"What if it costs us something?" (Part 4 of "What if...?" Series at FBCW)

2 Samuel 24:18-25

18 That day Gad came to David and said to him, "Go up and erect an altar to the Lord on the threshing floor of Araunah the Jebusite." 19 Following Gad's instructions, David went up, as the Lord had commanded. 20 When Araunah looked down, he saw the king and his servants coming toward him; and Araunah went out and prostrated himself before the king with his face to the ground. 21 Araunah said, "Why has my lord the king come to his servant?" David said, "To buy the threshing floor from you in order to build an altar to the Lord, so that the plague may be averted from the people." 22 Then Araunah said to David, "Let my lord the king take and offer up what seems good to him; here are the oxen for the burnt offering, and the threshing sledges and the yokes of the oxen for the wood. 23 All this, O king, Araunah gives to the king." And Araunah said to the king, "May the Lord your God respond favorably to you." 24 But the king said to Araunah, "No, but I will buy them from you for a price; I will not offer burnt offerings to the Lord my God that cost me nothing." So David bought the threshing floor and the oxen for fifty shekels of silver. 25 David built there an altar to the Lord, and offered burnt offerings and offerings of well-being. So the Lord answered his supplication for the land, and the plague was averted from Israel.

            This may be one of the oddest stories you’ve never heard from the Old Testament. In chapter twenty-four of 2 Samuel, David (king of Israel) decides to take a census of the people in his kingdom: we’re not really told why he wants to do this, but we are told that it causes God to be angry with the people of Israel—so much so that David’s prophet, Gad, comes to him and lays before him three choices for how he might endure God’s anger. He says to David in verse 13: "Shall three years of famine come to you on your land? Or will you flee three months before your foes while they pursue you? Or shall there be three days' pestilence in your land? Now consider, and decide what answer I shall return to the one who sent me." David has to decide if he wants three years of famine, three months of pursuit by his enemies, or three days of pestilence (sickness) in the land—David chooses the third option.

            So, for an appointed time, the people are plagued with illness, and at the end of that time, seventy thousand people had died. The angel of the Lord (the embodiment of God’s destructive judgement) had stretched the pestilence all the way to the place that would become Jerusalem, and there he stopped; the angel stopped, we’re told, by the threshing floor of Araunah the Jebusite. Now, David had begged God to end God’s punishment of the people and only punish him and his family. It was in the wake of this pestilence, in the wake of God’s punishment for David’s census, that the prophet Gad returns to David and tells him to erect an altar to the Lord (guess where) “on the threshing floor of Araunah the Jebusite” (a site that tradition says would become the place of Solomon’s Temple). This is where our text this morning picks up.

            David makes his way to Araunah’s threshing floor and meets the Jebusite there. David tells him he is there "To buy the threshing floor from [him] in order to build an altar to the Lord, so that the plague may be averted from the people." Araunah, however, is a generous man (and perhaps a frightened one, as he has no doubt witnessed the pestilence and has the king before him), so he says to David, “"Let my lord the king take and offer up what seems good to him; here are the oxen for the burnt offering, and the threshing sledges and the yokes of the oxen for the wood. All this, O king, Araunah gives to the king." David had come to buy the threshing floor and Arauhan just gives it to him! “Here king, take it! Here’s the threshing floor, some oxen to burn as an offering, some wooden implements for the fire. Take it, I give it all to you!”

            Isn’t that nice? What a wonderful gesture of devotion (or perhaps it’s more a gesture of self-preservation and fear). David comes to buy the place and the man wants to give it to him. You know, there are few serious instances in life when we’ll ever be faced with such generosity. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never walked into the showroom of a dealership and have the owner come out of the office to hand me the keys and the title, to say, “Go ahead, bud, she’s all yours!” I’ve never had a real estate agent show me a property only to have the seller counter my offer with “Free and clear.” What a gesture this is from the Jebusite, to hand over the place, to give up a portion of his livestock and tools, to watch them burn, simply because the king needed them. Of course, it isn’t Araunah’s act of generosity that is the point of this story.

            You see, David could have used his power as king to intimidate the Jebusite and take the threshing floor; he could have declared eminent domain and ceased the private property for use by the king, or David could have just taken the Jebusite up on his offer. David, however, doesn’t do any of that. Instead, the king says, “I will buy them from you for a price; I will not offer burnt offerings to the Lord my God that cost me nothing.” “I will not offer…to the Lord my God that which cost me nothing.” David refuses to take the threshing floor, the oxen, and the implements without paying for them—not because of pride, not because of some legal ramifications, not because he does not wish to be beholden to the Jebusite for a future favor, but because he simply cannot offer something to God that didn’t cost him anything. If only all of those who call on the name of the Lord held such a conviction.

            You know, I can’t think of a single thing in my life worth having that hasn’t cost me something. Naturally, there are those things that have cost me because they came with a price attached, sometimes written on the windshield in washable paint, like that sky-blue Chevy S-10 I drove in college and seminary. It was the first car I ever paid off completely. I remember the relief, the joy, the sense of accomplishment I had when I waked up to the counter in Citizens Bank in Enterprise and wrote that last check to hear the woman behind the counter say, “paid in full.” That little truck moved me back and forth to Samford, moved Sallie and me across the country to Texas, helped countless friends move from dorm rooms and apartments, and it hauled everything from books and bookcases to old carboard boxes and groceries. It was a great little truck, one worth every penny it cost me.
            Of course, there are those things in life that seem to cost us long after we’ve experienced them, those things for which the bills come due each and every month. We’re closer now than we’ve ever been to paying off our student loans, loans we’ve acquired from our undergraduate degrees. Every month when that amount is withdrawn, though, I don’t curse my luck; I don’t threaten the all-powerful Sallie Mae with prayers of computer crashes and complete file losses (not all the time at least). No, instead, I at least try to be grateful, not only for the degrees we’ve earned, but for the experiences we’ve had, the places we’ve been, and the friends we’ve made, because they’re worth every penny we’ve borrowed and are repaying (even the interest).

            I think of the homes we’ve rented, the one we’re buying, how much each of those rent and mortgage checks were and can be difficult to write, especially when there’s life to be lived, vacations destinations awaiting, new experiences to have, when there’s the threat of more month at the end of the money. I think of how much each of the places we’ve called home has cost us, but then I think of the memories made in each place: of Sallie’s first attempt at making divinity in our apartment on MLK in Waco (I bet some of it is still stuck to the cabinets today!), of the parsonage we rented from Speegleville Baptist Church and how they would invite us over each year for their annual fish fry, of the rental house in Anniston where we would go for afternoon walks in some of the old neighborhoods downtown, of our home in Weaver—the first house we ever bought—and the joy of signing mortgage papers for hours and the subsequent joy of bringing our dog Nakita home there. We would host Bible studies, youth groups, and friends in that little house. Of course, I can’t help but think of our home now, the place where we brought our son home from China, with its nearly-deceased appliances, stained carpet, and warped deck boards: our home is where we play together, laugh together, cry together, watch way too many episodes of Paw Patrol together…and even with all of its warts, with the warts of every place we’ve ever called home, every rent or mortgage payment has been worth it.
            I can’t think of a single thing in this life worth having, worth experiencing, worth my time, energy, and love that hasn’t cost me something, and that is most especially true when it comes to my church, my life of faith, my relationship to God. After all, what in this world is worth more than that? Who in this world, after experiencing the loving, powerful presence of God would trade it for anything?!

            Just over a week ago now, I was sitting in my office, peeling off a page on the Star Wars one-a-day desk calendar that I got as a gift from our amazing church secretary, Peggy (who, by the way, is worth every penny we’ve ever paid anyone in this church…), and I noticed that the date was September 15^th; the fifteenth of September, 2002 (fifteen years ago) was when I was baptized. I’ve been a baptized believe for a decade and a half, and in that time I have sought to follow Jesus a best as I knew how. I haven’t always succeeded, and I am certainly a far ways off from where I was fifteen years ago, but no matter what it has cost me, every single second on the clock I’ve spent in service to Christ, every single inch I’ve traveled in pursuit of Jesus, every single cent I’ve spent for the work of his kingdom has been worth it.  Every time I’ve sat down to write a check to this church for the kingdom work we do, I know it’s been worth it because I’ve seen the difference it has made in the lives of those who need a place and a community that welcomes them no matter who they are or what they’ve been through. I’ve seen it in the tears of those who’ve need a place to say goodbye to their loved ones, surrounded by even more people who love them deeply. I’ve seen it in the way this church rallies to meet needs when they’re expressed, the way this church has stood in the face of criticism for doing what is right, the way we’ve partnered with unlikely friends to do God’s work—I’ve seen it in the ways we share in one another’s struggles with life, faith, relationships, and the ever-changing realities of the culture around us. Every time I write “FBC Williams” on a check or place an envelope in that plate it costs me something; it costs me money, money I might use to pay off student loan debt, money I might use to replace appliances or buy tires, money I might use to boost our adoption savings, money I might use towards a more secure retirement, a more elaborate vacation or a nice dinner out, money I might use for any number of other things, but I know, whenever it costs me money to give to God and the work of God’s kingdom through this church, it is a cost that is worth every, single cent.
            David said, “I will not… to the Lord my God that [which] cost me nothing." He said it because God is worth something. This church, this work to which Christ has called us, is worth something—it ought to cost us something. In fact, it is Jesus himself who says to those who wish to follow him, those who wish to become his disciples, “Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple… So therefore, none of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions.” What if following Jesus, calling ourselves Christians, this whole thing we sometimes call “church”—what if all of this actually cost us something? What if it costs us everything? In the words of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, that great theologian of the last century:

…grace is costly because it calls us to follow, and it is grace because it calls us to follow Jesus Christ. It is costly because it costs a man his life, and it is grace because it gives a man the only true life. It is costly because it condemns sin, and grace because it justifies the sinner. Above all, it is costly because it cost God the life of his Son: "ye were bought at a price," and what has cost God much cannot be cheap for us...[1]

            As we continue to look forward, as we continue to pray and dream with one another, may we not grow complacent with where we are now. May we not give in to the temptation that this life of faith is cheap simply because God’s love is free. Together, let us commit ourselves to one another and to our shared mission as Christ’s church by giving to the ministry of this church—our ministry, the ministry we share with one another. May we come to echo David’s words with our life, with our giving: “We will not offer… to the Lord our God that [which] cost us nothing." May we be reminded of Bonhoeffer’s words about the cost of discipleship, the cost of following Jesus: “what has cost God much cannot be cheap for us.” Above all else, when we ask, “What if it costs us something?” may we be reminded of the call from Jesus to take up our cross. May we be reminded that indeed it costs us something—it costs us everything, because this life that God gives us, this life of faith that calls us on into the reaches of eternity, is worth more than we could ever hope to give. Amen.

---

[1] Bonhoeffer, Dietrich. The Cost of Discipleship. Simon and Schuster, 2012. P.45. (emphasis mine).

"What if we dared to follow our dreams?" (Part 2 of "What if...?" Series at FBCW)

Acts 16:6-15

6 They went through the region of Phrygia and Galatia, having been forbidden by the Holy Spirit to speak the word in Asia. 7 When they had come opposite Mysia, they attempted to go into Bithynia, but the Spirit of Jesus did not allow them; 8 so, passing by Mysia, they went down to Troas. 9 During the night Paul had a vision: there stood a man of Macedonia pleading with him and saying, "Come over to Macedonia and help us." 10 When he had seen the vision, we immediately tried to cross over to Macedonia, being convinced that God had called us to proclaim the good news to them. 11 We set sail from Troas and took a straight course to Samothrace, the following day to Neapolis, 12 and from there to Philippi, which is a leading city of the district of Macedonia and a Roman colony. We remained in this city for some days. 13 On the sabbath day we went outside the gate by the river, where we supposed there was a place of prayer; and we sat down and spoke to the women who had gathered there. 14 A certain woman named Lydia, a worshiper of God, was listening to us; she was from the city of Thyatira and a dealer in purple cloth. The Lord opened her heart to listen eagerly to what was said by Paul. 15 When she and her household were baptized, she urged us, saying, "If you have judged me to be faithful to the Lord, come and stay at my home." And she prevailed upon us.

            Dreams can be weird, can’t they? I know mine can be sometimes. I’ve had dreams where I’m a kid playing in the backyard of my grandma’s house with someone like Luke Skywalker only to wind up a few seconds later, as a grown adult, in the self-checkout line at Wal-Mart holding a loaf of bread and a can of tube of toothpaste—and somehow it all makes sense in the dream (I’m not quite sure what to make of those sorts of dreams)! One dream I have with some regularity involves me being back in college, and I’ve completely forgotten to attend a class all semester, and somehow it’s finals week, so if I can find the class and pass the exam, I’ll be fine, but time runs out or I don’t know where the class is, so I presumably have failed the class, gotten kicked out of college, and ruined my life. When I wake up from those sorts of dream I often have to remind myself that I’ve graduated with two degrees, working on a third, and I haven’t failed a class! Dreams can be weird, but they can also be powerful.

            They can be powerful as they show us something just beyond our present situation, as they call us into the mystery of the future, as they coax us out of our comfort and into something more. That’s how I see this dream Paul has in Acts 16. Paul is on his second missionary journey, and he and his company have tried to take their work north-east, into Asia (the region around modern-day Turkey), but they were “forbidden by the Holy Spirit to speak the word in Asia.” So, they tried to go to “Bithynia, but the Spirit of Jesus did not allow them.” So they wound up in Troas, which is much farther west, on the coast of the Aegean Sea, across from the region of Macedonia and the European continent—Paul wanted to go one way, but wound up going another.

            It’s while he’s in Troas that Paul has this dream—this dream about a man in Macedonia, the region across the sea, the region in Europe, where the Good News of Christ has yet to be proclaimed. Now, I suppose Paul could have woken up from this dream, nudged Luke (traditionally, his physician) and said, “Hey Doc, I think I must have ate something that disagreed with me last night. Got any tums or antacids?” He could have brushed the whole thing off as just some dream triggered by the sight of a road sign in Troas pointing the way to Macedonia and doubled-down on his efforts to move the gospel eastward. Of all the things Paul could have done after such a dream, the very thing he actually did was pursue it; he pursued the dream of the man in need over in Macedonia.

            Now, what’s interesting to me is that Paul’s pursuit of this dream doesn’t exactly go how it should—at least how I think it should. I mean, Paul and his crew set sail from Troas, sailing directly to Somathrace, staying a day before they carried on to Neapolis, then onto Philippi, “which is a leading city of the district of Macedonia and a Roman colony.” Now, Paul has made it to Macedonia, so one would expect this man from Paul’s dream to manifest himself, that the need in Macedonia would become quickly apparent, or that Paul would set to preaching right away, with large crowds pressing in to hear him…but none of that happens. Instead, Paul and his crew just hang out for a few days. In fact, they’re in Philippi long enough to observe the Sabbath, and since there was likely no synagogue in Philippi, they went out to the river to find a place to pray. It’s there, by the river, outside the city, that Paul finds an attentive audience; it’s by the river outside of Philippi that Paul’s dream about the Macedonian man comes to fruition—in the form of a woman, “A certain woman named Lydia, a worshiper of God…from the city of Thyatira and a dealer in purple cloth.”

            Lydia listens to Paul. She’s baptized. Her entire household is baptized. She invites Paul and his folks to stay with her in her house. The rest of chapter sixteen speaks about Paul’s imprisonment there in Philippi after casting a demon out of a girl and costing her parents income and how he returned to Lydia’s house after being exonerated of his crimes because of his Roman citizenship. This isn’t really how I would have imagined this dream coming to reality, but you know, that doesn’t mean the dream wasn’t worth pursuing, that it wasn’t fulfilled. After all, imagine if Paul had chosen NOT to pursue the dream, if Paul had brushed it off and stubbornly pursued his eastward-moving ministry. If Paul had ignored the dream, a group of women would have gone down to the river outside of Philippi and gone home without much difference. Lydia would go back to selling her purple dye, her purple clothes, and her household would have remained unchanged. That’s not to mention that the gospel would have stayed in region of the Ancient Near East; the good news of Christ would have remained hemmed in by the lapping tides of the Aegean and Mediterranean Seas, waiting for someone else to carry it across to West. I mean, Lydia was the first European convert; she likely helped to fund and found the congregation at Philippi—arguably Paul’s favorite congregation. So, imagine if Paul has NOT followed his dream, if he had just stayed in Troas or tried to move east again…

            I wonder what would have happened if Zebulon and Emmaline Williams, Samuel and Elizabeth Boozer, James Milton and Barbara Waldon, Nathan and Nancy Roberts, Thomas and Mildred Johnston—I wonder what would have happened if those folks hadn’t followed their dream. You see, it was those folks who came together with the dream of a church near Ohatchee Creek. Where would we be if it wasn’t for the dream of those charter members of this congregation? Some of us might be members of another church; some of us might not be Christians; some of us might not be here at all. Think about it: they could have just decided to leave well-enough alone, to be content with an itinerant preacher and occasional gatherings in each other homes or on the bank of the creek; they could have decided that times were too tough for the sort of financial and personal commitment it would take to start a church; some of them could have decided that it wasn’t worth settling in a place where there wasn’t an established church and simply packed up and moved on down the road—but they didn’t. They pursued the dream they received from God, and Ohathcee Baptist Church [#2] was formed in 1850, 167 years ago. I’m grateful to those first, faithful folks who dared to follow the dream they received from God.

            Imagine, if in 1971, the folks of this congregation (some of you in this room this morning), rather than following the dream of a new building, a brick sanctuary to replace the aged, white-frame structure that had stood on this site since 1924, had instead decided to ignore it, to brush off the dream as one grounded in the pursuit of “a bigger building.” Where would we be this morning? Would we have boarded up the windows, strung caution tape across the doors, and posted a red notice on the clapboard that read “Condemned: unsafe for occupancy?” Would we be a handful of folks singing a cappella in a drafty, old building, wondering why no one wants to come to worship in the little white church on the corner of Nisbet Lake and Pleasant Valley Roads?

            Imagine if saints like Dean Norton and Peggy Hamby hadn’t pursued the call of serving as deacons in this church. Imagine if this church had decided then that women weren’t called or capable to serve in such roles, that they couldn’t preach, teach, or pastor because they were women and that’s what every other Baptist church around believed. What voices would have been silenced? How many of our sisters would have given up hope in ever serving Christ and his Church in the ways they believed they were being called?

            Imagine if this congregation had NOT “caught the vision” or pursued the dream in 1991, a vision of an expanded fellowship hall, preschool center, new educational space, and kitchen. Imagine if we had ignored the need to maintain and renovate an aging sanctuary. Where would we be? Many of you were dedicated as children in this room, baptized before family and friends in this room, married in the site of God and others in this room, mourned the passing of your loved ones in this room. You shared meals, laughter, and special occasions in what used to be the fellowship hall. What would those memories be like if we had NOT pursues the dream then? Would you have them at all?

            Imagine if we had NOT pursued the dream in 2005 of a Christian Ministry Center, a gymnasium, commercial kitchen, new bathrooms with showers, a parlor/senior suite, an expansive student suite upstairs, and other updates and renovations to the building. Where would this community have gone in 2011 after storms and tornadoes ripped through it? Where would our kids have come together after the devastating news of a friend’s death? Where would the hundreds of children who have passed through our daycare have found the kind of affordable care they receive on our campus? I could go on, but I don’t think I have to.
            As it was for Paul, pursing the dream God gives us isn’t always easy. It sometimes comes after we’ve tried our way only to fail time and time again. It sometimes calls us in an entirely different direction from the one we would want for ourselves. It often (mostly?) doesn’t turn out exactly the way we think it should, and it can be a pursuit filled with frustrations, delays, complications, times of high energy, and times where things seem to grind to a stop, but the pursuit of God’s dream is ALWAYS worth the effort.

            I am thankful that Paul pursued God’s dream to go to Macedonia, to take the gospel to Europe, for who knows what may have happened in the history of the Church if he hadn’t. I am thankful to those first, faithful few who gathered by Ohatchee Creek and pursued God’s dream of a church that would 167 years later be thriving and seeking the next step in that same dream. I am thankful for those who pursued God’s dream to make this room, this house of worship, this sanctuary, a reality, a place where we can come and worship the God who calls us to pursue God’s dreams. I am thankful that we are still pursuing the dreams we first dreamed in 1991 and in 2005. I am thankful that those dreams have not only lead to buildings and programs that have touched the lives of so many in and around our community, but that they have led us to places like Korsun, Ukraine, where a church was built with $13,544.00 of funds from this congregation in 1995, places like Port-Au-Prince, Haiti where seventeen members of this congregation served to feed hungry babies, build furniture and make repairs to a school in the heart of that too-often depressing city, places like the Rio Grande Valley where we’ve partnered with people who have become family to many of us, places like Perry County where we’ve gone to sow seeds of hope in the lives of those who may otherwise have none. I am thankful that we have pursued the dream of God all these years. What if we dared to continue to follow the dreams God gives us in spite of the perceived difficulties we may face? What if we dared to follow our dreams further into the future, further than we can ever imagine, further in bringing about the reality of God’s kingdom? What if we dared to follow our dreams that lead to God’s kingdom coming to earth as it is in heaven? Amen.  

"Restored" (Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost)

Genesis 45:1-15

1 Then Joseph could no longer control himself before all those who stood by him, and he cried out, "Send everyone away from me." So no one stayed with him when Joseph made himself known to his brothers. 2 And he wept so loudly that the Egyptians heard it, and the household of Pharaoh heard it. 3 Joseph said to his brothers, "I am Joseph. Is my father still alive?" But his brothers could not answer him, so dismayed were they at his presence. 4 Then Joseph said to his brothers, "Come closer to me." And they came closer. He said, "I am your brother, Joseph, whom you sold into Egypt. 5 And now do not be distressed, or angry with yourselves, because you sold me here; for God sent me before you to preserve life. 6 For the famine has been in the land these two years; and there are five more years in which there will be neither plowing nor harvest. 7 God sent me before you to preserve for you a remnant on earth, and to keep alive for you many survivors. 8 So it was not you who sent me here, but God; he has made me a father to Pharaoh, and lord of all his house and ruler over all the land of Egypt. 9 Hurry and go up to my father and say to him, "Thus says your son Joseph, God has made me lord of all Egypt; come down to me, do not delay. 10 You shall settle in the land of Goshen, and you shall be near me, you and your children and your children's children, as well as your flocks, your herds, and all that you have. 11 I will provide for you there—since there are five more years of famine to come—so that you and your household, and all that you have, will not come to poverty.' 12 And now your eyes and the eyes of my brother Benjamin see that it is my own mouth that speaks to you. 13 You must tell my father how greatly I am honored in Egypt, and all that you have seen. Hurry and bring my father down here." 14 Then he fell upon his brother Benjamin's neck and wept, while Benjamin wept upon his neck. 15 And he kissed all his brothers and wept upon them; and after that his brothers talked with him.

             Is there a more captivating motive for a good story other than revenge? It really is nearly the perfect narrative driving force, whether it is the story of a hero seeking retaliation against an enemy for a past injustice, a lover seeking retribution for the death of her beloved, or a child seeking to right the wrongs committed against his family, revenge has been a chief motif of western literature for centuries. You can trace it all the way back to the eighth century B.C.E. and that great epic poem by Homer, The Iliad. There is revenge all over that story: Menelaus seeks revenge against Paris for stealing his wife, Helen; Achilles hunts down Hector after Hector killed Achilles’ friend, Patroclus; even the gods in Homer’s epic are constantly seeking revenge against one another, always trying to get back at one another after being fooled, duped, or manipulated by the other.
            Of course it’s not just in ancient Greek epics where we find stories motivated by revenge: Shakespeare too knew its plot-driving power. His play Hamlet is completely focused on the subject. Prince Hamlet is visited by the ghost of his father, who tells him to kill the prince’s uncle, Claudius, who killed his father and married his mother. The entire story is driven by Hamlet’s lust for revenge against his uncle.
            But I know most of you probably haven’t read The Iliad or Hamlet since high school (I know I haven’t), so there’s  Charles Portis’ novel from 1968, a novel millions have read, but even millions more have seen in either 1969’s movie adaption starring John Wayne or 2010’s version starring Jeff Bridges (which I happen to think is the slightly superior version…). True Grit is the tale of a fourteen-year-old girl named Mattie Ross who enlists the help of federal marshal Rooster Cogburn to hunt down a thief named Tom Chaney who killed Mattie’s daddy in cold blood. She wants to see Chaney brought to trial and then hanged for killing her father—she wants revenge.
            But I doubt you will find any more compelling example of literary revenge than that of the Spanish swordsmith whose father made a sword of exquisite beauty and balance, only to have his patron refuse to pay his promised price and strike the man down with the very sword he had made. The son dedicated his life to revenge, always training, always studying, always practicing, determined to be the best swordsman in the world, so that if the day ever came when he would meet his father’s murderer, he would look him straight in the eyes, sword in hand, and say, “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” If you didn’t know already, this is one of the strongest sub-plots to the novel (and eventual film adaptation) The Princess Bride, written by William Goldman in 1973. Inigo is driven by revenge.
            Revenge, retaliation, retribution, reprisal, call it what you will, but it can be a powerful force, and it can make for a captivating story, and the story before us this morning, the story of Joseph, has all the right pieces to be one fascinating story about revenge. It’s a story that really starts back in chapter 37, when seventeen-year-old Joseph (daddy Jacob’s favorite) starts dreaming dreams about his brothers all bowing down to him (which, by the way, Joseph is the next-to-youngest, so his favoritism from Jacob and his dreams of lording over his brothers are a bit out of place for the historical-cultural context…). Now, Joseph’s brothers were already jealous of Joseph because their father favored him over the eleven of them and he had given him a long coat with sleeves (or a coat of many colors), so when he starts all this dreaming business, they’re ready to get rid of him.

Joseph follows them down to Dothan (not the one in South Alabama, of course, but it is the place from which that city gets its name), and in Dothan the brothers hatch this plan (Genesis 37: 19-28):

They said to one another, "Here comes this dreamer. Come now, let us kill him and throw him into one of the pits; then we shall say that a wild animal has devoured him, and we shall see what will become of his dreams." But when Reuben heard it, he delivered him out of their hands, saying, "Let us not take his life." Reuben said to them, "Shed no blood; throw him into this pit here in the wilderness, but lay no hand on him"—that he might rescue him out of their hand and restore him to his father. So when Joseph came to his brothers, they stripped him of his robe, the long robe with sleeves that he wore; and they took him and threw him into a pit. The pit was empty; there was no water in it. Then they sat down to eat; and looking up they saw a caravan of Ishmaelites coming from Gilead, with their camels carrying gum, balm, and resin, on their way to carry it down to Egypt. Then Judah said to his brothers, "What profit is it if we kill our brother and conceal his blood? Come, let us sell him to the Ishmaelites, and not lay our hands on him, for he is our brother, our own flesh." And his brothers agreed. When some Midianite traders passed by, they drew Joseph up, lifting him out of the pit, and sold him to the Ishmaelites for twenty pieces of silver. And they took Joseph to Egypt.

The brothers initially wanted to kill Joseph, but instead, they wind up selling him to some traders for twenty pieces of silver (regardless of how much money that equates too, it is not worth the life of one’s brother!). The traders took Joseph to Egypt, the super-power of its day (here’s where the story takes off a bit…).

            In the years ahead, Joseph becomes the slave of Potiphar, the chief of Pharaoh’s guards, and he eventually become the chief of Potiphar’s house. It is while in this position that Potiphar’s wife attempts to seduce Joseph, but when he refuses her advances, she falsely accuses him of rape, landing Joseph in prison. While in prison, Joseph is put in charge of the prisoners and meets the chief cup-bearer and baker of Pharaoh; Joseph (dreamer that he is) interprets dreams for these two close acquaintances of Pharaoh, and when the cup-bearer is released, Joseph asks him to put in a good word for him with the Pharaoh—he doesn’t. He forgets Joseph—until about two years later when Pharaoh has a dream and Joseph is summoned to interpret it for him: seven years of abundance, followed by seven years of famine, so Joseph advises Pharaoh to store grain for the coming famine.  When Joseph’s interpretations come to fruition, he is given a great deal of power and oversight by the Pharaoh, eventually becoming the Vizier of Egypt, Pharaoh’s sort of right-hand-man, answering to no one else but Pharaoh himself. (Still with me?)
            During all that time, well over two decades, Joseph had the opportunity to plot his revenge, to map out just what he would do to his brothers should he ever see them again, and lo and behold, as the famine was starving so many to death all around that region of the world, Joseph’s brothers are sent by their father, Jacob, to Egypt to buy some of the grain which Joseph had advised Pharaoh to store up. When these brothers arrive, Joseph recognizes them, has them imprisoned as spies, then demands that they bring their youngest brother (who had stayed back home with their aging father and who was Joseph’s full brother, the other son of Rachel) back with them to prove that they are honest men.
            Now, here is where the story has all the potential to be really gripping, where the opportunity for revenge is highest. You see, the brothers don’t recognize Joseph, and he could have refused the brothers’ petition for help altogether. He had the power to do it, for he was placed in charge of the grain; even the Pharaoh himself sent people directly to Joseph when they came in need of food. Joseph could have stayed incognito and simply refused their petition, sent them away empty, and felt as if he had finally settled the score with the brothers who sought to kill him so long ago—but that isn’t what he does.

            What happens is that Joseph hears his brothers discussing amongst themselves how sorry they are for what they had done to Joseph, so he devises a plan, one that at first seems to lay a trap for his brothers (are you still with me? I know it’s kind of a long story, but it’s the Bible…). Joseph sends his brothers back with provisions (and the money they used to buy them), keeping one of the brothers, Simeon, as a hostage. When it’s discovered that they have the money still, Jacob is worried that they’ll be seen as dishonest folks, so when he sends them on a return trip, Benjamin goes with them (just as Joseph had requested). When they arrived this time, Joseph returned Simeon to them and had a banquet prepared for them. Joseph had his servants load their animals with the grain they had bought, along with their money, and his personal silver cup was placed in Benjamin’s things. After the brothers had eaten and were on their way back home, Joseph ordered his servants to go after them and question them about his missing silver cup. Of course they found the cup on them, in Benjamin’s things, so the brothers were brought back before Joseph.

Now, here is where the tension is thick in the story, right? Joseph seems to be almost playing with his brothers, sort of torturing them with all of these head games, sending them back and forth, hiding things in their belongings. It’s as if it’s all a part of Joseph’s plan for vengeance—after all, remember, these are the same brothers who sought to kill him, who threw him in a pit, who sold him into slavery for twenty pieces of silver, the same brothers who were jealous of him because of his father’s favoritism and his gift for interpreting dreams, things he had no real control over. He’s had over twenty years to plan this all out, twenty years to stew, to run the whole narrative over and over in his mind, twenty years in which he was dead to his father, twenty years without those who spoke his language, who knew his story, who loved him for who he was and not what he could do for them. Joseph has had a long time to plot his revenge and justify its outcome, and it seems as if it’s likely going to come together when the brothers are brought back before him after the discovery of the silver cup in their belongings. Joseph condemns Benjamin to be his slave since it was in his belongings that the cup was found, but Judah pleads to take Benjamin’s place…and that’s where our text this morning begins.

Joseph has all the power in this story: he has the power to refuse his brothers the food they need to survive—much like they did to him when they through him into an empty pit and sat down to their own lunch; he has to power to imprison them with little more than a false charge with fabricated evidence—in the same way he himself was imprisoned after Potiphar’s wife had accused him; he has the power to enslave them—just as he himself had been enslaved by the Ishmaelites and sold to the Egyptians. He has the power of Egypt at his disposal, the most powerful empire in the world. Joseph could have had his revenge in whatever way he wanted…but he doesn’t get it. Instead, Joseph could no longer control himself before all those who stood by him, and he cried out, "Send everyone away from me." So no one stayed with him when Joseph made himself known to his brothers. And he wept so loudly that the Egyptians heard it, and the household of Pharaoh heard it. Joseph said to his brothers, "I am Joseph. Is my father still alive?" But his brothers could not answer him, so dismayed were they at his presence. Then Joseph said to his brothers, "Come closer to me." And they came closer. He said, "I am your brother, Joseph, whom you sold into Egypt. And now do not be distressed, or angry with yourselves, because you sold me here; for God sent me before you to preserve life.”

Joseph doesn’t get his revenge. He doesn’t throw his brothers in prison, enslave them, send them away to starve, or have them executed. No, what Joseph does is entirely different: he forgives them; he is reconciled to them. But why?! Why? Why after what they had done, after all he had been through, after living twenty long years without his family, without the voice of his father to speak to him, without the love of his family—why wouldn’t Joseph get his revenge which he so clearly deserved? Why?! Because, maybe—just maybe—Joseph realized the one thing we human beings still struggle to understand: the power of revenge, the power of retaliation is nothing at all compared to the power of forgiveness and reconciliation.

After all, what good does revenge do? What good is holding a grudge, seeking retribution, or wanting reprisal? Does it ever erase the pain? Does it have the power to wind back the clock and set things back to the way they once were? Does retaliation ever lead to anything more than escalation and deeper divisions?

But forgiveness…reconciliation…that’s where the power is! While revenge only leaves us with a momentary feeling of false justice, forgiveness and reconciliation lead to healing, to making things whole and right once more. Holding on to anger can only corrode the soul and lead us to viewing a brother, sister, friend, or neighbor as less than what God has created them to be, yet forgiveness…forgiveness restores a lost brother, finds an old friend, redeems a neighbor, and creates more space for the kingdom of God to be fully realized. Is it easy? No. Is it worth it? Always!

So let go of whatever it is that is corroding your soul this morning. If there is someone in your life, not matter how long it’s been, to whom you need to be reconciled, don’t let the sun go down on this day until you’ve begun the worthwhile work of being reconciled to them. For there is no power in holding on to hate, no power in holding a grudge, no power in holding on to the hope for a chance to “get even,” but my Lord what power there is in forgiveness! What power there is when you set aside the desire to get even in order to simply get right! What power there is in being reconciled to each other—it’s the very power of God! Amen.

"Sink or Walk" (Tenth Sunday after Pentecost)

Matthew 14:22-33

22 Immediately he made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side, while he dismissed the crowds. 23 And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone, 24 but by this time the boat, battered by the waves, was far from the land, for the wind was against them. 25 And early in the morning he came walking toward them on the sea. 26 But when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were terrified, saying, "It is a ghost!" And they cried out in fear. 27 But immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, "Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid." 28 Peter answered him, "Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water." 29 He said, "Come." So Peter got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came toward Jesus. 30 But when he noticed the strong wind, he became frightened, and beginning to sink, he cried out, "Lord, save me!" 31 Jesus immediately reached out his hand and caught him, saying to him, "You of little faith, why did you doubt?" 32 When they got into the boat, the wind ceased. 33 And those in the boat worshiped him, saying, "Truly you are the Son of God."

            I remember the first time I met him. I was a new transfer student to Samford, and I wanted to be a part of this program called Samford Sunday (called “H Day” once upon a time), a program where I could preach in Baptist churches across Alabama most Sundays during the semester. In order to be a part of Samford Sunday back then you had to have a one-on-one interview with him. I can remember a lot about that first meeting with a man who would come to quietly define a great deal of my love for Samford, its religion department, and my calling to preach. We sat in a classroom across the hall from the university minister’s office, a classroom normally used by underclass students, so there were rows of those desks that were more like chairs with trays big enough for nothing bolted to them. I sat in one of those desks, while he sat in one right next to me. We talked about preaching, ministry, our mutual home in South Alabama, and then he prayed with me—for me, rather, and my calling.

His name is Sigurd Bryan (to many of you here, he would have reminded you a great deal of Oliver Graves). He and his wife Sarah are about as close to saints as I’ve ever met, and I had the privilege of knowing Sigurd through my years at Samford and worshipping with him and Sarah both at Shades Crest Baptist Church while I was an intern there. When I was ordained a couple of years later at Shades Crest, Sarah was the chair of deacons, so her name is signed on the certificate of ordination that hangs in my office.

We lovingly referred to Dr. Bryan in the religion department at Samford as “Saint Sigurd,” due to his quiet demeanor and saint-like life. In fact, we had heard all sorts of legends about Dr. Bryan. While others in the religion department had rumors that suggested they had lit Bibles on fire or denied the divinity of Jesus, Dr. Bryan was rumored to have done something entirely different. You see, Dr. Bryan swam every morning in the pool on campus (even all those years after his retirement), and as the story goes, Dr. Bryan would swim 99 laps. Why only 99? Well, after he had swam 99 laps across the pool, he’d walk the last lap—on top of the water! I don’t think Saint Sigurd would like that story or that fact that we lovingly called him Saint Sigurd; he’s just a little too humble.
            But isn’t that a mark of true faith, of true “saintliness,” to walk on water? Why, the very phrase has made its way into our common vernacular: if someone can accomplish great things we say they can “walk on water.” It’s one of the more readily recognizable stories and attributes of Jesus’ miraculous nature, and most of us who’ve heard the story of Jesus walking on water in church know that it isn’t just Jesus who walks on water, but Peter does too—at least for a little while. Yes, Peter walks out on the water towards Jesus, and we’ve touted that as a sign of Peter’s great faith, of his trust in Jesus’ power to keep his feet above the water. Of course, the story goes on to say, “But when [Peter] noticed the strong wind, he became frightened, and beginning to sink..” It’s usually here when we say something like, “Well, Peter took his eyes off Jesus and began to sink down, so if we just keep our eyes focused on Jesus…”

Now, that’s not a bad sentiment, really, to keep one’s eyes fixed on Jesus, to always be looking to Jesus, but the scripture doesn’t say anything about Peter’s eyes being fixed on Jesus. If I’m honest with you, the more I read this passage the more questions I have about it, the more Peter’s actions make me scratch my head a bit. I mean, we know the gist of the story: Jesus has the disciples get in a boat and head across the lake while he goes up the mountain to pray, but while he’s praying a storm comes up and begins to thrash the disciples’ boat. Then, Jesus comes walking to them out on the water. They have a rather natural reaction to seeing a human figure walking out on the water, especially after being kept up all night in a storm—they think they’ve seen a ghost! “But immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, ‘Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.’"

Now, it’s right here where the story gets a bit weird, honestly. See, if it had just gone from verse 27 straight to verse 32 then it might make a little more sense. After the disciples see Jesus and Jesus says, "Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid,”  Jesus gets in the boat, the wind ceases, and they all worship him. That’s a good story, a powerful reminder, reminiscent of the time he had calmed the storm in the eighth chapter of Matthew’s gospel. But that’s not the way the story goes. No, Jesus tells the disciples to take heart, to not be afraid because the ghost they think they’ve seen is in fact him, Jesus, but instead of them breathing a collective sigh of relief, Peter pipes up and says, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water." Now, I want you to think about that for just a minute: “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water." Who else would it have been? Seriously, who in the world would Peter have thought it could be? Who else would have walked out on the water, told them to not be afraid, AND claim to be Jesus?

Furthermore. Why does Peter want Jesus to command him to come to him on the water? That’s a bit odd isn’t it? Sure, I suppose Peter may have wanted to be where Jesus was, but Jesus was walking towards them, presumably to get on the boat with them, so why does Peter want to go out there? And what was Peter going to do once he got there? Was he going to shout back to the others in the boat “Hey you guys go on ahead, me and Jesus are just going to take a little stroll on the lake?” Was he going to walk out to Jesus to get a better look at him? I mean, really, why does Peter want to go out to Jesus on the water? The other disciples are seemingly content with knowing that its Jesus coming towards them, that the one who had calmed the storm before was close by them, in the midst of the storm once again, but Peter wants something more it seems, but what exactly?
            I think that’s where those verses in between come in. In verse 28 “Peter answered [Jesus], ‘Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.’ [Jesus] said, ‘Come.’ So Peter got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came toward Jesus. Now, up to this point, everything is going well: Peter gets the response he hoped for (or maybe he had hoped it wasn’t Jesus and he could stay in the boat…?), so he steps out of the boat and starts walking on the water. Now, I don’t know if this is a sign of Peter’s faith, of Jesus’ power, both, or something else altogether, but I know it doesn’t last long, because “when he noticed the strong wind, he became frightened, and beginning to sink, he cried out, ‘Lord, save me!’" Look again at what the text says, “when he noticed the strong wind, he became frightened…” Did he not notice it before he got out of the boat? Had Peter been aloof, unaware of the great wind and the waves that had battered the boat which he was stepping out of unto the water? Of course not! So why, all of the sudden it seems, does he notice the strong wind and become frightened? Could it be, that he thought the wind would quit blowing, that the waves would cease rising, that the water would calm, and he’d walk safely and freely out to Jesus? Could it be that Peter thought this was the safer path, the more secure approach to take when one is being battered by the waves, to get closer to Jesus? Did Peter give in to the notion so many of us fall prey to, that getting closer to Jesus is safe, without any chance of harm or hardship?

Isn’t that what we’re so often prone to think, to believe? If we can just get closer to Jesus, the waves will settle down, the winds will cease, and the storms will blow over. Isn’t that what we want to believe? That if we have enough faith, if we get out of the boat, if we just set foot on the water, Jesus will make all the danger disappear, and we’ll be safe and out of harm’s way. Isn’t that what we want? Is that what Jesus gives us?

This morning, I can’t help but wonder if those Christians (laypeople and clergy) who met at St. Paul’s Memorial Church in Charlottesville this weekend believe that Jesus would make the danger disappear, that their faith would keep them safe and out of harm’s way. I wonder, do you think they took those first steps onto the tumultuous waters of racism and hatred believing that they’d be stilled as soon as they started walking? Or what about those believers who answer the call of Christ to go to those places in the dark corners of this world where war and violence have left the land scarred and broken, places where so often the gospel of Christ is not allowed, outlawed, and hated; do you suppose they believe the bombs will cease, the guns will stop shooting, and folks will listen to what they say with open minds because they walk a little closer to Jesus? Or perhaps you’ve been in some place in your own life where you wanted to believe that if you just prayed a little more, just read your Bible a little more, just went to one more church service, just had the courage to step out of the boat, that life would suddenly become a gravy train with biscuit wheels and everything would be alright. Have you ever thought that before? I know I have.

Like Peter, though, when I’ve been there, when I think I’ve found the answer, when I think peace will come and things will get better because I’m taking a step out towards Jesus, eventually I realize that things don’t always get better. In fact, I often realize that the closer I get to Jesus, the more tumultuous the waves get, the stronger the wind blows, and the deeper the waters seem. I have found that the more I pursue Jesus the more complicated life gets, the more nuanced my convictions become, the more my beliefs become tossed about on the waves, disoriented and recast. The more risks I take in getting closer to Jesus the more I realize how easy it is to be overwhelmed by it all, that the easy, cookie-cutter answers and bumper sticker slogans of cultural Christianity won’t still the sea, quiet the thunder, or calm the storm. No, what I’ve come to learn, like Peter, is that the closer I try to get to Jesus, the more I notice the wind and the waves, the more likely I am to be overcome by them, and the more likely I am to cry out “Lord, save me!"

And I know, when I am overcome by the cruelty, the selfishness, the inhumanity, the wickedness, hatred, and sin present not only in the world but within my very own heart—I know when I am overcome by all of this and feel the waters of this life begin to overtake me, Jesus will reach out his hand, catch me, and say, "You of little faith, why did you doubt?" And in spite of my lack of faith, in spite of my doubt, Jesus will always be there with me—he may not always still the storm or calm the sea, but Jesus will always be there with me, whether I sink or walk. Amen.

"Full as a Tick" (Ninth Sunday after Pentecost)

Matthew 14:13-21

13 Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns. 14 When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick. 15 When it was evening, the disciples came to him and said, "This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves." 16 Jesus said to them, "They need not go away; you give them something to eat." 17 They replied, "We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish." 18 And he said, "Bring them here to me." 19 Then he ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. 20 And all ate and were filled; and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full. 21 And those who ate were about five thousand men, besides women and children.

            You know, I’ve probably read this story dozens of times. It’s the only one of Jesus’ miracles, his “signs of power,” that is recorded in all four gospels, so it’s hard to miss. It’s a story with which we are so familiar that we’ll often make jokes in relation to this story: standing in line at the covered dish luncheon, looking down the table at how much dressing is left in the pan, or how many slices of lemon icebox pie are left on the dessert table, and you start counting the number of folks in line between you and that last deviled egg, and you sort of turn your head towards the person in line behind you and say something like, “man, I sure hope somebody blessed this real good so it’ll stretch like them loaves and fishes, ‘cause I’ve been looking forward to plate of dressing and some deviled eggs!” We’ve read this story in Vacation Bible School, Sunday School, in worship, private prayer times, and likely seen more than one cinematic rendition of it, but it wasn’t until I re-read Matthew’s version that something caught my attention—something that made me see the whole thing from a different point of view.

            You see, it’s actually something that’s not in the passage we’ve read this morning (at least not the verses we read in the translation in which I read them). There’s a remnant, a trace of it in verse 13, but we’ll have to walk it back a bit to really know what it is. You see, in verse 13 the Bible says, “Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns.” Did you catch it? Did you hear what’s NOT there? “Now when Jesus HEARD THIS, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds HEARD IT, they followed him on foot from the towns.” What exactly did Jesus hear? What was it the crowds heard? Did they hear news about the latest tax increase from Rome? Was their favorite television series canceled? What was it? Well, just look up a few verses in chapter fourteen and you’ll discover that what Jesus (and eventually, the crowds) heard was news of John the Baptist’s death at the hands of Herod, a senselessly cruel execution and sign of the Tetrarch’s power. “Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself.”

            Can anyone blame him? He learns that John—his friend, mentor-turned-follower, cousin, “The voice of the one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight’”[1]—has been brutally murdered by one who wields the power of the empire. Not only is the shock of such news painful as it relates to one’s loved one, but it is also news of the first real casualty of this movement Jesus has going. John’s death brings into sharp focus the cost that comes with proclaiming the Good News of God’s Kingdom. John’s execution no doubt brought home the weight of Christ’s mission, the reality of its consequences, and the realization of where this would all wind up for Jesus himself. So it’s no surprise to me, really, that when Jesus heard of John’s death, that he withdrew to a place that was otherwise deserted, to be alone, to grieve, to reflect, to pray.

            I suppose the crowds followed him when they heard the news, because they wanted to see his reaction, to find out what was going to happen now. The first blow had seemingly been struck in this great cultural/cosmic war some believed was imminent, and now it was time to see how the leader would retaliate. Or maybe they wanted to know what to do now that this was all getting real for them too. After all, John’s execution would have also sent a message to anyone in that corner of the empire that Herod was willing to do whatever it took to silence his enemies. Perhaps the folks in the crowds were frightened and unsure of where this rabbi from Nazareth was leading them. Whatever was at the heart of their actions, scripture simply says, “when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns.” They left their homes and followed Jesus into the deserted place.

            It’s with all that weight, that emotional, spiritual, anxiety-ridden weight, that Jesus “…he went ashore…saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick.” If I’m honest with you, if it had been me, I wouldn’t’ have done it. Really, I’m afraid I would have just got back in the boat and rowed out to the middle of the lake and stayed there until they all went back home. Who wants a bunch of folks around them when they’ve got some real thinking to do, some honest grieving and spiritual wrestling to do? No, if it had been me, I might have had a little compassion for them, but there’s no way I would have jumped right back in to the thick of it, curing the sick folks especially (after all, sick people can be so demanding sometimes). I just don’t think I’d have done it that way, but as he so often does in the gospels, Jesus models for us the proper response to those in need, those who are sick, frightened, and hungry, and as they so often do in the gospels, the disciples model for us the response too many of us have to those in need.

            In verse 15 we read, “When it was evening, the disciples came to him and said, ‘This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves.’” In other words, “It’s getting late; we’re tired; there’s nothing out here, so just send these folks home so they can get themselves something to eat, and we’ll deal with them tomorrow.” The disciples want the crowds to take care of themselves, to leave them alone for now. They had been around long enough, had their chance to get close to Jesus, and now it’s time to go back to whatever it was they were doing, to go back home or at least to the nearest village and “fend for themselves.” In that same “deserted place” Jesus saw the opportunity to cure the sick, whereas the disciples only see the inconvenience of too many folks in too isolated a location.

            You know, I can’t help but wonder how many times I’ve thought of a situation as an inconvenience, as non-ideal, but Jesus would have had me see opportunity. I can’t help but wonder how many times I’ve sighed in exasperation, groaned in aggravation, or ignored something out of frustration that Christ would have had me see otherwise as an opportunity for the reality of God’s kingdom to break into this world just a bit more. I wonder how many times I’ve made excuses when God has brought me to a place I can only see as “deserted” but God has filled with possibilities. I wonder how many times someone has been in need, and God has equipped me to fill that need, yet all I could think was how that person ought to take care of him or herself. I really can’t help but wonder how many times those things have happened, how many times I’ve missed an opportunity to bring God’s kingdom on earth as it is in heaven, and when I even look back on the ones I know I’ve missed, I can’t help but wonder why God hasn’t just given up on me to find someone better suited for this life of faith and commitment to Christ.

            Because the truth is, if it had been me—if I had been in Jesus’ sandals when the disciples came telling him to shoo the crowds away, to send them into the villages to fend for themselves, I might have lost it. I mean, remember, John’s death is still fresh on Jesus’ mind: John died because of his convictions about this movement Jesus was heading, this kingdom of God. John had paid the ultimate sacrifice for even so much as being affiliated with this movement and its beliefs, yet here are Jesus’ own disciples, and they don’t even want to be bothered to help feed folks?! Friends, I’m telling you, if it had been me, I’d have fired them all on the spot or at least given them some lengthy lecture about the cost of discipleship and how John had paid with his life. But again, Jesus doesn’t do that. Instead, he simply, directly tells them, "They need not go away; you give them something to eat." “They aren’t going anywhere; it’s your job now to feed them.”

            Boy, that’s the last thing we want to hear Jesus say sometimes, isn’t it? “Lord, I wish you’d do something about all these homeless folks we’ve got around here,” and the Lord says, “Why don’t you welcome them into your home?” “Jesus, I sure wish you could do something about that old trashy trailer in our community, like send your Holy Spirit to convict those folks to live cleaner,” and Jesus says, “Do you know their names? Maybe you should stop by and offer to help them out.” “God, I’ve about had it with all these folks looking for handouts; they need to pull themselves up by their bootstraps and get a job!” And the voice of God whispers in your ear, “What have you done to help them, the least of these, my family?”

            The disciples see scarcity in a deserted place where Jesus saw the opportunity for healing, and here they see scarcity in a deserted place where Jesus sees the opportunity to show the abundance of God’s kingdom. After all, most of you know the rest of the story: “[The disciples] replied, ‘We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.’” Have you ever noticed how they say that? It’s like they’re pessimistic about what they do have, like they believe what they already have isn’t enough; you can almost hear it in the words, that tendency so many of us have of wanting to hoard for ourselves, to hold back what we have because we’re afraid somebody else might actually want it, use it, need it, and we won’t get it back. You ever noticed that?  “And [Jesus] said, ‘Bring them here to me.’” Now, I’m sure that’s not what they wanted to hear. “Bring them to me?...Why? What are you going to do with them? You’re not going to give it to them are you? It’s not our fault they didn’t pack supper; it’s not our fault they don’t have enough; it’s not our fault they’re in the shape they’re in. If they want to eat, let them work; make them get their own. That’s what’s fair; not taking ours and giving it to them!”

That’s the lie of scarcity that causes us to react that way. We’ve bought into this lie for years—centuries really, but perhaps never more than we have these days. It’s not exactly like we can help it either; we’ve almost been programmed to believe there isn’t enough to go around, that there isn’t enough for everyone to have plenty. We’ve been told to save, hoard, hide, and store up our treasures on this earth because there’s always someone out to get us, to bamboozle us, to take us for a ride, to take advantage of our kindness and Christian sensibilities. We’ve been trained to be defensive, suspicious, overly-cautious of every request for assistance, of every person on the side of life’s road, of every “sob story” and person who’s just “down on their luck.” We run the imagined scenarios over and over in our heads, telling ourselves how it’d be different if it was us, how we’d find a way to put food on the table and a roof over our head, never once thinking of the disadvantages (societal, cultural, and otherwise) of others or of our own unnoticed privileges (societal, cultural, and otherwise). It’s all a part of the same lie the disciples believed too when they told Jesus to send the crowds away, when they handed over their loaves and fish and said, “We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.” But Jesus demonstrates the truth of God’s kingdom, the truth of God’s abundance that reveals the lie of scarcity for what it is.

            In verse 19, Jesus “ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds...” Did you notice that? To tell the truth, I think I’ve always overlooked it, took it for granted, but did you notice it? Jesus doesn’t bless and break the bread and hand it out himself—he gives it to the disciples to give to the crowds. They have a role to play in all of this—WE have a role to play in this in-breaking of God’s abundant kingdom. I suppose many Christians these days are under the impression that all we good Christian folks have to do is make our public profession of faith (maybe get baptized), join a church, and then keep our heads down and our noses (relatively) clean until Jesus comes back and sets everything back right. It seems a lot of folks who call themselves Christians these days are convinced that a life of faith is little more than a life of waiting, where the most important thing you can do is argue with people who disagree with you in the hopes that they or others will agree with you. But Jesus breaks the bread of God’s kingdom—the bread of abundance, the bread of plenty, the bread of enough-for-everybody-and-then-some, the bread of justice, the bread of righteousness, the bread of freedom, equality, faith, hope, and love—Jesus breaks that bread and then gives it to us to give to the crowds.

            Isn’t that something? Jesus has given us the kingdom, the Bread of Life, and he’s given it to us to share—not to hoard to ourselves, not to distribute to those we deem suitable, not to hand out as if we’re rationing a short supply, not to greedily keep as if by giving it away it somehow diminishes its worth. No! In fact, the more we give it away the more there is! I think that’s part of the miracle of this story, because in verses 20 and 21 it says, “And all ate and were filled; and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full. And those who ate were about five thousand men, besides women and children.”

            See, this isn’t (just) a story about the miraculous power of Jesus to magically manipulate matter. This isn’t a story that’s meant to somehow prove the divinity of Jesus by this incredible act of dinner division. No, no…it’s more than that. It’s a story about our obliviousness to opportunities placed in our paths by God. It’s a story about how this world’s lies about scarcity are overcome by the overwhelming abundance of God’s kingdom. Perhaps above all else, it’s a story about how Jesus still calls us and trusts us to be a part in sharing that abundance with everyone, how we are called to feed the hungry because there’s enough food for us all to share, how we’re called to heal the sick because there’s enough care and medicine to go around, how we’re called to forgive because there’s enough pain, blame, hurt, and anger in this world and God’s forgiveness is more than enough to cover it, how we’re called to love our neighbor—all people—as we love God and ourselves because there is certainly an eternity’s worth of love that will forever outweigh the wickedness, the sinfulness, the hatred, lust, envy, greed, and selfishness that seeks to trap us all in the lie that there just isn’t enough for everybody.
            This old, familiar story to so many of us is a call to let go of thinking there isn’t enough to go around, that what we have is ours and if others want it they’ll have to get it themselves, that we’ve got to keep our guard up or else we might be taken advantage of. Friends, you know what I say to that? You know what this table says to that? You know what Jesus says to that? So what! Let them take advantage, and if they do, keep giving it away, because the truth is—the grand, wonderful truth of God’s kingdom is this: there’s always enough. There’s always enough when you give what you been given away. There’s always enough at the table. Amen.

---

[1] Matthew 3:3

"Pullin' Weeds" (Seventh Sunday after Pentecost)

Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

24 He put before them another parable: "The kingdom of heaven may be compared to someone who sowed good seed in his field; 25 but while everybody was asleep, an enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat, and then went away. 26 So when the plants came up and bore grain, then the weeds appeared as well. 27 And the slaves of the householder came and said to him, "Master, did you not sow good seed in your field? Where, then, did these weeds come from?' 28 He answered, "An enemy has done this.' The slaves said to him, "Then do you want us to go and gather them?' 29 But he replied, "No; for in gathering the weeds you would uproot the wheat along with them. 30 Let both of them grow together until the harvest; and at harvest time I will tell the reapers, Collect the weeds first and bind them in bundles to be burned, but gather the wheat into my barn.' "

36 Then he left the crowds and went into the house. And his disciples approached him, saying, "Explain to us the parable of the weeds of the field." 37 He answered, "The one who sows the good seed is the Son of Man; 38 the field is the world, and the good seed are the children of the kingdom; the weeds are the children of the evil one, 39 and the enemy who sowed them is the devil; the harvest is the end of the age, and the reapers are angels. 40 Just as the weeds are collected and burned up with fire, so will it be at the end of the age. 41 The Son of Man will send his angels, and they will collect out of his kingdom all causes of sin and all evildoers, 42 and they will throw them into the furnace of fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth. 43 Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Let anyone with ears listen!

            Shortly after my grandma died, my uncle (who lived in the house with Grandma) began to make more than a few changes around Grandma’s house. Now, to be fair, it was his right to do with it whatever he wanted; he had bought out my dad and my two aunts and chose to live in the house. He painted the walls, changed the floors, replaced some old fixtures, and a few other things that frankly needed to be done inside the house. I didn’t care to much about that sort of stuff, but what got me was when he started messing with things in the yard.

You see, Grandma was sort of proud of her yard—not so much the grass or the pecan and Catawba trees that lined the short, gravel driveway. No, Grandma was proud of her flower bed that ran along the front of the house and curled along its side (even though the side of the house was barely visible). I spent many spring and summer afternoons walking with Grandma in the front yard talking and looking at those flowers (she was almost always barefoot). She would tell me what each one was called: there were bright orange, spotted tiger lilies, long, wispy, red spider lilies, a sprawling, thorny red rose bush, angel trumpets, giant, blue hydrangeas that were around six feet tall, and anchoring the whole bed on the corner (seemingly tethering the entire house to the very earth itself) was an enormous camellia tree, with its thick-petaled pink flowers and buds that made perfect slingshot ammunition. Grandma loved those flowers, and so did I.

I came home one holiday after Grandma had died to find that my uncle had cut down all the lilies, pulled up the rose bush and the hydrangeas, and taken a chainsaw to that stately camellia. What was more, I found out he had sprayed the entire bed with Round-Up to be sure he killed it all. When I asked him why he did it, why he had destroyed Grandma’s flower bed, which had produced those lovely flowers just a few months before, he said, “Christopher [my family tends to call me that], that flower bed had been eat-up with weeds for years. There were vines growing up the side of the house, crab grass all in the bed, and I even think I saw some poison ivy when I was running the mower over it. It was just easier to cut and kill it all than fool with trying to weed it.” He told me, “Your grandma never tried to pull the weeds out or keep the grass from growing in the flower bed, so it was eat-up with weeds.” It’s funny, though, I never noticed the weeds.

I suppose that comes with age, with experience, with the ebb and flow of seasons; I suppose one begins to notice the weeds when one grows bored with the beauty of the flowers, when one takes for granted the seasonal blooms and regular fragrance they provide. You know, it seems to me we are living in an age when a lot more folks notice the weeds: we turn on the television just to hear of another homicide, another unarmed, black man shot by white police or an unarmed white woman shot by a Muslim officer; we hear stories about politicians possibly colluding with foreign governments or hiding emails on private servers; we read stories in the paper about another bombing, another story about senseless lawsuits, another letter to the editor about the writer’s hatred for this or that issue. We’re bombarded with images and posts on social media of how the world’s just one step away from going to hell in a handbasket, how you had better buy gold, guns, ammo, and doomsday buckets from the likes of Jim Bakker (yes, that Jim Bakker), how the very fabric of humanity is coming unwound, and the sad truth is so many of us read those stories and believe them! Perhaps we’re a bit focused on the weeds too…

You see, it would be easy to point my finger at the media and say it’s their fault. It’s their fault; they’re always showing us bad news, telling us all the horrible stories of the day. But friends, they wouldn’t air it if we didn’t want it! Like the workers in Jesus parable, the wheat, the fruit, the flowers are growing all around us, yet all we seem to see are the weeds! We see the weeds growing in the world and give them our time and attention in the media, yes, but we also seem to strive so hard to see the weeds in one another—don’t we? It’s awful, to think that there are those who give of themselves, who take the risk, who put themselves out there, only to have someone point out their flaws, their sins, their scars, their “weeds,” to accuse them of not living up to their standards of what it takes to be worthy of growth in the garden, to judge entire groups of people by pointing to the rare exceptions that burn up the airwaves and take all the ink on the page as if we have some firsthand knowledge—it’s what we do! We can’t take our eyes off the weeds!

I’m beginning to think that this parable before us is Jesus’ way of showing us our obsession, of peeling back the layers to reveal to us our needless concern for the weeds of this world when we’ve been called to grow as the wheat of God’s harvest, to notice the good things God is growing in our very midst!

I’m not entirely sure why we’re so obsessed with pulling the weeds of this world, why we’re so overcome with the thought that it’s somehow up to us to call attention to all of the problems we believe are facing our culture, country, and world (while simultaneously doing very little, if anything, to correct our perceived problems). Maybe it’s easier to just pull weeds than tend to the wheat. Maybe it’s easier to tell the Master about all the bad things we see and hear than to get our hands dirty in cultivating goodness in the world. I know I think it’s easier. Seriously, it’s a whole lot easier for me to see someone as a criminal than to ask what’s driven them to commit a crime. Really, it’s a whole lot easier for me to ignore the beggar on the side of the road than to ask how I might actually get involved in making his life wholly better. I suppose when it gets right down to it, pulling weeds is a whole lot easier than trying to get something to grow out of the dirt of this world. Perhaps that’s why we give in so easily to looking for the weeds while we miss the wheat, why we are so easily distracted by bad news and so quick to brush off good news as “puff pieces” of journalism.

Maybe that’s why so many Christians (in America anyway) are so easily caught up in this notion that the world is going to end soon (a notion that at least one movement in every generation has had since the disciples witnessed Jesus ascend to heaven!). Maybe that’s why so many Christians want to believe that the world is getting worse, that the weeds are taking over, and the master is coming to send his angels to pull all the weeds out by the root and throw them into hell. But did you notice, nowhere in the parable does Jesus say the weeds overcome the wheat? Not once does Jesus say the weeds in this eschatological field take over and are unruly to the point of outside, divine intervention. The weeds are there, yes, but so is the wheat! And the wheat is plentiful enough to harvest! The wheat is hidden among the weeds; it’s clearly there, in abundance! So why only focus on the weeds?!

What if everyone of us in this room this morning decided today to give our attention to the good God is doing in the world (to the “wheat”) rather than the bad we’ve been led to believe is so rampant (the “weeds”)? What if we choose to see the good in each other—the good in all people—rather than the worst? What if we let go of the lie that the world is going to hell and take hold of the reality that this world and everything in it belongs to God and God has called us to be about the working of setting things right? What would happen? I tell you what, I’ll start, and I’ll start by telling you about the wheat growing among the weeds we so regularly see.

You see, it’s so easy to believe things are so bad, that the world is overrun with weeds, when that’s all you’re ever told, and that makes it hard to believe that the world is actually—get this—getting better. It’s true! In the last thirty years the number of people in the world living in “extreme poverty” (that is, those who are living on less than $1.25/day) has decreased from 53% to 17%--that’s huge! I bet the weeds have also distracted you from knowing that child labor has declined by 50% globally in the last sixteen years: that’s an extremely important number, because it means that more children in this world have the chance to be children, to go to school, to live longer, fuller lives—look at the wheat in the field! Did you know that global infant mortality has declined worldwide by 50% in the last 25 years? That’s the result of better medical practices and greater access to prenatal and maternal care for mothers across the globe!

Now, I’m not some “pie-in-the-sky” optimist, denying the troubles of this world simply because a few things have gotten better, but I think it’s terribly important that those of us who call ourselves Christians not get swept up in the lie that everything is horrible, that there are forces in the world trying to make your life worse—that’s a perceived reality that’s caused by a narrow view of God’s world! It’s that sort of thinking that leads us to believe things that just aren’t true—we start thinking the weeds are taking over! It’s that sort of thinking that causes us to believe that there are more people than ever “out there” who want to hurt us, when things like violent crime have consistently been on the decline in this country for the last 50 years: dropping from about 50 out of every 1,000 people experiencing a violent crime to about 15 out of every 1,000. When we only look for the weeds, we see a rash of pregnant teenage mothers, but the truth is that teen pregnancy is at an all-time low, which means that more girls are finishing high school, going to college, joining the work force or the military, and contributing to society in ways they may not have been able to a generation or more ago.

While there are those who try to tell us the sky is falling and the weeds are taking over the field, people are more educated now than ever, more people have access to clean drinking water now than ever, more people in the world can read now than ever, more girls have access to education now than ever, diseases that once meant certain death are easily treated or vaccinated, saving countless lives that would have otherwise been lost, and while we may give into the notion that the world is a more violent, war-torn place now than ever, the truth is that deaths caused by combat are the lowest they’ve been in a century[1]. The weeds don’t stand a chance!

Are there troubles in this world? Absolutely. Are we called to make a difference, to strive to bring about justice and peace in this world? Of course we are! But if we allow ourselves to only see the weeds, to give in to the notion that everything is awful and there’s no hope left for the world, then what does that say about the gospel we claim and the God we worship? I want to challenge you this day to begin looking for the wheat in God’s field, to take the time to recognize the flowers blooming in God’s garden, to not be overtaken by what the evil one seeks to sow in this world. Don’t give all your energy to trying to pull weeds; remember it’s the Lord’s field in the first place, and God has called you to grow and to cultivate the good you see around you and throughout the world. Amen.

---

[1] All of these statistics can be found here (accessed 7/22/2017): https://singularityhub.com/2016/06/27/why-the-world-is-better-than-you-think-in-10-powerful-charts/"Pullin