"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. 

"Don't Be Afraid. Be Ready." (Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost)

Luke 12:32-40

32 "Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom. 33 Sell your possessions, and give alms. Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. 34 For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. 35 "Be dressed for action and have your lamps lit; 36 be like those who are waiting for their master to return from the wedding banquet, so that they may open the door for him as soon as he comes and knocks. 37 Blessed are those slaves whom the master finds alert when he comes; truly I tell you, he will fasten his belt and have them sit down to eat, and he will come and serve them. 38 If he comes during the middle of the night, or near dawn, and finds them so, blessed are those slaves. 39 "But know this: if the owner of the house had known at what hour the thief was coming, he would not have let his house be broken into. 40 You also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour."

            On farm-to-market road 185, just across the Coryell County line in Central Texas sits a little white church with a graveled parking lot. The sign in the church yard says, “Osage Baptist Church: Founded 1874.” I pastored that small congregation for the three years I was in seminary, and right across the road from that church is a big pasture, and a ways off the road in that pasture is a big, ranch-style house. It was the home of a young couple in our church; the husband was a part of one of the largest farming families in Central Texas, so a great deal of the land around the church belonged to them (including a portion of the church yard, which they weren’t too bashful about reminding the rest of us every so often).

Well, as it usually goes when you’re the new pastor, folks would have us over for lunch after church, and this couple invited Sallie and me across the road and the cattle guard to their home one Sunday. I remember it being a nice, big house. The outside was covered with stone like a great many of the houses in Texas. Big, metal stars decorated the outside of the house and John Deere tractors decorated the inside on wallpaper and fabric. I distinctly remember their dining room table: it was long enough to sit ten or twelve people, a custom made piece of furniture for big, family meals. But what really stands out in my mind about their house was what they called their “safe room.” It was a room in the very center of the house, ten feet long by ten feet wide, with poured, reinforced, foot-thick concrete walls and ceiling, and a one-inch thick steel door with two bolted locks. What was inside that room, however, proved to be even more interesting to me: there were large cans of food, big croker sacks of beans, several five-gallon bottles of drinking water, more than a few guns (rifles, shotguns, and pistols), ammunition boxes, and at least two tanks of oxygen. At first, they told me it was their storm shelter, but when I pointed to the guns and asked if the tornadoes shoot at you in Texas, or when I pointed at the oxygen tanks and asked why they’d need those after a tornado, they said, “Well, it’s more of a safe room,” and (with a tone of complete seriousness) the wife said, “We want to be ready.”  “Ready?” I remember thinking, “Looks more to me like you’re not ready, but afraid.”

            There are a lot of folks these days who are afraid.

You know, the Bible says something to the effect of “Do not be afraid” over 100 times (there are some folks who count as many as 365),[1] yet it seems to me as if fear is the trending topic of our day, as if being afraid is on par with being wise. Sure, the Bible tells us that God says “Do not be afraid,” but there are just so many things we’re told to be afraid of: terrorists, climate change, ISIS, illegal immigrants, gay marriage, Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton, refugees, the Zika virus, Pokémon, Muslims, and whatever new threat has come across the wire today. We’re supposed to be scared of so many things these days that I’m just glad you all had the courage to leave your homes this morning! The Scriptures say at least 100 times “Do not be afraid,” yet we’re told everyday about one more thing of which we ought to be scared, and the sad news is so many of us who call ourselves Christians are terrified!

            Now, we say we’re scared of the sorts of things I’ve already mentioned, things cable news and over-paid, over-exposed preachers tell us to be afraid of, but you know, I can’t help but ask why we’re afraid of such things. Perhaps we’re afraid we’ll be harmed, that something bad will happen to us, that our homes and all our possessions will be taken from us, that our lives will somehow be made worse. If that’s the case, if we’re afraid of losing our stuff, then the words of Jesus in verse 33 ought to give us a bit of instruction: “Sell your possessions, and give alms. Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys.” Here, Jesus reminds us (as he so often does) that this way of life, this “kingdom living” isn’t about possessions anyway; it isn’t about storing up for ourselves treasures on earth. In fact, Jesus goes so far as to say, “sell all you’ve got and give what you make off of it to the poor.” I’m sure that was about as popular then as it is now! He also says, though, to make purses that won’t wear out—not because those of us who follow Jesus are going to make bank on this whole “being a disciple” thing, but because the treasure of God’s kingdom is more than you can count and more than you could spend—mostly because it isn’t a currency of monetary value; it’s a currency measured in faith, hope, and love, and those things never wear out. They’re the sorts of things you can only have more of the more you give them away.

            I think it’s what Jesus says next, though, that gets to the heart of our fear really: “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” You see, I’m convinced that if our “treasure” is in our stuff—our possessions, our titles, our opinions, our sense of self-righteousness—then that’s what we’ll really care about when the pressure is on; we’ll want to protect our stuff, to make a stand to protect our opinions, to protect ourselves and our so-called “way of life.” But the message of the gospel is so radically counter to that, so emphatically opposed to “self.” That’s hard for us to get over, because for so long so many of us were told that the gospel is about me! That it’s simply about going to heaven when we die, about protecting ourselves from the eternal torment of hell. For some of us, the gospel is about getting the treasures of this world in the next one, about getting all that we’ve ever wanted on earth when we get to heaven. Is it any wonder, then, that when we hear tough words like these from Jesus we try to explain them away, allegorize them, say they’re only symbolic or a metaphor? Is it any wonder then, that we’ll say things like, “Well, what Jesus really means here is...” in an attempt to get out of giving up ourselves?

            Really, though, I think that’s what lies at the heart of our fear: selfishness. I’m finding the longer I live that most (if not all) of my problems can be traced back to that need to promote and protect self (I may even go so far as to say it’s the true “original sin”). Therefore, I think the way we cure our fear is by letting go of self; the way we prove the gospel to the world is by letting go of self. You see, it’s by denying self that we can truly be ready: ready to share the love of Christ with a world that needs to hear the hope of the truth of God’s love, ready to be the hands and feet of Jesus in those places in the world where children are hungry, where people are lonely, where families are sick, where people are marginalized and tortured, ready to bring God’s kingdom on earth as it is in heaven. Ready, because we’re no longer concerned about what is safe or profitable or secure. Ready, because that is what we are called to be: ready, not afraid.

            I mean, Jesus begins this section with the words "Do not be afraid,” and then in verse 35 he seems to change direction: "Be dressed for action and have your lamps lit; be like those who are waiting for their master to return from the wedding banquet, so that they may open the door for him as soon as he comes and knocks.” “Don’t be afraid,” Jesus says, “Be Ready.” "Be dressed for action and have your lamps lit:” don’t be like those who scour the pages of Scripture looking for codes, for signs, for numbers, and hidden messages that will reveal when the world will come crashing to a gruesome end. Be ready now for the work before you even now! Don’t be like those who cramp their necks from staring at the sky, waiting for the stars to fall and the elect to be called up to heaven, get busy bringing heaven and the love of God to folks on earth now! Be ready! Be like those who are waiting for their master to return, those who are about the work of straightening up the place, or setting things right, of doing what the master has called them to do. Be ready like them, not sitting on the couch, staring out the window so you can look busy when you see his car pull in the driveway. Be ready now by doing what the master has already called you to do!

            Jesus says, “Do not be afraid…Be ready.” But he doesn’t mean stockpiling rations or ammo, or building a zombie-proof bunker. He doesn’t mean making sure you’ve got all your doctrinal “I’s” dotted and all your theological “T’s” crossed. No, what he means is be ready to be found doing what we as disciples of Christ have always been called to do: share the love of God with the whole world. And here’s the crazy part to all of this: when we are found ready, found doing what Christ calls us to do, it is then that Christ returns that service back to us yet again. Listen to what he says in verse 37: “Blessed are those slaves whom the master finds alert when he comes; truly I tell you, he will fasten his belt and have them sit down to eat, and he will come and serve them.” It’s a complete reversal of roles! The master—upon finding his servants ready—serves them! Our reward for being ready, for being about the work of God’s kingdom, of bringing about the kingdom on earth as it is in heaven, is the selfless service of the God of the universe; the ever-deepening relationship God has established with us in Christ continues on into eternity.

            Now, the final verses of our text this morning lend themselves to “doomsday prophets” and those who like to use the “end of days” as a tool of fearful manipulation. They are, however, words from Jesus that are about so much more than making sure one has his or her ticket when the train for heaven blows its whistle. No, Christ’s words are about being ready, about doing the work he has called us all to every day, for we don’t know when our time may be up. Jesus says, “But know this: if the owner of the house had known at what hour the thief was coming, he would not have let his house be broken into. You also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour." It’s a bit of a shift from his previous words, but the message carries over. Be ready doing the work of the kingdom, for you don’t know when Christ will return, when your time is up, when you’ll have to give an account for what you’ve done with the gift you’ve been given, when you may have to answer for your selfishness or for the selfless ways you’ve given hope and shown love.

            Honestly, I think it boils down to this: Are you afraid, or are you ready? Are you afraid of the woes of the world as they’re told to you from your television of computer screen, or are you ready to fearlessly welcome the stranger, love your enemy, and pray for those who are different? Are you afraid of the eternal separation from God that is hell, or are you ready to spend every day from this one on living in the light of eternal love that only grows as you give it away? Are you afraid of losing everything you have, afraid of being hurt, afraid of being broken, afraid of being wrong, afraid of letting go, or are you ready to give away all you have, ready to risk loving those who may not love you back, ready to be broken so the light of Christ may shine through, ready to be a fool to the world so you may be wise in Christ, ready to let go of all that seeks to drag you down to keep you from doing and being what you know Christ is calling you to, ready to love and be loved by the God who knows you far better than you could ever know yourself? Are you afraid, or are you ready?

            "Do not be afraid…for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” God wants you to have the hope, joy, and love that comes from a life lived in the reality of the kingdom of heaven. It’s God’s good pleasure for you to have that reality even now, even in the midst of all that might scare you. "Do not be afraid,” for God has come near in Christ Jesus, and Christ is calling each and every one of us to “be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour." Are you afraid, or are you ready? Amen.

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[1] https://www.reference.com/world-view/many-times-bible-say-fear-7bca141376d0ed13

"The Disciples' Prayer" (Tenth Sunday after Pentecost)

Luke 11:1-13

1 He was praying in a certain place, and after he had finished, one of his disciples said to him, "Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples." 2 He said to them, "When you pray, say: Father, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come. 3 Give us each day our daily bread. 4 And forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us. And do not bring us to the time of trial." 5 And he said to them, "Suppose one of you has a friend, and you go to him at midnight and say to him, "Friend, lend me three loaves of bread; 6 for a friend of mine has arrived, and I have nothing to set before him.' 7 And he answers from within, "Do not bother me; the door has already been locked, and my children are with me in bed; I cannot get up and give you anything.' 8 I tell you, even though he will not get up and give him anything because he is his friend, at least because of his persistence he will get up and give him whatever he needs. 9 "So I say to you, Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. 10 For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. 11 Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for a fish, will give a snake instead of a fish? 12 Or if the child asks for an egg, will give a scorpion? 13 If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!"

             Who taught you how to pray? If I really think about it, I don’t think anyone taught me how (and I don’t mean that in a way that sounds self-sufficient or braggy). You see, like most of you, I grew up in the “Bible Belt,” in a culture where we pray before football games, before stock car races, before we eat our McNuggets, and sometimes even before we get a haircut. I grew up watching people all around me pray, bowing their heads, closing their eyes, some of them raising their hands. I listened as some of them prayed long-winded prayers, asking God to bless every grain of rice in the bowl and every pea in the pot. I listened as some folks slipped into the gilded language of Elizabethan English (most often mixing up their “thee’s” and “thou’s”). I even heard a few folks pray in tongues—a rather strange, Pentecostal phenomenon of which I am somewhat suspicious. I’ve listened as folks prayed earnestly, searching for words in times of grief and confusion, and I’ve listened to folks pray in such ways that it seemed to me they were praying because they liked the sound of their own voices. I especially like to hear people, congregations praying in unison; the sound of joined voices praying with one another moves something within my spirit. But no one ever really taught me how to pray.

            Sure, there were spiritual formation groups, retreats, and classes I took throughout college and seminary where I was shown new and different ways to pray. I was shown how to do what is called “centering prayer,” where one tries to calm all of the heart and mind’s distractions in order to focus wholly on Christ. I was told about ancient and traditional prayers of the Church, written prayers of which I was initially skeptical due to my coming to faith in a relatively conservative, rural, Baptist congregation, where we were a bit suspicious of all things written down and planned. The words of such prayers helped to shape my prayers, helping me to be more intentional about that which I prayed. Even now, I tend to use a prayer book for my daily prayers to help shape and focus my prayer time. But still, no one ever really taught me how to pray, you know, the mechanics of the whole things, the actual words and things I’m supposed to say when I pray. Did anyone teach you how to pray?

            Of course, in our text this morning, the disciples don’t ask Jesus to teach them to pray as if they’ve never prayed before or as if they’re unfamiliar with the very notion of prayer. Jesus’ disciples were Jews, raised in the traditions and customs of ancient Judaism—including prayer. They would have memorized certain prayers and heard many of the same prayers repeated throughout the day. They would have been more than a little familiar with the great prayers found in the Psalms and the ritual prayers that accompanied the cultic practices of the temple. So when they come to Jesus in verse one of our text this morning asking "Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples,” it is not because they are completely clueless about what it means to pray; there’s something more to it.

            You see, they wanted Jesus to teach them to pray “as John taught his disciples.” Now, that doesn’t mean that John taught his disciples some new-fangled way to pray involving secret yoga poses or magic words. No, what they mean is that John taught his disciples how to pray specifically for the movement John was hoping to see come about. He taught his disciples to pray in such a way that united them as a body of John-followers. Think about it like this: John taught his disciples how to pray for those things which he hoped his movement would accomplish, things like the revelation of the Messiah and the repentance and baptism of the masses. John’s teachings on prayer to his disciples would have shaped the way they understood God and the way they understood the mission John saw himself undertaking. This is no different with Jesus and his disciples, and this is why Jesus’ disciples come asking for him to teach them how to pray: they want to be united in their prayers, united in the way they understood God and the mission to which Jesus was calling them. They wanted to focus their prayers on that which defined the movement.

            With that in mind, Jesus’ response, his teachings on prayer, aren’t all that earth-shaking—at least not to us…at first. Luke gives us an abbreviated (or perhaps original) version of what we traditionally call “The Lord’s Prayer” from Matthew in verse 2-4: "When you pray, say: Father, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come. Give us each day our daily bread. And forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us. And do not bring us to the time of trial." Now, at first reading, at first hearing, this seems like a straightforward, business-as-usual, sort of prayer, but when we take a closer look at what Jesus is teaching his disciples (what Jesus is teaching us) about prayer we can’t help but notice some major points of understanding when it comes to how Jesus would have us understand God and the practice of prayer.

            First, Jesus tells his disciples to address God as “Father” (pater in Greek; abba in Hebrew/Aramaic). Jesus isn’t attempting to make some sort of revelatory remark about the gender of God or the nature of the Trinitarian relationship with such a title. Rather, Jesus, in teaching his disciples to address God as “Father,” is showing us that God is with whom we live in relationship. God is not an aloof deity, occupying a throne in some cloud-covered temple behind the black curtain of the cosmos. God is not to be addressed as if we’re writing a letter to a senator or the president of a university. God is close, relational, familiar. God is like our father, our parent, our friend, one with whom we can share our concerns, our joys, our very lives. While the term “Father” itself may be problematic for some (especially for those who have had terrible, abusive fathers), Jesus’ point is that God is relational, loving, close enough for us to boldly share our hearts and our lives with God through prayer.

            Jesus also reminds us that God is more than just a friend with who we can have a nice conversation, that God is more than an invisible therapist to whom we can “spill our guts.” God is God, the Holy other, the One whose name is righteous. That is why Jesus is quick to remind us in his exemplary prayer to say, “hallowed be your name.” It reminds us that the God to whom we pray is in fact the God of creation, the God of unending holiness, of infinite justice, of eternal love, and unfailing power. This God, who is as close to us as a parent, with whom we live in relationship, is the same God with the power to create the universe, to speak the world in to being, to calm the storm, and bring order out of chaos. This familiar, loving, all-powerful God is the God to whom we pray, and Jesus reminds us of that with the first words of his teachings about prayer.

            He goes on to say that we ought to pray, “Your kingdom come,” that the first petition we ought to make to God is for God’s kingdom and all of its reality to come about. So often we rush to ask God for those things we want, for those things we need, for those situations we want resolved right now. Here, however, we listen as Christ reminds us that the first thing any of us should want, the primary desire of the disciple’s heart is the arrival of God’s kingdom. I think that means far more than just leading our list of prayer requests with the arrival of God’s kingdom. I believe that means that the bringing of God’s kingdom ought to be at the forefront of our prayers and our actions, that we ought to the be about the business of bringing God’s kingdom to reality on earth as it is in heaven by doing the work Christ has called us to in loving God and loving each other, in building unity, creating peace, and doing justice.

            “Give us each day our daily bread” is more than a petition for provision; it is a reminder to all of us (especially those of us in positions of privilege and relative wealth) that all that we have comes from something outside of us, that ultimately, everything we have, all that we need comes from God. I’m reminded of a story a seminary professor told of praying for his dinner one evening. He found himself not only thanking God for the bread on his table, but for the grain that made the bread, for the farmer who grew it, for the baker who baked it, for the store that sold it, for the driver who delivered it…on and on he went until he realized that there was nothing he owned that didn’t depend on a vast web of people and circumstances (like weather) to bring it to him. If we ought to first pray for God’s kingdom to come, we ought to then take the time to remember from where all that we have truly comes.

            The third petition of Jesus’ exemplary prayer is: “And forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us.” Asking God for forgiveness of sins is nothing new, yet I can’t help but notice the second half of this petition: “for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us.” Now, that’s a bit different from the version I learned from Matthew’s gospel (“Forgive us…as we forgive those…”). Our forgiveness of others is implied here; it’s not conditional, nor does it follow after God’s forgiveness. Our forgiveness of others is a natural outpouring from God’s forgiveness to us.

            The final petition of the disciples’ prayer is: “And do not bring us to the time of trial.” This is a petition for God to stay with the disciples, to not abandon them when the way is trying and hope seems lost. It is a prayer for God to be present enough to deliver them from any sort of test, but we know that Jesus understands temptation, testing, and that such a prayer may be answered not by the avoidance of such trials, but by God’s presence with us in the midst of them.

            Jesus teaches his disciples to pray using this exemplary prayer, and then he rolls into a parable about a man who has some unexpected company at midnight, so he turns to a neighbor for some help. Jesus says in verses 5-8: "Suppose one of you has a friend, and you go to him at midnight and say to him, ‘Friend, lend me three loaves of bread; for a friend of mine has arrived, and I have nothing to set before him.' And he answers from within, ‘Do not bother me; the door has already been locked, and my children are with me in bed; I cannot get up and give you anything.' I tell you, even though he will not get up and give him anything because he is his friend, at least because of his persistence he will get up and give him whatever he needs.” Now, when I have heard this parable explained in the past it has usually been along the lines of something like, “if you’re persistent in your prayers, daily, constantly bringing your concerns before God, God will eventually answer them” (or something like that). Honestly, that always bothered me a little bit; I mean, the notion that we would have to constantly, repetitively, pester God with our concerns until God was forced to answer our prayers just so we’d leave God alone. But that sort of interpretation is based upon that one word in verse 8 being translated as “persistence.”  The word there in Greek is actually anaideia and is better translated as “shamelessness” or “boldness” and that sheds a different light on this parable from Jesus, especially given his words following the parable and the previous exemplary prayer we’ve already examined.

            You see, Jesus is not holding up to us a parable about a man who persistently nagged his neighbor at midnight until he provided bread for his guests—in fact, the parable never says anything of the sort. Instead, we need a little cultural understanding about hospitality in the first century. You see, you and I live in the American South, and we may think we have the market cornered on hospitality, but in the first century, in a culture based highly upon honor and shame, hospitality was a high, cultural expectation—even at midnight. So, when a guests arrives at midnight (as was likely to happen in a day before travel by car and airplane was so easily scheduled) one was expected to provide bread (three loaves was customary). So, when this man has no bread (and there’s no 24-hour Super Walmart) he goes to a neighbor, hoping to avoid the embarrassment of not being hospitable. It’s midnight; it’s a bold, shameless move to go and wake his neighbor, to trust that his neighbor will also be bold and want to avoid the shame of not being hospitable. You see, the point of the parable is not to be a nagging person when it comes to praying, but to be bold enough to approach God with your concerns, with your needs.

            Such a point is taken further by Jesus’ words following the parable in verse 9-13: “So I say to you, Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for a fish, will give a snake instead of a fish? Or if the child asks for an egg, will give a scorpion? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!"

            When the disciples ask Jesus to teach them to pray, Jesus teaches them to pray in such a way that boldly, shameless addresses God as a familiar, relational, holy deity who provides for our every need, walks with us through the trials of life, so that we may boldly bring about God’s kingdom on earth. We pray to a God who knows what we need far better than we can ever know, who provides for us in ways we may never fully appreciate, a God who is so close to us we can call on him like a parent. So, when we pray, we ought not to pray timidly, as if our prayers are not important, as if our concerns are little more than a bother to God. When we pray, we ought to bring our prayers shamelessly to God—our petitions, concerns, and confessions—for God desires to have such a relationship with us. When we pray—whether together as a congregation in this sanctuary or privately in our own homes—we ought to pray as Jesus taught us to pray: recognizing God as one who longs to be in relationship with us, as the holy God of the universe, whose in-breaking kingdom should be our utmost concern, who provides our every need and offers us the free forgiveness of his love and grace, while walking with us, even through life’s most trying times. May we pray as Jesus taught us to pray, with boldness, so that we may live as Christ calls us to live, without shame or fear, so that we may do what Christ calls us to do, to bring God’s kingdom on earth as it is in heaven. Amen.

"Go and Do Likewise" (Eighth Sunday after Pentecost)

No manuscript for this sermon, but here is the video (just in case you're interested).

"Freedom in Love" (Sixth Sunday after Pentecost)

Galatians 5:1, 13-25

1 For freedom Christ has set us free. Stand firm, therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery…

13 For you were called to freedom, brothers and sisters; only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence, but through love become slaves to one another. 14 For the whole law is summed up in a single commandment, "You shall love your neighbor as yourself." 15 If, however, you bite and devour one another, take care that you are not consumed by one another. 16 Live by the Spirit, I say, and do not gratify the desires of the flesh. 17 For what the flesh desires is opposed to the Spirit, and what the Spirit desires is opposed to the flesh; for these are opposed to each other, to prevent you from doing what you want. 18 But if you are led by the Spirit, you are not subject to the law. 19 Now the works of the flesh are obvious: fornication, impurity, licentiousness, 20 idolatry, sorcery, enmities, strife, jealousy, anger, quarrels, dissensions, factions, 21 envy, drunkenness, carousing, and things like these. I am warning you, as I warned you before: those who do such things will not inherit the kingdom of God. 22 By contrast, the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, 23 gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against such things. 24 And those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires. 25 If we live by the Spirit, let us also be guided by the Spirit.

            A man, a scribe, a lawyer, an expert in the Scriptures, once approached Jesus with a question. He had apparently heard some of Jesus’ teachings and felt like he was the guy to talk to, so he strolled up to Jesus and asked, “Alright rabbi, you seem pretty sharp on all this stuff, so I want to ask you: what’s the most important—the greatest—commandment?” I suppose he likely had one in mind, perhaps “do not covet your neighbor’s donkey,” or “do not kill,” or “you shall have no other God’s before me (God)…remember the Sabbath, keep it holy.” That’s usually how it goes with a loaded question: the one asking it already has a prepared answer and they are simply waiting to see if they get the response they’re after.

            In one version of the story, Jesus turns the question back on the lawyer and asks him, “Well, do you know what the Scriptures say?” and the man says, “God is one; love God with all you’ve got.” In other versions of the story, Jesus replies to the man’s question and says, “The first commandment is to love God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength—AND the second is just like it: love your neighbor as yourself. On these hang all of the law and the prophets.”

            It’s a pretty straightforward answer, but I have a feeling I know what happened after Jesus gave such an answer. It’s like a conversation I had a few weeks ago. A friend asked me: “Chris, what do you think would happen if Jesus just showed up in our Sunday School class one day and just laid it all out there, told us exactly how to live, how to behave; I mean, if he just showed up and said, ‘this is how it is’ and disappeared? What do you think would happen?” I told him: “I know exactly what would happen. Right after Jesus disappeared, there’d be a brief, awkward silence, maybe the rustling of the onion-skin pages of someone’s bible, and then someone would probably say, ‘Alright. Now this is what he really meant…’” I don’t doubt that there were people in the crowd following Jesus who, after hearing his response about the greatest commandment, would have said, “Now this is what he really meant…”

            We do that, you know? We do. When the teachings of Jesus are pretty plain, when he lays it all out there in black and white, when we hear it like a refrain running throughout the Scriptures, we feel like we’ve got to clarify it, like we’ve got to bend and mold it to fit our understanding, our comfort level, our preconceived notions of what it means to be right. Rather than allowing the words of Christ and the leading of the Holy Spirit to change us, to free us from the bondage of such notions as “you’ve got to do right to be right,” we’d rather search the words of the Bible, looking for a list of rules, a full description of what it means to be a “good Christian,” and then we hold ourselves and others hostage under such rules. We say things like, “The Bible says…” hoping to find some justification in our apparent need for such love-limiting laws, but the truth is we’re just not at all comfortable with the notion that it’s just that simple, that there isn’t some list of “dos and don’ts,” that the love of God is unconditional and unrestricted. It just makes us squirm with discomfort, because it leaves too many loose ends.

I think those who call themselves Christ-followers have had that problem, really, from the very beginning. Maybe it’s a suspicion hardwired into the reptilian parts of our brains that makes it hard to believe when something is too good to be true. Maybe it’s unconfessed guilt—the feeling that we’re not good enough, we don’t deserve the love of God—that causes us to want clearly defined rules, thickly drawn lines. Maybe it’s the realization that if the whole of who God is, who Christ calls us to be, is love—unconditional, unrestricted love—then that means we have to love those we don’t like, those who are different from us, those who we may say the Bible otherwise calls unworthy. Maybe it’s some combination of these things that leads us to lists of rules rather than love.

I have a feeling that was what drove the group of Paul’s opponents in Galatia (we talked about them last week), those who believed that it was important for one to be a “good Jew” in order to be a “good Christian,” that men had to be circumcised, that dietary laws had to be followed, that ritualistic rules regarding the Sabbath had to be observed. I don’t doubt that part of what drove such a group was the need to have a list of rules, a clearly defined prescription for “good, Christian people,” and what better place to find such rules than the Scriptures and the customs derived from them.  

            Paul, however, sees the need for such lists and prescriptions as slavery. He says to folks there in Galatia: “For freedom Christ has set us free. Stand firm, therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery. For you were called to freedom, brothers and sisters…” These aren’t just nice, Bible-sounding words. In the verses that follow, Paul argues against the prescribed necessity of circumcision, against the notion that one has to submit to the laws, traditions, and customs derived from the Hebrew Scriptures (our Old Testament) in order to be a follower of Jesus. Then, in the rest of our text this morning, Paul reminds the Galatians (and his opponents there) of Jesus’ words about the commandments. While they were fretting over following the law to the letter, of crossing every “t” and dotting every “i,” Paul reminds them of what Christ said about the law: “For the whole law is summed up in a single commandment, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself,’” to which I am sure some folks muttered under their breath, or passed noted to one another that said “what that really means is…”

             You see, for Paul (and I would argue, Jesus) this “greatest commandment” of loving God and neighbor isn’t simply some excuse to do whatever you want, some nullification of definition when it comes to following Jesus. On the contrary, I believe it’s a pretty radical, transformative, life-giving ethic. I believe it’s actually a call to an even higher way of living. Paul lays out a rather detailed description of such Christ-like living in verses 15 through 23 as he contrasts the “works of the flesh” with the “fruit of the Spirit,” and then in the second half of verse 23 through verse 25 Paul says, “There is no law against such things [that is, the fruit of the Spirit]. And those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires. If we live by the Spirit, let us also be guided by the Spirit.” In other words, if we are done living by the fleshly desires that cause us to harm ourselves and others, if we are done drawing lines around ourselves and others based upon such “works of the flesh,” then we ought to be guided by the same Spirit that reminds us time and time again that the greatest commandment is to love God and each other.

            But we like those lists; in fact, some may even be tempted to take these words from Paul and write a new list. In verses 19-21, Paul says, “Now the works of the flesh are obvious: fornication, impurity, licentiousness, idolatry, sorcery, enmities, strife, jealousy, anger, quarrels, dissensions, factions, envy, drunkenness, carousing, and things like these. I am warning you, as I warned you before: those who do such things will not inherit the kingdom of God.” There is a temptation to take this list and run with it, to use it as a checklist, to run down the list of such “works of the flesh” and right names beside each one, but I hope you’ve noticed what I did. You see, I may not be a sorcerer or a drunk or carouser or some of these other things on this “list,” but I get jealous. I’ve been angry. I’m not even sure how Paul would define “impurity,” but I can put a check by that one too. In fact, if I had to test myself against this list, I’m sure I’d fail.

            Well, let’s not dwell on the bad stuff, right? What about the “fruit of the Spirit”? We sing children’s songs about such things, so surely that’ll play out better for me, right? Let’s see: “By contrast, the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.” Those all sound nice. Yeah, those make a better list, a more positive way to discern if someone is “in.” But hold on; if I go down this list checking off boxes for myself I am afraid I’ll only be disappointed again. Love: sure, I love those folks who I find worthy of my love, those folks I find easy to love, those who don’t cause me trouble, but those who I don’t like, those who seek to do me harm, those who are my enemies, my opponents, my constant source of frustration…uh oh…Joy? Well, only when the situation calls for it, right? Peace? Sure, at Christmas time. Patience? Ask my wife about my patience when we’re getting ready to go somewhere and we still haven’t gotten Kohl dressed. Kindness? Ask someone I’ve been short to when I’ve had a rough morning…oh boy…Generosity? Ask the people I drive past on the highway without stopping if I’m generous, or the people whose homes have busted windows and trash in the yard on my way home…ask them. Gentleness? Maybe, if I’m not too frustrated. Self-control? Look at me. Do I look like someone with self-control, especially around peanut butter or ice cream? Here I am thinking this was a better list.

            Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe that’s what Paul really means—what Jesus really means—by summing up the whole of the law this way: "You shall love your neighbor as yourself." Maybe Paul was on to something when he says we are “called to freedom” to “become slaves to one another through love.” Maybe there is an inherit futility in our desire to live by lists, laws, and labels to bind ourselves up with rules, rituals, and restrictions. Perhaps in our incessant need clearly define who’s “in” and who’s “out,” who’s right and who’s wrong, we have forgotten the whole point of this gift we call life. You see, it is not our place to write the lists, to draw the circles, to say who does or doesn’t belong, because the truth is we’re likely on someone else’s lists, and, in the end, such a place belongs to the One who gave his life in the greatest act of selfless love. In the end, we are not called to the slavery of self-righteousness, no. In the end, we are called to the selfless enslavement of loving one another as Christ loves us.

            May we be free, then; free to love with limitations, free to serve others without condition, free to be the people Christ calls us to be, the people God has created us to be. May we be free in the unending, all-powerful, eternal, limitless, unconditional love of God. Amen. 

"Peeling off the Labels" (Fifth Sunday after Pentecost)

Galatians 3:23-29

23 Now before faith came, we were imprisoned and guarded under the law until faith would be revealed. 24 Therefore the law was our disciplinarian until Christ came, so that we might be justified by faith. 25 But now that faith has come, we are no longer subject to a disciplinarian, 26 for in Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith. 27 As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. 28 There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus. 29 And if you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham's offspring, heirs according to the promise.

             Perhaps you’ve heard the story about the little boy who went on his first plane ride with his parents. The night before, he packed his bag, laid out his traveling clothes, and even set his socks inside his shoes because he wanted to be sure to be ready in the morning. He didn’t sleep that night; he only thought about all the wonder and excitement there would be in his first ride in an airplane. When he woke up in the morning, he only ate one piece of toast—no butter (he could swear he remembered someone had told him it was better to travel without a full stomach). He loaded his suitcase in the trunk of the car all by himself, found his place in the backseat, and headed to the airport with his parents.  

            He found everything about the airport exciting. He couldn’t get over the parking deck, how his dad drove around and around, up and up, until he finally found an empty spot. As they unloaded the car, his dad said to him, “Now, help me remember son: we parked on the fourth level, yellow zone, section F4.” He lugged his bag to the elevator they took to the level for checking in, and even there he was amazed by all the people, from everywhere, who all had their own suitcases and places to go. Even the security line was fascinating to him; he especially liked the whole idea of taking his shoes off—something he always thought was frowned upon in public. When they finally made it to their gate, he stared out the window the entire time, watching as planes were being taxied from the landing strip to their gates, and he loved watching them shoot down the runway as they magically lifted off the ground, heading somewhere far away in a hurry.

            It wasn’t too long before their plane made it to the gate, and they were on their way down the jetway and onto the plane to find their seats. He asked his dad if he could sit by the window, because he didn’t want to miss anything. He stared out the little porthole the entire time, watching the crew stow the checked luggage, watching the ground begin to move after the thud of the taxi pushed the plane away from the gate. He continued to watch as the plane was pointed down the runway, and then, as the sound of the spooling engines roared over all other noise in his ears, he watched as the ground moved faster…and faster…and faster, until he suddenly felt the whole machine lift and the ground began to get farther and farther away.

            His dad watched him as he looked out the window, but once the pilot reached cruising altitude, he noticed his son wasn’t nearly as excited as he had been all morning. He asked him, “Son, is something wrong?” The little boy turned away from the window, looked down at the floor of the plane, and as he sunk into the seat he said, “There aren’t any lines.” The boy’s father was obviously confused so he asked, “What kind of lines aren’t there, son?” to which the boy replied, “You know, the lines that show where the states are, and there aren’t even any words to tell me which state is which!” I suppose when all you’ve ever seen of the country, all you’ve ever seen of the world, is a flat map or a round globe with lines drawn on it and words labeling one state or country from the next, you might come to expect to see those lines and labels from the window of an airplane.

            Isn’t it something, though, that once we get high enough, once we’ve reach a certain altitude in our own atmosphere, that the lines we’ve drawn and the labels we’ve made disappear? Or, perhaps it’s better to understand the fact that they were never really there in the first place. Of course, the reality is that we’ve drawn those lines; we’ve created those labels: lines to separate ourselves, labels to clearly tell who’s who and what’s what. Some of the lines we draw are ancient ones, lines first drawn by our ancestors centuries ago, lines drawn around ideologies, religion, and ethnicity. Some of the labels we use are also ancient, created in a time when we thought it beneficial to identify differences, to highlight possible threats.

Usually, when we draw such lines, it is so we can erect walls, put up fences, keep other people out, to say, “This in here is mine, and you aren’t allowed any part of it, at least not without my permission.” We tend to label people for the same reason: “These people are like me, while those people aren’t.” I’m afraid it’s a habit as old as humankind itself, and it’s one that, unfortunately, didn’t end even with the first generation of Christians—not even with some of those who actually heard Jesus “live and in person.” We know, because the apostle Paul had to deal with this sort of “line-drawing” and “label-making” in much of his ministry, particularly in his dealings with the church at Galatia.

You see, it was there in Galatia that Paul had to deal with a group of legalistic Christians some call “Judaizers.” While they were followers of Christ, they believed that every believer had to first become a practicing Jew before they could really be called a “follower of Jesus.” This meant a strict adherence to the law (the Torah) of the Hebrew Bible, including dietary laws, laws about the Sabbath, and laws concerning the cultic practices of the temple and ritual purity. They also believed that in order to be a true follower of Christ, every man had to be circumcised (now you can imagine the men just lining up to take part in that particular aspect of the law!). For Paul, this was ludicrous. The whole of Paul’s theology, his understanding of God in Christ was founded in the grace of God, the unmerited, unearned salvation of Christ, the freely given, eternal love of God. To ascribe to the law, to be enslaved to the ancient practices of ritual sacrifice and laws covering everything from the clothes you wear to the food you eat, flies in the face of grace according to Paul. To the apostle, the demand to be a “Jew first, then a Christian” seemed absolutely absurd—and I happen to think so too.

But to tell you truth, I can understand it—really I can. After all, how many of us would want to be a part of some organization our whole lives, having worked to reach a certain level of respect and recognition, only to have a crop of new folks come in and expect to be treated as equals? I can understand it, drawing lines, labeling things, saying this is how it has to be if you want to be a part of this. I remember when my step brothers first moved in: I went from one boy in one bed in one room, to four boys in one bed in one room. You better believe there was some line-drawing and label-making going on! “You can’t play with this; it’s only for Thomas’s…this is my side of the room and if you want to use anything over here you better ask me first.” I can understand the need to draw lines, to clearly point out the old rules to someone who wants to join in an established movement. I think that may have been part of what was going on with Paul’s opponents in Galatia: they were life-long Jews (most of them anyway) or Gentile converts who had obeyed the Law (including circumcision), and it just didn’t seem fair for others to join the Jesus movement without having to go through all that they had gone through. It didn’t seem fair that those folks got the same benefits they got. But, you know, that’s grace, after all.

That’s grace, to give one a “pass,” to forget about credentials and certificates of authenticity. Grace says, “I may have been at this longer than you, and I may have earned this more than you, but come on in anyway—in fact, have more than me.” Grace says there’s no distinction based on age, experience, tenure, or history: anyone who comes is welcome. That’s grace, but grace…well, if we’re honest, we don’t like grace, at least not when it’s extended to others. Grace for me is fine—“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me—but grace for you…well, let me get to know you a little first. Grace peels back the labels, erases the lines we’ve attempted to draw separating the “worthy” from the “unworthy,” the “good” from the “bad,” and the “sinner” from the “saint.” However, when we start talking about the grace of God, the love of Christ, like that…when we start talking about how God has erased those labels we’ve made…when we start quoting verse 28 of our text this morning, “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus” especially in a day when folks get awful caught up in trying to label people one way or another…well, folks start squirming a bit. After all, those labels exist for a reason; those lines were drawn for a reason, weren’t they?

I’m sure Paul’s opponents in Galatia made that argument, that in order to be heirs to Abraham’s promise, followers of Jesus had to follow the same covenant of Abraham, the same laws his descendants had been following for centuries. I’m also pretty sure that at the heart of their insistence on becoming “Jews first” there was a hope that maybe, just maybe, these Gentile converts, these slaves, these women, these sinners, these not-like-them-at-all kind of folks would just give up and not want to be a part of the movement, because, you know, if you don’t want someone in your group, if you don’t want someone around you, in your circles, in your community, all you have to do is make a few laws they’ll never be able to keep—you know, like voting tests and poll taxes. If you want to keep someone out, someone you don’t want in, just make it really hard for them, or better yet, if you’re a religious person, use religion. At least you’ll feel a bit better about yourself. You could stand on street corners with signs printed with obscure biblical references, calling out the sins in a community of people. Perhaps you could make a list of all the things, all the practices, all the required church services one has to attend, the proper way to be baptized, the right translation of the Bible to read, the proper percentage of your gross income to tithe…maybe you could set down a list of all of those things you find in scripture that “good, godly people” are supposed to do, and then, when others can’t live up to them, pat them on the head and tell them you’ll pray for them. That’ll keep them out.

Or you could revert back to that most ancient practice, the one which Paul decries so directly in the text before us this morning; you could just label folks. It’s not that hard really, just find a flaw, a characteristic, an orientation, an identity that another person has that you find unsavory, unfit, or just down right unbearable and call it out. Call it out and name those who claim it to be unworthy of Christ’s love, unworthy of God’ grace, unworthy of the salvation which you have so freely and unconditionally been given. That’s what we do, you know: we label folks with words and titles and then we say they aren’t worthy, that the Bible says they’re bound for hell. But can I tell you something? We can create whatever labels we want, we can conjure them up from the very pages of our King James Bibles and we can place them on the heads of those we’d like to see left outside of God’s kingdom, but every single time we do, God’s grace peels the label right off. Every single time we try to limit the love of God by labeling someone as “unworthy,” “heathen,” “abomination,” “reprobate,” “sinner,”—every single time the unconditional grace of God rips that label off to show us that beneath every label we make for ourselves and for one another, under every attempt we’ve made to raise ourselves above someone else or to bring other below us, under every label there is but one truth: each and every one of us is a child of God, called to a life of faith in love through Jesus Christ. God’s grace peels off the labels and clothes us with Christ, and in Christ, “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; [there is no longer black or white, there is no longer rich or poor, there is no longer ‘normal’ or ‘different,’ there is no longer gay or straight, there is no longer democrat or republican, there is no longer ‘us’ or ‘them’] for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.” The labels have been peeled off. Thanks be to God. Amen.