but the prophet is talking about a future when the Lord’s house will be set on the highest mountain and every nation will flow to it like an ever-growing stream of living souls. Doesn’t he know what’s going on in the world?! Has Isaiah looked out the window, read a paper, turned on the news? It’s horrible out there! Markets are crashing. Wars are raging. People are rioting in the streets. It’s a mad world, but all he can say is “In the days to come the Lord’s house will be on the highest mountain and everybody is going to want to go there.” He’s daydreaming, got his head in the clouds. He’s preaching on and on about days unforeseen, a hope that is to come then, but what everybody wants to know is what about now?! That’s true, isn’t it? We all want to know about now. Oh sure, it’s nice to dream about the future, about the “sweet by and by,” but what are we supposed to do now?!

            I can remember times when I was kid, waking up some nights and walking into the kitchen. My mom and step-dad sitting at the table; one of them would have the checkbook, while the other one sorted through the envelopes on the table. It was a regular sort of ritual in our house growing up. I can remember a few times, when some of those envelopes were pink or stamped with red ink, and they would look worried, maybe overwhelmed, and I’d ask my mom, “Is everything alright?” Momma would say to me every single time, “Everything is going to be alright.” It’s “going to be alright,” not “it is alright,” but “it’s going to be alright.” She spoke about an unforeseen future, days to come when paying the bills would be easier, when the envelopes wouldn’t stack up, when decisions would be made about which pair of shoes to by rather than which bill to pay. It was as if she said, “It’s not alright now, but it will be one day.”

            That’s how I imagine these words from Isaiah. After all, they’re pretty far-fetched notions when they are weighed on the scales of present reality. The prophet speaks about a day when “Many peoples shall come and say, ‘Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob; that he may teach us his ways and that we may walk in his paths.’" A day when people will want to go to house of God—and learn?! People who call themselves religious hardly have the time or want to take the time these days to get out of bed and go learn about their faith, their God, but Isaiah, you’re telling me there’s coming a day when many people will want to go and learn (from God, God’s self no less)?

            Isaiah also says that God will be the ultimate judge between the nations. Now, before too many of you get all Left Behind excited about that notion, understand that when Isaiah says, “[God] shall judge between the nations, and shall arbitrate for many peoples,” what the prophet means is that God will be the one who dissolves disputes, cancels conflicts, and wipes out the need for war. This isn’t the apocalyptic judge we’ve painted in our imagination, wielding a gavel in one hand and a thunderbolt in the other, waiting to send all “those people” to hell so the rest of “us” can go on enjoying the hereafter. This is a God who acts as judge in order to bring peace! I mean, just look at the result of such judgement from God according to the prophet: “they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.”

            Nations will stop spending trillions of dollars on weapons and war and will instead spend such resources on those things which help rather than harm? You mean to tell me, when God judges the nations, armies are going to put down their weapons, convert them into farming implements, and folks who once fought each other, soldiers who once studied the strategies and tactics of warfare will now seek to live in peace with one another while learning to walk in the path of God from God God’s self?! You mean to tell me that young men and women will no longer be used to fight the wars of the wealthy, that religion will no longer be warped as a justification for bloodshed and violence, that young children will no longer have to live in fear of bombs falling on them in hospitals, that the hunger for oil will no longer drive the will to fight, and the boundaries we so foolishly fight over will one day be erased?

            And here I thought my momma was being naïve when she used to tell me everything is going to be alright.

            How in the world can the prophet Isaiah speak about such wide-eyed, foolhardy notions when his world was crumbling? How can we read such words in worship in such a world where the news in our papers, on our televisions, and in our social media reminds us daily of just how messed up it all is, of just how upside-down this world we live in really is? How can we sit here in November of 2016 and decorate a room with green garland, purple paraments, candles, magi, shepherds, Mary, Joseph…? How? Well, because we have hope.

            We have a hope that is greater than any single one of us, a hope that is greater than anything in this whole universe (or multi-verse[3]). We have an eternal hope, a hope that says, “It’s going to be alright,” not because we’re unsure of what the future holds, but because (as the old song says) we know who holds the future! We have the kind of hope that makes us want to decorate a tall tree with red flowers and hand wreaths in the windows. We have the kind of hope that we want to tell on the mountain, the kind of hope that calls us to love others even though they may be our enemies, the kind of hope that says the kindness we show today makes ripples on in to eternity, the kind of hope that calls us to that great mountain of God, a mountain higher than all mountains, where all the nations will flow like an ever-growing stream of souls to learn the ways of the Lord and walk in God’s path.

            So, friends, as the prophet calls to the house of Jacob with such words of hope, I call to you, “come, let us walk in the light of the Lord!” Let us look forward not only to the arrival of the Christ-child at Christmas, but to those days to come, when our hope will be realized, when many will say, “Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob; that he may teach us his ways and that we may walk in his paths,” when the Lord  “shall judge between the nations, and shall arbitrate for many peoples,” when the great militaries of this world “shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks,” when nation shall not lift up sword against nation,” when they “shall they learn war [no] more.”  O Church, “come, let us walk in the light of the Lord,” and let us have hope! Amen!

---

[1] Tisdale, Leonora Tubbs. "First Sunday of Advent." In Preaching God's Transformative Justice: A Lectionary Commentary, Year A, edited by Dawn Ottoni-Wilhelm, Ronald J. Allen, & Dale P. Andrews. Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 2013 (p.1).

[2] Birch, Bruce C. "First Sunday of Advent: Isaiah 2:1-5 (Exegetical Perspective)." In Feasting on the Word: Year A, Volume 1 (Advent through Transfiguration), edited by David L. Bartlett, & Barbara Brown Taylor. Loisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 2010 (p3.).

[3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Multiverse (accessed 11/27/16 at 12:12 A.M. CST).

"The Jesus Crowd" (Twenty-fourth Sunday after Pentecost)

Luke 19:1-10

1 He entered Jericho and was passing through it. 2 A man was there named Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax collector and was rich. 3 He was trying to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd he could not, because he was short in stature. 4 So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore tree to see him, because he was going to pass that way. 5 When Jesus came to the place, he looked up and said to him, "Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today." 6 So he hurried down and was happy to welcome him. 7 All who saw it began to grumble and said, "He has gone to be the guest of one who is a sinner." 8 Zacchaeus stood there and said to the Lord, "Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much." 9 Then Jesus said to him, "Today salvation has come to this house, because he too is a son of Abraham. 10 For the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost."

            There’s this show that comes on some mornings (I believe it’s on A&E) about the real-life stories of those who work with the Philadelphia Parking Authority and Detroit’s Municipal Parking Department. It’s a reality show that follows these folks around as they ticket illegally parked cars or place those big, yellow boots on vehicles with way too many unpaid tickets. Some episodes even involve those who drive the tow trucks and work at the impound lots where these vehicles wind up. It’s a wonderfully fascinating program to me, as it shows what it’s like to have a job where everyone (and I mean EVERYONE) hates you.

            Seriously. It’s a bit disappointing at times to watch; here’s a young man, trying to be courteous, trying to do his job, so when he sees an illegally parked car he walks down the block, asking if anyone knows the driver, and when no one turns up to move the vehicle, he prints a $35 ticket. Well, of course as soon as he places the ticket under the wiper on the windshield the owner appears and begins to call him all sorts of names I can only assume were ugly as they were bleeped over by television censors. Or they show a typical day at the impound lot: a man comes in to pick up his car, demands they release his car because he’s innocent (he didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to park in the fire zone in front of a school during the day), and when the woman behind the glass (again, trying to do her job in the nicest, most polite way imaginable) tells him he’ll have to pay the $150 fee, he loses it. He begins yelling, demanding to see “a manager,” threatens to call a lawyer, and delivers a rapid-fire string of words so vulgar that the censors even have to blur his mouth to keep folks from lip reading. It’s terrible! To have to do such a job—a job where you know folks will instantly hate you, are instantly on the defensive, ready to call you every foul thing they know how even though they don’t really know you—it’s terrible!

            I suppose that’s how most parking enforcers feel. I suppose that’s how a lot of high school and college coaches feel (parents and fans will nearly threaten to take your life without so much as knowing your middle name). I suppose that’s how a lot of police officers feels, how some elected officials feel, (maybe even how some ministers feel). I suppose that’s how folks who have jobs and hold positions that come with all the weight of misappropriated anger and frustration feel. To have people instantly judge your character based solely upon your occupation…well, I even suppose that may have been how wee, little Zacchaeus must have felt too.

            You know, Zacchaeus: “Zacchaeus was a wee, little man,/ And a wee, little man was he./ He climbed up in a sycamore tree,/ For the Lord he wanted to see./ And as the Savior came that way,/ He looked up in the tree,/ (Spoken): And he said, ‘Zacchaeus, you come down from there,’/ For I'm going to your house today./ For I'm going to your house today.” You know the words, right? Well, sadly, those are about all the words most folks know when it comes to Zacchaeus, but there are three words left out of that little children’s song that identified Zacchaeus to everyone around in his day—even those folks who didn’t know him by name: “chief tax collector.” That’s right, Zacchaeus worked for the government! And he wasn’t just some low-level employee with a decent benefits package and plenty of vacation days. No! He was upper-level management! He was a “chief tax collector,” one in charge of collecting the taxes for an entire region, one who stood to make a good profit from his work, one who was nearly universally hated by everyone in his community.

            To be honest, I can’t blame the folks back then—I mean, really, I can’t imagine anyone, at any time in history exclaiming with joy, “Oh boy, the tax collector is coming!” In those days, tax collectors had the reputation of being extorters, those who ripped people off when it came to collecting taxes only to make themselves wealthy. On top of that, tax collectors worked for the Roman government, and if you were Jewish, that just gave you another reason to despise them as they were working for the oppressors. But the worst offenders were those who were Jews themselves collecting taxes from other Jews (a tactic the Romans no doubt thought would smooth things over but only led to more anger and disdain). These Jewish tax collectors were seen as traitors, those who had turned their backs on their brethren, their nation, their heritage. Before they uttered one word, they were already deemed as reprobates, as those who had rejected their place among the promised people of Israel. Tax collectors were the worst, and on top of that, Zacchaeus was the “chief tax collector’—so you know folks just loved him!

            I can hear them now (can’t you?): “Hush up now. Here comes Zacchaeus. Traitor! Degenerate! Why, I bet he’d sell his own momma for brand new $20 bill...There’s old Zach, living it up in his big ole house. You know, I heard he paid for that with the money he squeezed out of widow Ferguson. Mhmm, sure did…There’s Zacchaeus. You know, after the amount of taxes I had to pay last year, he better hope I don’t run into him in the Wal-Mart parking lot…” Folks would have hated him from the get-go. There would have been no convincing them otherwise: Zacchaeus was the chief tax collector, and as far as they were concerned, he was the enemy, a living embodiment of everything wrong with society.

            That’s probably why they wouldn’t get out of his way in verse 3. Oh, sure the verse says, “he was short in stature,” but that’s just as much a comment on his reputation in the community as it is a description of his physical height: he was “short” in the eyes of others. That same verse tells us that “He was trying to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd he could not.” Now isn’t that interesting? “On account of the crowd he could not.” Maybe there were just too many of them, “thick as hair on a squirrel” some would say. Perhaps they were moving too fast, too closely together. Maybe they were just so caught up in rapturous wonder and joy that they didn’t think about making way for those who couldn’t see over their shoulders. Maybe...or, when the crowd was passing through Jericho, and they passed by the house of Zacchaeus, someone said, “Hey, don’t let that guy in here amongst us. He’s one of those people.” You know, those people can sure ruin things for folks in the crowd, folks who are trying to “get close to Jesus.”

            Honestly, I don’t think such a thing is too far-fetched to think. After all, in the passage immediately preceding the one before us this morning, “the crowd” ordered a blind beggar to be quiet when Jesus was passing by, to quit shouting out his name, trying to get his attention. Blind folks were blind for a reason—most likely a sinful reason—so they really had no place in such a crowd. Seems like those folks in “the Jesus crowd” are prone to jumping to conclusions, making rash, harsh judgements on folks they don’t know all because of who they are and what they seem to be. Seems a little familiar to me…

            You know, I wonder how often folks are kept from seeing Jesus because those who gather so closely around him refuse to let others in to see him? I wonder how often judgements are made simply from a glance, a reputation, a stereotype? I wonder how many people are permanently labeled as “outsiders” simply because those “insiders,” those in the crowd, have determined they are outside the bounds of inclusion? To put it another, perhaps more to-the-point, sort of way: I wonder how many people have been turned away from Christ because the people who claim to follow him won’t let them in?

            How many folks like Zacchaeus have wanted to see who Jesus was, yet “on account of the crowd” they couldn’t? How many have been immediately judged by the “in-crowd” as unworthy, unfit, undeniably unclean, and therefore kept from Jesus altogether? You know, some of the folks we’ve deemed through the years as such are just like Zacchaeus—they long to see who Jesus is. I can’t help but wonder, do we show them?

            Now, lest you begin to feel the hefty burden of drawing the line in the sand or thumbing through your Bible to find exactly who can and cannot be in “the Jesus crowd,” I want you to listen again to what Jesus says after Zacchaeus climbs that sycamore tree, after Jesus invites himself into Zacchaeus’ house, after the crowd saw what took place and accused Jesus of being “the guest of one who is a sinner,” after Zacchaeus boldly proclaims, "Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much." I want you to pay attention to what Jesus says after all these things take place: “Then Jesus said to [Zacchaeus, but clearly so the crowd could overhear], ‘Today salvation has come to this house, because he too is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost.’" “Today salvation has come to this house…For the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost.”

Did you notice who does the seeking out and the saving? It isn’t the righteous, those who’ve already claimed the prize as their own, those who have established themselves as the standard bearers for all that is right, holy, and pure in the world. Did you notice who does it? It isn’t the clergy or church-folk: Jesus didn’t say, “Salvation has come to this house today, because you walked the aisle on the third verse of ‘Just As I Am.’” Did you notice who does it? Why, it isn’t even the sinner himself: Luke makes no declaration of Zacchaeus’ repentance; there’s no “sinner’s prayer,” no confirmation classes, no baptismal font, no Bible presented with Zacchaeus’ name inscribed in gold leaf on the front cover—nothing like that at all. Oh sure, Zacchaeus says he’ll give to the poor and repay anyone he’s defrauded, but the language can be understood to say that he’s already been doing those things, that he isn’t the crook everyone thinks he is. So it isn’t even Zacchaeus who comes seeking his own salvation—he may even have had no idea what it meant to be “lost!” No, the one who does the seeking and the saving was, is, and always will be Jesus!

Do you know what that means? It means no matter how much those of us in “the Jesus crowd” try to keep others from seeing Jesus, Christ will still seek them out. It means no matter how much we may think someone is outside the bounds of salvation, Jesus still saves them. It means there is no crowd large enough, no barrier big enough, no mountain high enough, no ocean vast enough, no valley deep enough, no sin dark enough that Jesus doesn’t still pursue us with his relentless love in order to save us—to save us from our sins of selfishness and bring us back into the selfless, loving relationship with God and each other.

            As you move through this life, whether you consider yourself part of the “Jesus crowd” or not, whether you believe there are those outside the bounds of salvation or that you yourself are beyond saving, know this: the Son of Man, Jesus Christ, came to seek out and to save the lost. That includes you. That includes me. That includes every, single soul in this world, no matter who they are, what they’ve done, or what we ourselves have deemed them to be. Jesus Christ still seeks out and saves the lost. May we choose to join him in such searching and saving, and may we never fail to show Jesus to all who wish to see him. Amen.

"Two Prayers" (Twenty-third Sunday after Pentecost)

Luke 18:9-14

9 He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt: 10 "Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. 11 The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus, "God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. 12 I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.' 13 But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast and saying, "God, be merciful to me, a sinner!' 14 I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted."

            "Two men went up to the temple to pray...” Isn’t that a lovely thing? Two men, entering into the sacred space understood and reserved as the “house of God,” and they’ve come to pray, to commune with the Almighty, to spend time in the focused presence of God. That’s a pretty good introduction to a parable if ever there was one. Jesus wants to teach his disciples then (and now) about the dangers of trusting in oneself to be righteous while looking down your nose at others in contempt.  What a better way to teach about such things than through a parable of exemplary prayer? "Two men went up to the temple to pray...”  It doesn’t take long, however, before the wheels on the parable start to wobble a bit.

            Jesus says, "Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector.” Aha! So it isn’t just two ordinary men, two average, run-of-the-mill fellas kneeling in silent prayer in a candle-lit corner of the temple—it’s a Pharisee and a tax collector. Well, I suppose that may be another way to teach about the dangers of self-righteousness and the judging of others. After all, we know about Pharisees don’t we? Just the word itself conjures up all sorts of Sunday school lessons and images of ancient, uptight religious folks in the dark-colored robes, with scowls scratched across their bearded faces. Our minds quickly turn to images of those who go everywhere with their Bible tucked under their arms and their “Jesus fish” on the tailgate, yet act like angry children in private and behave as if they’ve never even read the Scriptures. Whenever we hear the word “Pharisee” we already have a pretty good picture in our mind of where Jesus is going with this story: this Pharisee is going to turn out to be a hypocrite, one who wears a public persona of piety, while privately parading his depravity. That’s how we know Pharisees. But before we rubber-stamp him like the rest of his kind in our created, Christian tradition, let’s hear him out; let’s at least listen to the prayer Jesus says this Pharisee prays in the temple.

            Jesus says in: “The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus…” Isn’t that a bit interesting? Jesus says the Pharisee was standing by himself (or perhaps “to himself”). This Pharisee isn’t standing on the street corner, on a soapbox, megaphone in hand, waving his signs of judgement at the passersby, no. He hasn’t tweeted out to all of his followers that he’s “Heading to the temple for some quality God time “#blessed #prayedup #Phariseeyouatthetemple.”  No, there’s nothing of the sort; this Pharisee seems to be keeping quietly to himself in prayer, perhaps even modeling a bit of what Jesus teaches in Matthew’s gospel in the Sermon on the Mount, when he said in Matthew 6:6, “But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.” This Pharisee is praying to himself. Isn’t it interesting the sort of things we’ll pray to ourselves, especially those things we wouldn’t dare pray out loud, with others around?

            When others aren’t around to hear our prayers, when we think we’ve got the ear of God all to ourselves, isn’t it something the things we’ll pray for? “Lord, if it be thy will, I hope Suzy gets transferred next month; I’m tired of having to put up with her at work…God, I’m thankful for all the things you give me, but if you’d let my team make this field goal and go on to the playoffs…Jesus, I wish you’d kill the neighbors’ dog; I’m tired of that thing barking all night and digging up my yard…” Isn’t it something the things we’ll pray when no one’s listening, when we think we’re praying all to ourselves?

            I’d like to say this Pharisee prayed some pretty egregious prayers while he prayed alone in the temple, but to be fair, his prayer isn’t all that terrible: “God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.” Sure, he could have worded it a bit better, but it’s a fine prayer. After all, what’s wrong with being thankful for who you are and what you’ve been given? Sure, it sounds a bit harsh to pray, “God, I thank you that I am not like other people…” but it wasn’t like he was talking about his good neighbors across the street or those other Pharisees in his Torah study class or those other, good, tithing, fasting, God-fearing folks who gathered together to read the Scriptures and pray together. No, he was thankful he didn’t turn out to be a thief—who can fault him for that? How many of you parents have ever thanked God that your kids turned out halfway decent—not strung out, running around, broke, or locked up? That’s not a bad thing to thank God for, is it? This Pharisee is thankful that he didn’t wind up on the wrong side of the law, that God saw him through life to be a good, clean person. He’s thankful he’s not a “rogue,” an unjust, unrighteous person in opposition to that which is good and right in the world. Again, that’s not a bad thing, is it? He’s even thankful that he’s not an adulterer—an awful, hurtful sinner who has ruined his family and the lives of those in it.

We may want to find fault with his wording that he’s “not…even like this tax collector,” but the truth is such a sentiment would have likely received more than one “Amen!” from those listening to Jesus’ parable. You see, tax collectors were despised (more so than they would be today if such a profession existed); they were seen as collaborators with the oppressor, Rome; they took advantage of those from whom they collected taxes, often taking far more than the law required in order to keep the balance for themselves, and Jewish tax collectors (those who themselves were Jews hired by the Romans to collect taxes) were seen as especially egregious in their betrayal of their own people, so when he prays, “God, I thank you that I am not…even like this tax collector,” it may have been a bit rude to say so, but most folks would have thought nothing about it. They would have simply nodded their heads in agreement; it’s a good thing not to be like that tax collector, wretched traitor he is!

After offering his thanks to God, the Pharisee winds up his prayer with a little bit of a…let’s call it a “check in” with God: “I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.” This Pharisee has his ducks in a row! He’s not just fasting once a week, or on the prescribed fast day, no, he’s fasting twice a week (he’s clearly not a Baptist then!). He’s one of those folks who doesn’t just come to worship on Sunday mornings: he comes to Sunday school, Wednesday night prayer meeting, Tuesday Bible Study, Thursday visitation, and every day of Vacation Bible School! And, on top of his stellar fasting schedule, he’s a regular tither. I suppose we have to take the Pharisee at his word (after all, he is just a character in Jesus’ parable), but it has generally been my experience that whenever someone talks about how much they do, give, or attend, they tend to be lying through their teeth in order to cover up some other insecurity.

But if we take the Pharisee at his word, he’s a standout man of faith: he’s at prayer in the temple, to himself, without making a show of it, and he’s thankful to God as he recognizes that God hasn’t let him fall into a life of “ill-repute,” while also blessing him enough to faithfully fast and consistently tithe. Isn’t that great? So why does the tax collector go “down to his home justified rather than the [Pharisee]?” How is it that the Pharisee has “exalted himself” if he’s just thanking God for what God has done for him? What is it about the tax collector’s prayer that’s so much better than the prayer of the Pharisee?

Jesus tells us, “But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast and saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!'” This tax collector hardly finds himself worthy to be in the same place of the temple as the Pharisee; he’s “standing far off.” Perhaps he knew the weight of his betrayal, the soul-crushing costs of swindling folks out of their money in order to line his own pockets. Maybe he knew his righteousness could never even come close to that of one like this Pharisee—I suspect that tax collector didn’t even fast once a week and the few ties he did show up for service he let the plate pass right by him! Perhaps he recognizes his lowliness, brought on by his terrible vocational choices. He beats his chest (a sign of extreme mourning and repentance) and cries out to God: “be merciful to me, a sinner!” It’s a simple prayer, a prayer of confession, a pleading for mercy in the light of one’s realization that one has strayed from God. It’s the prayer we will all make at some point in our lives, a prayer we will all say (hopefully) more than once. It’s the prayer that grounds us, reminds us that we cannot do or be anything on our own, and it is the prayer that reminds us that we are truly in need of God’s mercy and grace because no matter how hard we may try on our own, no matter how many schemes we may devise or lies we may tell ourselves, each and every one of us will fall short of God’s perfect love, and we will over and over again. Such a prayer calls us back to the realization that while we may always fall short, God’s mercy is sufficient to fill us with God’s love all the more.

The Pharisee prays and thanks God for the ways God has provided for him, kept him free from a life of treachery and debauchery, and the tax collector prays for mercy, yet Jesus says only the tax collector returns home justified. Why?

Why?

Two men went up to the airport to catch a flight. They were heading south of the equator to a remote village somewhere in the jungles of South America. They were from the same church and both skilled in medical missions. They spent seven days serving the peoples of that little village before catching a flight back home. When they returned, their church had asked if they’d share their experiences one Sunday morning in worship. They put together a presentation, and the two of them stood before the congregation one Sunday morning.

The first man talked of how difficult the trip was, how they landed in a small airport, then loaded into trucks to ride for hours on rough roads only to have to mount up on donkeys to make the last two hours of the trip into the village. He spoke about the children of the village, how none of them had shoes, most of them were malnourished, and how they didn’t go to school because the closest one was miles away. He showed pictures of the little huts they all lived in, with the dirt floors and the thatched rooves, with the scorched spot in the corner where they burned a fire to cook whatever that could call food. He showed pictures of the people they saw in their temporary, makeshift clinic, pictures of infections and long-untreated diseases. He showed image after image of horrible conditions and heart-breaking poverty, and when he concluded his portion of the presentation, he looked out at the congregation and said, “If I learned anything on this trip, I learned just how blessed we are—how blessed I am. We have clean, running water, shoes on our feet, and plenty of food to eat. We ought to be thankful for all that God has given us.” Tear-streaked faces nearly shouted, “Amen!” Then the second man spoke.

He showed a few of the same pictures, told some of the same stories, and before he was through, he looked out at the congregation and said, “If I learned anything on this trip, I learned that I ought to be ashamed and that I am in need of repentance, because I have so much—enough to even waste—while so many don’t even have enough. We ought to be doing something with all that God has given us.” Not a single “Amen.”

Two prayers. Two lessons. A Pharisee and a tax collector. Thankfulness and repentance. I wonder what God wants from us more: thankfulness or repentance? Hmmm…

"Knowing the Name" (Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost)

Luke 16:19-31

19 "There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day. 20 And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, 21 who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man's table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores. 22 The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham. The rich man also died and was buried. 23 In Hades, where he was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side. 24 He called out, "Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.' 25 But Abraham said, "Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony. 26 Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.' 27 He said, "Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father's house— 28 for I have five brothers—that he may warn them, so that they will not also come into this place of torment.' 29 Abraham replied, "They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.' 30 He said, "No, father Abraham; but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent.' 31 He said to him, "If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.' "

            His name is John. I met him about seven years ago. I was in my office when the phone rang; the caller ID showed a familiar area code, though I didn’t recognize the other seven digits. Turned out, it was a friend of mine from back home, a friend whose family I had known for years. She told me that she, her mom, and her aunt were all in town, just down the road, at the hospital. You see, her uncle (the brother of her mother and aunt) was there, and it didn’t look good for him, so she was wondering if I might come down and sit with them, pray with them. Of course I said yes, and I got in my car and headed towards the hospital.

            She had told me the room number, so when I got to the hospital, I got on the elevator and headed to the correct floor, where I found the room—all the way at the end of the hall, in the corner, by the service elevators (I didn’t know they actually put patients down there). I came into the room, and there was my friend, her mother, her aunt, and lying on the bed, her uncle: they told me, “His name is John.” John looked awful, as if he had lived three lifetimes in the same skin. He was cold, but he had no blankets with which he could be covered. I asked them why he had no blankets and they told me. You see, John was homeless, lived out of his car. He was an alcoholic—most likely the biggest reason for his homelessness, and he was ostracized from most of his family because he was homosexual. Late one night/early one morning, John was passed out in his car when someone thought it’d be a good idea to steal it. After breaking into the car and finding John nearly unconscious, the thief drove the car to the entrance of the hospital where he kicked John out the door, leaving him in the driveway, just in front of the door to the ER. Finding some identification on him with an emergency contact number, the hospital notified his sisters that he was being kept under care until they could come get him.

            It turns out John had a severe case of pneumonia, and after just a few hours of sitting with the family in the room with John, one of the monitors began to beep, and two young women in scrubs came through the door. One of them checked the machine, flipped the switch on the back, while the other began removing the tubes from his nose and the wires from his hands and chest. “Patient died at 3:45 P.M.,” they said. To which his sister replied, “His name is John.”

            His name is John…it’s important to give someone a name. Without a name, a person can be anybody or nobody. Without a name, a person can be reduced to a number, a face lost in a crowd, an unknown placeholder in a story meant to challenge us—a story like the one before us in which we are told about an unnamed rich man.

            He could be anybody, anybody with the means to be wealthy—very wealthy. In this parable, Jesus describes this rich man as one “who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day.” Purple was an expensive dye, reserved for royalty and the very rich, and it was mostly reserved for special, public occasions. It spoke a great deal about the amount of this man’s wealth that he dressed in such splendor every day. The linen he wore was also expensive, special even, as the word used here is the same word used in the Greek translation of the Old Testament to speak of the fabric used for the priestly garb and the material of the tabernacle.[1] This man isn’t just wearing his nice business suit to sit down to breakfast, no—he’s wearing his “Sunday best,” and it’s freshly cleaned, starched, and pressed, not a missing cufflink, or an unpolished shoe! Sure, we don’t know his name, but he wore nice clothes and he ate whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and he was never hungry, for he feasted sumptuously every day! We don’t know his name, but I have to tell you, I think I know enough about him to tell you I don’t like him! I certainly don’t like him when I read about the other man in this story, the man whose name we do have.

            Jesus tells us in verses 20 and 21 of our text this morning: “a poor man lay at his gate named Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man's table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores.” Lazarus: he’s a pitiful site: just lying there at the gate, coughing, wheezing, covered with raw, oozing wounds, so weak he can’t even shoo the feral dogs away as they are drawn by the smell of unwashed filth and decaying, diseased flesh. I sort of imagine him curled up in a ball, trying to keep warm, trying to keep the pain that likely wracked his body from spiraling out of control. Or maybe he was sprawled out on the dirt, hoping to make himself a larger target for the tender-hearted who may have happened by—I don’t know. But what I do know is that Jesus told us his name, Lazarus, which is the Greek translation of Eliezer, which means “God helps.”[2]

            Now, what happens next in this story shouldn’t shock us too much: “The poor man died.” It seems like an obvious outcome after all; to be so ill-afflicted, to be so unsanitary as to have dogs lick your open wounds, to have so little to eat that you long for crumbs from someone else’s table—of course he would die. It’s not pretty; it’s not preferable; it’s just how it is! After all, you can’t save everybody; you can’t go around picking folks up off the streets—who knows where they’ve been?! Who knows what they’ve been doing?! Those sores may be contagious, may be a sign of drug abuse, they may be the self-inflicted wounds of one who has lost his mind! You can’t just go around picking those kinds of folks up off the streets! He could have been dangerous, could have had a gun on him, could have hurt someone. Listen, I’m sorry he died, but that’s just how it is, you see, nothing I can do about it, just the world we live in.

            It shouldn’t shock us too much that the poor man, Lazarus, died.

            But then, then, we’re told “The rich man also died and was buried.” Now, I’m a bit surprised by that, really. The rich man died? But how? He had it made! He had all the clothes he’d ever need to keep warm, a nice, big house with a fence all the way around and a gate at the end of the driveway. Surely he had the best health care, the best doctors, a membership at the finest health club in town. We know he definitely had enough to eat, for he ate sumptuously every day—maybe that’s what it was. Maybe he was sitting down at the table, had just tucked his silk tied in his pressed shirt to keep the chocolate sauce on his cheesecake from staining it, when all of the sudden, his chest began to feel tight, a pain began to shoot down his left arm as the room began the spin and he fell face first into the china holding what was left of his steak and lobster. I don’t know. Maybe it was the stress of managing such wealth, of having to give an accounting for every receipt and expense, of having to pay employees and vendors, of having to decide what investments would yield a greater dividend and a more secure future—I don’t know, but I am a bit surprised. Aren’t we all surprised when we hear the news of some wealthy socialite who’s found lying on the floor of a friend’s apartment, the needle still in her arm? Aren’t we all shocked when we hear the news of a well-loved celebrity whose taken his own life? I’m a bit surprised that when the poor man died, “the rich man also died and was buried.”

            What really catches my attention this morning, though, is what happens after these two die. We’re told the rich man is in torment in Hades (the abode of the dead) while Lazarus is in the bosom of Abraham. It’s while he is in such torment in Hades, that the rich man calls out to Abraham, "Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.” Did you catch that? Did you notice what he said? No, I’m not talking about his agony or the extent to which even a drop of water from one’s finger would sooth such torment (perhaps that’s a sermon for a different day or a different preacher). No, what I’m wondering is did you notice that the rich man says, “send Lazarus”? He knows his name! Lazarus, his name, he knows his name. Now, how do you think he knows his name?

            Maybe one morning, before the servants could set the table for breakfast, before he changed out of his flannel pajamas and into his purple linen suit, this rich man sat on his porch in the cool of the morning, cup of coffee in hand, and as he took in a deep breath of that sweet morning air, he caught the faint scent of something foul, something rotting. Upon hearing the whimpering and nipping of some dogs, he figured some teenager had run over a possum on the way to school in front of his gate, so he grabbed a shovel from his three-car garage, strolled down his paved driveway, opened the automatic gate, where he saw the pile of what once was a person. He poked him with the flat end of the shovel, and hollered, “Get out of here you bum before I call the cops! What’s your name? I’m heading back up to the house now to call them, so you had better not be here when they get here. What’s your name? Tell me!” And from the cracked, bleeding lips, he heard the hushed voice, “Lazarus.” Maybe.

            Perhaps Lazarus was one of those folks that everyone in town knows, the neighborhood nuisance, the person everybody knows about but no one really knows. We had a few folks like that where I grew up, folks who just walked up and down the streets. You’d see them in town where they’d walk up to folks stopped at a red light. People would say, “Oh, that’s just old Crazy Rickie. Don’t give him anything. Don’t pay him any mind. That’s just old Crazy Rickie.” Maybe the rich man knew Lazarus’ name because everyone in town did: “Oh, that’s just that old bum, Lazarus. He likes to lay out in front of folks’ houses, by the gate, under the mailbox, on the curb. Don’t pay him any attention and he’ll head on down the road after a day or two.” Maybe. I don’t know.

            There was a man at my high school (I think his name was Stuart) who used to walk around the parking lots picking up trash. He always wore long pants and a long sleeve shirt buttoned all the way to the neck. He had thick glasses and wore a canvas sack over his shoulder to collect the trash he picked up with this dangerous looking spear that looked like it was made from an old broom handle and tent spike taped to one end. None of us knew where he lived, what was wrong with him, or why he was always at the school picking up trash (something I’m sure he’d be arrested for today), but he had been doing it long enough that kids who had never seen the show M.A.S.H. called him “Radar” (he looked like the character from that show). Well, over the years the nickname sort of stuck, so kids just called him Radar, even without knowing him or having ever said a word to him. Everyone knew him as Radar, but no one really knew Radar.

Maybe that’s how the rich man knew Lazarus’ name. Folks had gotten so used to seeing the poor man around town that they started saying things like, “God help him,” so the name Lazarus (which remember means “God helps”) stuck. Maybe everyone in the community called him Lazarus without ever having said a word to him, without ever so much as asking him his name. Maybe the rich man didn’t really know Lazarus, but he knew his name, and knowing his name means he cannot claim ignorance to Lazarus’ condition. It means he can’t say “I didn’t know,” though I am sure he’d like to.

You know, I wonder if that’s why they don’t show the names on the news anymore. You remember when they would show the names, don’t you? It wasn’t that long ago. I can remember, at the begging of the Iraq War and the War in Afghanistan, on the ten o’clock news they’d scroll the names of those soldiers—those men and women, sons and daughters—who had died in the latest combat effort. Maybe they didn’t do that up here, but I remember they did it on the local stations where I grew up. I remember they’d show the names and pictures of those who had died that day, those who were from our area or state, but then something happened. They stopped showing the names. They just started reporting the numbers, and after a while, they’d just give an update about what was going on. You know what I think? I think they stopped showing the names because it made us feel too accountable, too responsible for what was going on. Take away the names and it’s just a war in some far off country, but leave the names and it’s something else entirely.

The rich man knew his name. If he hadn’t known his name, he could have pleaded his case with Abraham: “Father Abraham, had I known he was at my gate I would have helped. Had I known who he was I would have invited him into my home. Had I known his name I would have given him some food to eat, some water to drink. Father Abraham, if I had known his name, I could have gotten him to a doctor, had his sores checked out, placed him in a rehabilitation program, gotten him fixed right. If I had known his name…” I suppose he could have made that argument—if he hadn’t known his name.

To know someone’s name, it makes a difference. When we don’t know the name, we can just sort of groups folks together, paint with broad strokes, slap labels on large gatherings of folks for easier identification. If you don’t know someone’s name it’s easier to call them by another name, to call them by whatever name you’ve been given to call them by your context or by whatever name you’ve chosen based upon your own presuppositions and prejudices. Without a name, it’s easy to call someone “white trash.” Without a name, it’s easy to lump folks into a group and call them “thugs.” If you don’t know the name, it’s easy to call someone “enemy.” Without a name, it’s easier to call people “monkey, queer, redneck, moron, snob, illegal, chink, cracker, loose.” Without a name, it’s easier to group people together and label them as something to be feared, something to be fought against, something entirely other. When you don’t know their names it’s easier to think of people as less than human, like an animal or a bowl of skittles.

But when you know their names, when you call them brother, sisters, son, daughter, cousin, mother, father, friend—when you know their names, it isn’t so easy. When you know the name, you can’t say, “I didn’t know.” You can’t say, “If I had known, I would have done something different.” When you know the name, then you have to face the reality that that person is another human being, another living, breathing, thinking human, made in the image of God JUST LIKE YOU! When we know someone’s name it forces us to be accountable.

When I saw the picture of the five-year-old Syrian boy in the back of the ambulance in Aleppo, my heart broke. But when I read his name—Omran Daqneesh—I wept. He could have been my son, your son, your grandson. When I see the videos of men being shot by police officers and officers being shot by other men, I shake my head. But when I hear their names, when I see the mothers of those men, the wives of those officers, I can’t help but wonder how we can come together to put an end to all of this. When I hear the statistics, read the reports, listen to the lectures, about payday lending, unjust tax structures, oppressive social orders, I am frustrated, but when I know those personally affected, when I have listened to their stories and witnessed their lives with my own eyes, I am provoked and convicted. When I know the names, it isn’t just some story scrolling by on my newsfeed. When I know the names, they aren’t just issues with which to be dealt. When I know the names, I realize I am in the same boat bound for the same shore of death as everyone else (for death gets us all regardless of where we come from or what we have). When I know the name of my sister or brother I am called to love them, and I am (at least somewhat) accountable for their fate.

But here’s the truth: I am still accountable even though I may not know their names, because I am known by the One who loves me despite my name, and he calls me and you to show the same love to everyone else, even if we don’t know their names. Amen.

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[1] Amy-Jill Levine, Short Stories by Jesus. (New York: Harper One, 2014), p.251-2.

[2] R. Alan Culpepper, “Luke.” In vol. IX, The New Interpreter’s Bible: A Commentary in Twelve      Volumes, edited by Leander E. Keck, et. Al. (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995), p. 316.