"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.

---

[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.

"Lists" (Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost)

There's no manuscript for this sermon, but you can view the video below (you can find videos of most of these sermons here).

"Any Day But Today" (Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost)

Luke 13:10-17

10 Now he was teaching in one of the synagogues on the sabbath. 11 And just then there appeared a woman with a spirit that had crippled her for eighteen years. She was bent over and was quite unable to stand up straight. 12 When Jesus saw her, he called her over and said, "Woman, you are set free from your ailment." 13 When he laid his hands on her, immediately she stood up straight and began praising God. 14 But the leader of the synagogue, indignant because Jesus had cured on the sabbath, kept saying to the crowd, "There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those days and be cured, and not on the sabbath day." 15 But the Lord answered him and said, "You hypocrites! Does not each of you on the sabbath untie his ox or his donkey from the manger, and lead it away to give it water? 16 And ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham whom Satan bound for eighteen long years, be set free from this bondage on the sabbath day?" 17 When he said this, all his opponents were put to shame; and the entire crowd was rejoicing at all the wonderful things that he was doing.

            Eighteen years is a long time to do anything. It’s a long time to own a car (at least one you drive every day), a long time to keep a pair of pants, a long time to use the same lawnmower. It’s a long time to do the same job; granted, lots of people work for the same company for a lot longer, but to do the exact same job for eighteen years…that’s a long time. Eighteen years is a long time to do anything, but it can especially feel like a long time to wait.

            I can remember when I was a kid being told that once I turned eighteen I would be an “adult,” that I’d be free to move out of the house, get a job, join the military, vote, get a loan, and all sorts of other “grown-up” things. Even when I was twelve, though, eighteen seemed like it was centuries away. I can imagine eighteen years is a long time to wait, because I’m sure the sixteen years between Return of the Jedi and The Phantom Menace felt like ages to thousands of Star Wars fans. You better believe eighteen years sounds like a life sentence when the judge’s gavel falls and the sentence is handed down: when it’s measured in hash marks scratched on a cinderblock wall, I bet eighteen years feels like forever. Eighteen years is a long time to have to do anything, a long time to have to wait, and it’s a long time to spend stopped over, unable to even stand up straight.

            That’s how long Luke tells us this nameless woman in our text this morning had suffered with this crippling spirit. For eighteen years she learned people by the site of their feet. For eighteen years she recognized where she was going by the cracks in the ground and the way the path was worn smooth. For eighteen years she’d been wracked with pain, unable to stand and greet her loved ones with a hug, unable to look another human being in the eye. For eighteen years she was stooped over: children would have grown up to have their own children in that time, friends would have died, and people would have moved in and out of her life. For eighteen years she suffered through the pain, and to you and I that sounds like a long time, but in a day with a much lower life-expectancy, eighteen years could have been half her life, and she spent it stooped over in pain, unable to stand.

            Eighteen years is a long time to wait for a healing rabbi to show up at the synagogue, but that’s about how long it took before Jesus showed up one day to teach in her local synagogue that Sabbath day. I wonder if it was on the sign out front: “This Sabbath, special guest rabbi, Jesus of Nazareth. Bring a friend.” I wonder if it had made the gossip circles: “You know, Jesus is going to be at the synagogue this Sabbath.” “Good, ‘cause I’m not sure I can sit through another one of Rabbi Chris’s sermons without passing out!” I wonder if Jesus just showed up that Sabbath and was asked to teach. I know that’s how some small, old churches do it: a preacher shows up just to visit the church one Sunday, but when the pastor sees the guest preacher in the pews, he begs him to come up and preach that morning (maybe because the pastor’s unprepared, or maybe because he’d like to show folks how bad it can be—I’m never really sure). Maybe the rabbi of that synagogue saw Jesus in the back with his disciples, and during the announcements asked if Jesus might give the lesson that morning.

I’m not really sure how it came to be, but my guess is this woman wasn’t a first time guest, a curious passerby sticking her crippled head in the door to see what’s happening. No, it’s very likely this woman had been a regular at the synagogue, and she was surely a regular in the community (I wouldn’t doubt f folks there knew her simply as “the woman with the bent back”). That means, for at least eighteen years this woman had darkened the door of the synagogue. For eighteen years, folks in that place had done business with her, had crossed paths with her in the streets, and they had seen her in the marketplaces and other spots in the community. For eighteen years, this woman had lived in this community and been a part of it, though I don’t doubt that folks kept their distance. After all, she had “a spirit,” and folks with a spirit weren’t the kind of folks good, religious people were supposed to be around.

I imagine that Sabbath, this woman took a seat in the back, among the other women, a place where women could be seen (sometimes) but never heard, never acknowledged. I imagine she stared at the ground, as trying to strain towards the sound of the rabbi’s voice would inevitably cause cramps, cricks, and all sorts of pain. I’m quite sure it startled her when she heard Jesus call her name (a name, unfortunately forgotten by the time Luke hears the story). I do wonder, though, what went through her mind when he said to her, "Woman, you are set free from your ailment." In that brief moment, did she think to herself, “who is this guy who thinks he can erase eighteen years of pain in a matter of mere moments?” She doesn’t have long to question Jesus before he lays his hands on her and “immediately she stood up straight and began praising God.”

Now, I can hear all the thoughts bouncing around in that synagogue that morning. Can’t you? “Praise God! That woman done got healed! It’s a miracle!” “I bet it was staged! You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before anyway.” “It’s fake! I saw her yesterday over at the Wal-Marts buying shampoo—off the top shelf!” Yes, I’m sure there were believers and doubters there in that synagogue, just as there are anytime the Spirit of God moves, but one thing I do know—the religious folks didn’t like it one bit!

“[T]he leader of the synagogue, indignant because Jesus had cured on the sabbath, kept saying to the crowd, ‘There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those days and be cured, and not on the sabbath day.’" What an odd thing to say. Seriously, listen to what he says to the crowd again: “There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those days and be cured, and not on the sabbath day.” Who is he indignant towards? Who is he mad at? Sounds to me like he’s mad at the crowd, at the woman, at Jesus—at everybody! Why? Because healing took place on the Sabbath, when there are obviously six other days for such things to be taken care of. He, in effect, says, “Come back when we’re not having church if you want to be cured; don’t bother us with your needing to be freed from a spirit of oppression on this holy day when we are too busy reflecting on God’s freeing of our people from the oppression of Pharaoh…come back when we’re aloud to heal you, when our religion doesn’t prevent us from making you whole again.” I can help but think that there was even a thought or two that sounded something like, “She’s been bent over like that for eighteen years and she can’t wait until Monday to get cured!”

Why is the leader of the synagogue so ill? What’s really caused him to be indignant? Perhaps he was genuinely upset that the Sabbath laws had been broken. I could understand that. Rules are rules for a reason, especially religious rules. We have to keep the Sabbath holy after all. I mean, God rested from work on the Sabbath, shouldn’t we also rest? As a minister, I’m often shocked by the contradictory nature of such sentiment from some church folks who want to have all sorts of services, meetings, practices, and events on Sundays: on the one hand, they claim Sunday as the Christian Sabbath, a day of rest and worship, but on the other they jam it so full of activities that their feet don’t touch the floor from flying all around on Sunday. It was, in a way, the same thing folks had done to the Sabbath in Jesus’ day, but instead of multiple services, committees, and choirs, there was the work of non-work, the tediousness of being sure not to do anything that might be considered work on the Sabbath, lest one incur the wrath of a resting God. A person had to keep track of their steps on the Sabbath, being sure not to exceed the minimum number required for walking to be considered “work.” One had to be mindful of what chores were done, how much weight one carried, how many words one said, and on and on the Shabbat laws went. It became work just to make sure one wasn’t working! So I could understand if the leader of the synagogue was indignant because he really felt the Sabbath was being broken, just as I can understand when church folks get bent out of shape when Sunday school is called off or service is cancelled. Doesn’t mean either of them are right, but I can understand it.

Or maybe the leader of the synagogue was just offended, offended that this woman had been bent by this spirit for eighteen years and is only now being healed—by the visiting rabbi. I can understand that, being offended when the work you feel called to do is done by someone else, on your “turf.” She had been crippled for eighteen years, why didn’t she come to him? Why didn’t she believe he could heal her? If she was a woman of faith, she would have known not to be healed on the Sabbath, but to come by any other day when such work was allowed. Maybe the leader of the synagogue was just offended—hurt that he didn’t get to be the one to bring healing to a member of his congregation, but instead, had to be a spectator to her healing by the visiting rabbi, and on the Sabbath, no less! Maybe, but I think there’s something else behind his indignation.

I think he was jealous. Really. After all, that’s what happens when our comfortable faith gives way to unpredictable working of God’s Spirit. When we’re so convinced that we’ve got the right way figured out, when we’ve got the key, the answer, the only right way to do things, Jesus jumps in and breaks it all up. Christ busts up our comfortable religion that keeps us in control, that allows us to be the definers of Sabbath and the writers of rules. “No healing on the Sabbath?” Why? "You hypocrites! Does not each of you on the sabbath untie his ox or his donkey from the manger, and lead it away to give it water?” “Are you saying livestock are more valuable than this woman, your sister? Do you really believe God cares more about your ox and donkey getting a drink of water on Saturday than this woman being made whole?” Honestly, I’d be afraid to hear some of our answers.

We may think it’s an obvious decision: of course we should heal a woman on the Sabbath if we’re going to water our livestock!” But what if the question were posed to us in the Church today a bit differently? If you’d send money to feed a dog in a shelter, would you send money to feed a starving child—a Muslim child? What about her parents? If you’d take time out of your day to play with your children, would you take time to play with those who have no parents? What if they’re disabled and can be more screams of frustration than joy? If you’d gladly give to CBF for disaster relief, would you give to a secular non-profit that’s actively helping to bring clean water to villages around the world that don’t have it?

You see, friends, I’ve found that we’re not too unlike the leader of the synagogue in Luke’s telling of this story. We’ve grown protective of our religion to the point of missing the forest for the trees. We’ve grown too concerned about manmade religious rules, regulations, practices, policies, procedures, limits, laws, and outlines. We’ve gotten too caught up in setting up the boundaries of who’s in and who’s out to realize we’re called to love all people, not just the ones we’ve drawn our circles around. We’ve aloud too much religion to get in the way of what Jesus has actually called us to do, so we argue about what church services are supposed to look like, how many we’re supposed to have and when we’re supposed to have them. We’ve mixed politics in with our religion so much that many people can’t tell them apart, and worst of all, can’t tell that their missing the point altogether! We’ve decided that love can be defined as threats of damnation and self-righteousness, that compassion is a weakness, that hospitality is only reserved for those who have been extremely vetted. And I am becoming more and more convinced that so many Christians behave this way because we are jealous, jealous that others we view as less worthy, less honorable, less deserving, more reckless, more careless, more wicked, more sinful, dirtier, poorer, lower than us are loved with the same unconditional love from Christ with which we are loved. And it drives us crazy to think about it!

That’s what’s really so controversial about the cross, about the gospel—not that it keeps out the folks who ought to be kept out, but that the love of God welcomes all! That’s what makes the synagogue leader indignant: the crippled woman with the spirit—she’s made whole. That’s what made the other religious leaders of Jesus’ day so angry: the prostitutes? They’re in! The tax collectors? They’re in! The Gentiles?! They’re in! The cursed, the downtrodden, the Sabbath-breakers, the meek, the poor, the lazy, the blind, the sorry, the old, the young, the women, the children…? Yes! All of them! They’re in! Then where does it stop? Where do we draw the line? When does all of this grace, love, and joy end? You know what I hear Christ saying to me when I ask him that, when I ask him when does it end, when do I get to say I’ve loved enough—do you know his answer? “Any day but today”…and he tells me that every, single day. Amen. 

"Can I Get A Witness?" (Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost)

Hebrews 11:29-12:2

11:29 By faith the people passed through the Red Sea as if it were dry land, but when the Egyptians attempted to do so they were drowned. 30 By faith the walls of Jericho fell after they had been encircled for seven days. 31 By faith Rahab the prostitute did not perish with those who were disobedient, because she had received the spies in peace. 32 And what more should I say? For time would fail me to tell of Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, of David and Samuel and the prophets— 33 who through faith conquered kingdoms, administered justice, obtained promises, shut the mouths of lions, 34 quenched raging fire, escaped the edge of the sword, won strength out of weakness, became mighty in war, put foreign armies to flight. 35 Women received their dead by resurrection. Others were tortured, refusing to accept release, in order to obtain a better resurrection. 36 Others suffered mocking and flogging, and even chains and imprisonment. 37 They were stoned to death, they were sawn in two, they were killed by the sword; they went about in skins of sheep and goats, destitute, persecuted, tormented— 38 of whom the world was not worthy. They wandered in deserts and mountains, and in caves and holes in the ground. 39 Yet all these, though they were commended for their faith, did not receive what was promised, 40 since God had provided something better so that they would not, apart from us, be made perfect.12:1 Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, 2 looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God.

            In the latter years of my maternal grandmother’s life (I called her “Ma”), her home on the corner of the Boll Weevil Circle and Bellwood Road was decorated with angels. Now, I don’t mean she had prints of the renaissance masters’ works of St. Michael or St. Gabriel hanging in the living room, nor did she have Christmas tree toppers lining every shelf and occupying every flat surface. No, she didn’t decorate her house with those sorts of angels. It was mostly pictures of those little chubby, curly-headed babies with wings stuck to their backs or images of angels as young, blonde-haired women, usually depicted walking alongside some children on a shaky bridge or through some otherwise treacherous scene. In the last decade of Ma’s life, it seemed she became slightly obsessed with angels. I’d say she was simply a collector of angelic knickknacks, but then there was her interest in Sylvia Browne.

            I can remember Ma, on Sundays at lunch, talking about Sylvia Browne on The Montel Williams Show. Ma would tell us about how Sylvia would talk about angels, how angels surround us and seek to communicate with us through people like her. I remember thinking even as a child how gullible Ma seemed when she’d tell us about how Sylvia Browne would take a random stranger in the audience and begin to tell them things about their dead loved ones and about how they were in a better place, not to worry about them, or where to look to find the key to the safety deposit box! Back then, I thought Ma had just gone a little crazy—hadn’t slipped off into the deep end, but her toes could barely touch! Back then, I thought Ma had better sense than to buy into the sort of stuff they push on daytime talk shows and late-night infomercials. But now, as an adult looking back, I think I understand why Ma was so fascinated by what folks like Sylvia Browne had to say about things like angels: looking back, I realize Ma’s interest in such things began sometime after October of 1994, after Pa died.

            I remember when Pa died. I was sitting in the floor at my dad’s house, playing Ghostbusters on the Nintendo, when the phone rang, and Dad answered it. I heard him say a few muffled words and heard his steps coming towards me. I paused the game, and Dad said, “Son, your Pa just passed.” I distinctly remember deciding to turn the game off because I thought it was the right thing to do. I remember crying at the visitation. I don’t remember the funeral, but I remember Pa. Pa was a dead ringer for Jackie Gleason, a man who lied about his age to fight in Korea at sixteen and come back with a purple heart, a man that wore a floppy-brimmed hat with all kinds of pins in it, a man who smoked a pipe, wore red suspenders over v-neck t-shirts, waxed his mustache, liked to fish, and take his grandson rabbit hunting in the junk pile behind the house. He was the kind of man who had a ham radio in the kitchen by the dining room table, an old bathtub for raising worms in the backyard, and a rusted Lincoln in a collapsing barn, where he also kept more than one bottle of homemade peach wine. I remember him even now in the few pictures I recall in my momma’s house, and you know something, the funny thing is, I think about him and Ma whenever I see those awful paintings of little chubby babies with wings stuck on their backs, whenever I see angels.

            Maybe that was why Ma was so fond of them in her later years, because they reminded her that she wasn’t alone, that Pa and all those who had gone on before were surrounding her—even in her home—like a fog of friendship. Or as the writer of Hebrews calls it in our text this morning, “a great cloud of witnesses.”

            Now, to be fair, the author of Hebrews isn’t talking about some paranormal phenomenon; we’re not surrounded by ghosts trying to reach out to us through so-called psychics. To understand what the writer is getting at, we have to start with the beginning of the text before us this morning, in chapter 11, verses 29-40. You see, in these verses the writer is laying out a sort of “who’s who” of heroes and heroines from the Hebrew Scriptures, a litany of faithful folks from the Old Testament: he leads with the people of Israel crossing the Red Sea, how by faith they passed through on dry ground and how (by faith) they brought the walls of Jericho down by walking around it for seven days; then he mentions Rahab, the prostitute, who assisted the Israelite spies and joined them, believing the God of Israel to be the one, true God; then, as if the writer is in a hurry for some reason, he lists Gideon, Barak, Samson, and  Jephthah—all judges over Israel who led the people for a time; of course there’s Samuel, the last judge and prophet who anointed both Saul and David as king over Israel, and then David himself, the Psalmist, the one who slew Goliath, the one who was “a man after God’s own heart;” and to be sure the author covers all his bases he adds “and the prophets.”  Now, in verses 33 and 34 the writer mentions the great acts of faith accomplished by these folks: they “conquered kingdoms, administered justice, obtained promises, shut the mouths of lions, quenched raging fire, escaped the edge of the sword, won strength out of weakness, became mighty in war, put foreign armies to flight.” Impressive stuff! Those are the kinds of things that get your name and image set in stained glass, the kinds of things that get your story told over and over in Sunday school rooms and every summer in Vacation Bible Schools. Those are the sorts of things that make one a hero or heroine.

            Then, the writer goes on in verses 35 through 38 to describe those who have suffered for their faith, those “Women [who] received their dead by resurrection. Others were tortured, refusing to accept release, in order to obtain a better resurrection. Others suffered mocking and flogging, and even chains and imprisonment [like Paul and Peter]. They were stoned to death [like Stephen], they were sawn in two [as tradition says the prophet Isaiah was], they were killed by the sword; they went about in skins of sheep and goats, destitute, persecuted, tormented—of whom the world was not worthy. They wandered in deserts and mountains, and in caves and holes in the ground.” These aren’t the types of folks who become heroes because of their great accomplishments, because of their winning percentage in the battles of territorial conquest. These are the types of heroes and heroines who become so because of their exemplary faith, because of their faithfulness even through torture and death. The writer thinks so highly of these martyrs that he even claims that the world was not worthy of them!

            To take things even further though, to prove beyond a doubt the depth of faithfulness possessed by these exemplary folks mentioned in these verses, the author of our text this morning says in verses 39 and 40, “Yet all these, though they were commended for their faith, did not receive what was promised, since God had provided something better so that they would not, apart from us, be made perfect.” In other words, even all these folks listed, all these judges, prophets, kings, apostles, martyrs, and saints—even all of them didn’t receive what was promised to Abraham by God (that is multiple descendants, the land of Canaan, and all that went with the covenant between God and Abraham discussed in the earlier chapters of this letter and found in the book of Genesis), and it wasn’t because they were exempt from the promise, and it wasn’t because God backed out on the promise. No, they didn’t receive that promise because God has something even better in store for them, and not just them, but all of us who follow Christ Jesus.

            It is only after these words about these judges, prophets, kings, martyrs, and saints, that the writer of Hebrews pens those more familiar words in chapter twelve: “Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us.” These heroes and heroine, saints of old, surround us as a great cloud of witnesses. Now, I have to tell you, on the one hand I can get pretty excited about that, about this notion that there are those Sunday school icons surrounding me as I go about my daily routine, as I fumble my way through this thing called faith. I can get pretty excited by the thought that these saints go before me, come alongside me, and follow after me as I “run the race set before me.” To tell the truth, it’s a bit encouraging at times to think they’re there, and maybe that’s a bit Catholic of me, but so what; to think that I am in the company of David, of Peter, of Paul as I go about in this life…well, that can be a bit encouraging. I suppose it could be a bit overwhelming too.

            I remember as a kid, having not really grown up in church, I just sort of guessed at how things worked in the realm of all things spiritual, things like the nature of the hereafter and the presence of God. For some reason (cartoons I suspect) I always imagined heaven was a place way on up above the clouds, and there was a clearing in the floor where the folks in heaven would be able to look down on their loved ones whenever felt the need to check in on them. I can remember being somewhat startled by that fact when I forgot to take my cap off when I came inside Grandma’s house; I was afraid Granddaddy could see me from heaven, and he wouldn’t be happy. I also used to imagine God was something a bit like Santa Claus: “he sees you when you’re sleeping/he knows when you’re awake/he knows when you’ve been bad or good…” Honestly, the thought of God seeing me at all times was a bit scary as a kid. So I can imagine the notion of a great cloud of saintly witnesses could be a bit overwhelming, that one might feel the weight of their collective judgement bearing down on him or her in those moments of weakness and failure we all endure on life’s journey.

            But you know what? These saints listed and alluded to by the writer of this epistle, you know what makes them better than you, what makes them noteworthy and deserving of a place on the Sunday school wall and in the stained glass of holy spaces? Not one, single thing! In fact, I would go so far as to say the more encouraging thing about this “great cloud of witnesses” is that they are all just as messed up as the rest of us. Whether it is David who once raped a woman and had her husband killed, Rahab who likely helped the spies initially because she wanted to save her own life, Samson whose faults and failures seem to be forgotten simply because of his legendary strength, nice hair, and ability to single-handedly demolish a building, Peter with his three-time denial of Jesus and overzealous use of a knife, or Paul and his occasional misogyny and arrogance—pic any saint, any one of the exalted heroes and heroines of Scripture and once you get passed the polished exterior of the stories on the surface and dig down into the core of who they really were, you’ll find they’re no different from us. In fact, you may find, in most cases, they’ve done things you might otherwise find unspeakable!

            And why should we expect it to be any other way?! Why do we expect people to be perfect, to live up to the fanciful fiction of righteousness we’ve created? The writer of Hebrews tells us plainly that not even any of these saints were perfect; none of them set the pace in the race we’re all running. No, only one did that: “Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God.” You know, I find it encouraging to know that those who make up the “great cloud of witnesses” surrounding us, are folks not unlike you and me, people of faith, who themselves sought to cast off the weight of sin and selfishness and run the race God had set before them. I’m encouraged to know that these fractured and fallen folks make up that cloud of witnesses, because that means there’s room for me among their ranks, there’s a place for me among the saints of God, a place for you and me to be included with those who “run with perseverance the race that is set before us” so long as we keep “looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith.”

            Surrounding us even now is that great cloud of witnesses, with folks like Abraham, Moses, Rahab, Samson, Gideon, David, Isaiah, Peter, Paul, and Mary. In that cloud are those great martyrs like Stephen and great holders of the faith like Martin Luther, Teresa of Calcutta, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, John Wesley, and Roger Williams. But I also know that in that great cloud of witnesses are folks with names like Oliver, Doug, Roy, Hilda Dean, Rachel, Perry, and Joyce—folks whose lives didn’t unfold in the pages of Holy Scripture but right here among us. That great cloud of witnesses surrounds us—not so we may be intimidated or scared by the prospect of God and the saints watching our every move, but so we may be encouraged by their lasting presence, so we may be encouraged to “lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and…run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God.”

            May you be encouraged this day by knowing that you are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, saints who have gone on before and call us on ahead in this life of faith, who call us on as we seek to follow Jesus. May you find hope in their mysterious presence, in the divine providence of God, and the hope that God calls you on in this journey and that one day, in the culmination of God’s kingdom, we will be caught up in that great cloud to dwell in eternal relationship with God and all the saints. May you listen and bear witness to those—even those who have passed on—who are even now calling you on, calling you to follow Jesus. Amen.