Monday, September 22, 2014

Unfair Pay (Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost)

Matthew 20:1-18
1 "For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire laborers for his vineyard. 2 After agreeing with the laborers for the usual daily wage, he sent them into his vineyard. 3 When he went out about nine o'clock, he saw others standing idle in the marketplace; 4 and he said to them, "You also go into the vineyard, and I will pay you whatever is right.' So they went. 5 When he went out again about noon and about three o'clock, he did the same. 6 And about five o'clock he went out and found others standing around; and he said to them, "Why are you standing here idle all day?' 7 They said to him, "Because no one has hired us.' He said to them, "You also go into the vineyard.' 8 When evening came, the owner of the vineyard said to his manager, "Call the laborers and give them their pay, beginning with the last and then going to the first.' 9 When those hired about five o'clock came, each of them received the usual daily wage. 10 Now when the first came, they thought they would receive more; but each of them also received the usual daily wage. 11 And when they received it, they grumbled against the landowner, 12 saying, "These last worked only one hour, and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the day and the scorching heat.' 13 But he replied to one of them, "Friend, I am doing you no wrong; did you not agree with me for the usual daily wage? 14 Take what belongs to you and go; I choose to give to this last the same as I give to you. 15 Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am generous?' 16 So the last will be first, and the first will be last."

            I am no longer surprised when I catch a glimpse of the gospel in an unexpected place, in an unexpected medium, in the words of an unexpected prophet. One instance that comes to mind this morning happened a little over three years ago, in June of 2011. The unexpected prophet was a balding, red-haired, standup comic named Louis C.K. Now, I have to tell you, I’ve always thought of comics like Chris Rock and George Carlin as sort of “accidental prophets,” and Louis C.K. is right up there with them. He’s extremely bright, calling the culture he sees out on its shallowness and ridiculousness, but his comedy is a little too “blue” at times, so I can’t say I’d recommend that you run home and look for his standup shows on YouTube (that is to say, his comedy isn’t “family friendly”).
            In June of 2011, however, the second season premiere of Louis C.K.’s self-titled comedy Louie aired on the FX network. I’ve actually never seen an entire episode of this show, but I remember seeing all kinds of posts about one specific scene in this particular episode on social media, so I decided to check it out. What I saw was a glimpse of gospel truth.
            The scene involves Louie preparing a meal in the kitchen (he’s a single dad raising two daughters in New York City). While he’s over the stove cooking in the small, galley kitchen, his youngest daughter is standing there with him and asks if she can have a mango pop(sicle). He had given his oldest daughter one as a reward for finishing her homework, so his youngest daughter naturally thought she should get one too. Louie tells her there was only one, and you can probably guess what happened next. His youngest daughter begins a repetitious protest of “that’s not fair,” but her dad tries to explain to her that life isn’t fair and maybe next time she’ll be the lucky one who gets the last of something. Her protest continues on, until Louie gets down on his knees, down on her level, and he tries to focus her attention on the words he’s trying to tell her: “The only time you look in your neighbor’s bowl is to make sure they have enough. You don’t look in their bowl to see if you have as much as them.” The depth of that statement is lost on the little girl as she asks if she could just have a chocolate. The truth is though I think the depth of that statement is lost on a lot of us as well. It’s a truth that resonates in the parable of Jesus we’ve heard from Matthew’s gospel this morning.
            I have to say, at first reading, this is a difficult parable to hear, especially if we bring it into the light of our own context. God’s kingdom is like a contractor who went to the Lowe’s parking lot early one morning to hire out some day laborers and after telling them what he’ll pay, they jumped in the back of the truck and off to the worksite they went. A couple of hours later, on another run to the hardware store, he sees some more workers standing around, waiting to be hired, so he tells them to hop in and he’ll pay them what’s right. The same thing happened on his lunch break and on a mid-afternoon run to pick up some more supplies. Then, right before quitting time, he went back and still saw a few workers standing there, looking desperate. He asked them, “Why have y’all been standing there with your teeth in your mouth all day?” “Because no one has hired us yet even though we’ve been looking all day,” they replied. He tells them to climb on in and they go to work for him the rest of the day. When it was time to punch out (and since they were all day laborers, likely without any papers) they all lined up to get their pay for their day’s work. The contractor told his supervisor to start doling out the pay with the last ones hired and go through the first ones hired early that morning. They all got paid the same thing, so, as you can imagine, the ones who had been working since the early morning hours complained that they got paid the same as those who didn’t even work long enough to break a sweat. “That’s not fair!” they protested. They did, however, get paid exactly what was agreed upon—one day’s wages, no more, no less—and the others got paid what the contractor thought was right. After all, he was the “job creator,” the one with the money.
            That just doesn’t sit well with us, the thought of paying someone who worked less the same as someone who worked more (or was at least on the clock longer). It doesn’t jive with our twenty-first century, American, Protestant-work-ethic-driven, sensibilities. It’s not fair! What’s worse is that the last thing Jesus says in this parable is so often repeated out of context that its actual meaning is lost on us: “So the last will be first, and the first will be last." We jokingly use this sentence when we’re getting in line a covered dish lunch (“Oh, I’ll go to the end of the line, because you know, ‘the last will be first, and the first will be last’”), or we use it as a sort of dismissive statement when our team hasn’t won a game all season (“Well we might be in last place, but you know ‘the last will be first, and the first will be last’”).
            I believe this last sentence is a sort of lens through which to view this parable, but it’s a lens that’s a bit difficult to focus because it’s smeared with the fingerprints of other, easy interpretations. For example, it’s a bit easy to read that last sentence and exhale a sigh of relief if we simply understand that this is a parable about heaven, and the whole “last-shall-be-first/first-shall-be-last” thing is actually about salvation. It frees us from the inherent difficulties and discomforts of Jesus’ parable if we simply believe that what we’ve heard is a metaphor for heaven and the “reward” that awaits all the “laborers” when they get there. One way to look at it would be to say that it doesn’t matter if you’ve been a Christian since you were seven or seventy-seven, every Christian gets the same thing in the kingdom of heaven: no one gets a bigger mansion than anyone else, no one gets to live closer to Jesus than anyone else, no one gets first dibs when it comes to the best seat at the great heavenly banquet. One way to understand this parable through the “last-is-first/first-is-last” lens is to see it as a parable about heaven and how everybody is going to get the same thing when they get there, everyone will be equal in their heavenly possessions. That’s an easy way to look at it.
            But to look at this parable as simply an allegory about heaven, about “there and then” and not about “here and now” ignores the reality of the parable, the reality of the present Kingdom of God. It ignores what the gospel has to say about God and God’s relationship to us in the present. Perhaps the more rebellious among us might hear Jesus’ words about the last being first and the first being last as a clarion call to upset the status quo, a call to stand up against injustice, a call for the 99% to topple the 1% in order to make sure there’s enough for everyone to share in the abundance of God’s creation, a call to make sure the laborers are all paid a living wage and there’s plenty of work to go around. On the other hand, the more cautious among us might take Jesus’ words as a warning not to think too highly of ourselves, a cautionary parable about our relative worth in the global market of existence. As for me, well, I prefer to wrestle with the words of the text as they are: “the last will be first, and the first will be last.” When I hear those words, when I read this parable through the lens of those words, the one thing that continues to come back to the front of my mind are the same words spoken by a little girl who doesn’t get the same thing her sister got: “It’s not fair.”
            Friends, the world in which live is filled with unfairness; it often seems as if it’s the fuel that makes this planet rotate on its axis and propel around the sun. A loving, able couple in the doctor’s office hears the news that they are unable to have children of their own, while in the clinic across town a couple gets the news they’ll have another baby—another mouth they can’t feed, another “dependent,” another child they don’t want, another “problem” to which they seem ignorant of a solution.  A high school senior works hard to get good grades, spends all of her free time in community service, and works at night to help with expenses at home, but she didn’t get the scholarship for which she worked so hard because someone who was a friend of a friend of a member of the board made sure his son got it. A hard working employee is denied a promotion because the boss did a favor for someone else and that person got the job. Millions of people go hungry while millions of others waste more than they could ever eat…
Too many times it seems the world marches to the tune of “it’s not fair.” But I want to tell you something that might shock you, might throw you off just a bit. You see, it doesn’t take much for us to observe the world around us and declare loudly “it’s not fair!” But I think that this parable from Jesus also tells us that the Kingdom of God…well…it isn’t fair either! Because, if we get past the notion that this is a parable about heaven, past the notion that it’s about everybody getting the same, heavenly possessions on the other side of eternity, if we get past that, what we realize is that the gospel is inherently unfair—and thank God it is! That I should be included in that great cloud of witnesses with the likes of Peter, Mary, Paul, Moses, Ruth, Francis of Assisi, Clarence Jordan, Teresa of Calcutta, Thomas Merton, and the countless saints whose lowest depths of piety far exceed my greatest heights, that is not fair! That the same God who created the universe and everything in it, the same God who dwelt in fire, smoke, and mystery became like us in every way that we might know that God in a deeply intimate way—that’s not fair! That the same God who holds the power to breathe life into dust, breathed his last on a cross so that the world may know that in Christ the love of God is made real—that’s not fair!
While we could count all the ways in which the love of God in Christ is not fair, while we could count all the ways we do not deserve such grace, such love, and yet God freely gives it to us, it is just as real, just as crucial to understand that God calls us to share that unfair love with the world! That the unfairness of the gospel is one that does in fact call Christ’s Church to stand up to injustice, it is a call to set the balances of this world right, to be sure there is enough for everyone, for we cannot tell a hungry, dying world that God loves them while hoarding the wealth, food, and health for ourselves.
This parable of unfair pay is not a parable about the unfair work of those who work longer but don’t get as much. It isn’t a parable about the unfair distribution of wealth. It is a parable about the unfair love of God! May you come to know that unfair love today. May you hear the call of God to share that unfair love with the world, a love that seeks to put things on earth as it is in heaven, a love that seeks to make sure that all of God’s people are loved and looked after. May you experience that unfair love, hear that call to share it, and never be the same. Amen. 

Foolish Power (Holy Cross, Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost)

1 Corinthians 1:13-25
18 For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. 19 For it is written, "I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and the discernment of the discerning I will thwart." 20 Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? 21 For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, God decided, through the foolishness of our proclamation, to save those who believe. 22 For Jews demand signs and Greeks desire wisdom, 23 but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, 24 but to those who are the called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. 25 For God's foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God's weakness is stronger than human strength.

            I think it is safe to say that each of us in this place this morning has done one or two things in our lives that we might call foolish. Maybe it’s something you look back on with frustration or perhaps embarrassment. Maybe it’s something you consider to be a sort of educational experience from your youth. Or, maybe, it’s something you reflect on with a sense of humor and chalk it up to a good story. I’d like to think that’s how I recall one of those foolish moments in my life. It was 1993, and I was a kid in Mrs. MacArthur’s third grade class at College Street Elementary. For the first (and only) time in my life I was going to participate in a spelling bee. The way it was explained to us was that we had to have a class spelling bee, and then the winner from our class would compete with other winners from other classes, and so on. I have to be honest with you, I remember being kind of excited about the whole ordeal because Mrs. MacArthur made it sound so exciting (especially when she started tossing around the possibility of going to the national spelling bee).
            When the day came for our class-wide spelling bee, Mrs. MacArthur thought it would be fair to line us up alphabetically as we were given words to spell, and since my name was Thomas, I was used to finding my way towards the back of the line. Now, I was what they call “gifted” in the third grade, and I can tell you from experience, there is nothing worse than a smart third grader who knows he’s smart. So as each of my classmates were given a word like shoe or house, I started thinking how easy this was going to be, and then came my turn. I stepped up to the designated line in the hardwood floor, and Mrs. MacArthur said, “Chris, your word is ‘river’.” In the split second between her giving me the word, and my response I am convinced some form of an arrogant sneer must have come across my face as I heard a quick chuckle in my sub-conscience. In the correct spelling bee form of “word-spelling-word” I said, “River. R-I-V-I-R. River.” By the time I realized what just happened, it was too late to re-inhale the breath that bore my response. I was out in the first round of my third grade spelling bee because of a foolish mistake.   
            We have all done something foolish in our lives, whether it is something we can look back on and laugh or something that causes our lips to quiver and our eyes to water. There are things that we feel may be too embarrassing or awkward to share with others. After all, we wouldn’t want anyone thinking we are somehow flawed or imperfect. Would it comfort you to know that you are not alone when it comes to those feelings of foolishness? Would it comfort you to know that you are not the only one who has something in your life that you’d rather not share with others? Would it comfort you to know someone more, shall we say, holy has shared in such feelings? If you will, let me read to you an account of an individual who was perhaps doing just that:
So they took him and brought him to the Areopagus and asked him, ‘May we know what this new teaching is that you are presenting? It sounds rather strange to us, so we would like to know what it means.’ Now all the Athenians and the foreigners living there would spend their time in nothing but telling or hearing something new. Then Paul stood in front of the Areopagus and said, ‘Athenians, I see how extremely religious you are in every way. For as I went through the city and looked carefully at the objects of your worship, I found among them an altar with the inscription, “To an unknown god.” What therefore you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you. The God who made the world and everything in it, he who is Lord of heaven and earth, does not live in shrines made by human hands, nor is he served by human hands, as though he needed anything, since he himself gives to all mortals life and breath and all things…While God has overlooked the times of human ignorance, now he commands all people everywhere to repent, because he has fixed a day on which he will have the world judged in righteousness by a man whom he has appointed, and of this he has given assurance to all by raising him from the dead.’  When they heard of the resurrection of the dead, some scoffed; but others said, ‘We will hear you again about this.’ At that point Paul left them. (Acts 17:19-25, 30-33)

Maybe you’ve heard that story before, and you’re wondering to yourself, “How does that sound anything like foolish?” This is Luke’s account of Paul’s sermon at the Areopagus (i.e. Mar’s Hill) in Acts 17, and here we see what seems to be a great apologetic defense of the Christian faith to all manner of ancient philosophers and religious leaders. It is no wonder that there are so many church’s springing up with names derived from this account, because the apostle Paul does seem to stand up for the gospel in the midst of such pluralistic scrutiny. If that is in fact the case, then how on earth is this an example of foolishness? If we are to hold this account up as a precious stone with many facets, how could we ever find a flaw? Perhaps the very next verse of Luke’s account (Acts 18:1) can provide a good starting point: After this Paul left Athens and went to Corinth. And it is in Corinth that we find our text this morning.
Perhaps when Paul arrived in Corinth, and in his subsequent correspondence with the congregation there, he realized something had been missing from his presentation in Athens, some portion of wisdom, for in the passage we have read here today, the apostle goes to great lengths to distinguish between the foolishness of the world and the wisdom of God. In verses 18-19 he writes, “For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. For it is written, ‘I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and the discernment of the discerning I will thwart.’” The congregation at Corinth was experiencing something similar to what Paul had experienced at the Areopagus: they were in a position where they were going to have to defend their faith. This, I think, is where Paul’s reflection on his actions in Athens comes to play in his words to the believers in Corinth.
Notice what he writes in verses 23-25: “but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, but to those who are the called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For God's foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God's weakness is stronger than human strength." If you were going to highlight any particular phrase in that declaration from Paul it we be those first words: “we proclaim Christ crucified.” Now, there is something interesting about those words. If you recall what we heard earlier from Acts 17, there is no mention of the name Christ, nor is there any mention of crucifixion. While at the Areopagus, Paul simply stressed the resurrection of Christ, and refers to him ambiguously as “a man whom God has appointed to judge the world.” Perhaps at the time Paul thought the best way to convince the wise ones of the world was through the world’s brand of reason, to proclaim the gospel in terms of philosophical timekeeping and judgment. After all, we know that in the first century the idea of worshipping a crucified God was nothing short of foolishness.
Near the Palatine Hills in Rome there was a bit of ancient graffiti crudely scratched into a plaster wall. The Alexamenos Graffito (also known as the graffito blasfemo) depicts a man, presumably an early Christian named Alexamenos, worshipping a figure stretched on a cross—that figure has the head of a donkey. The inscription reads, “Alexamenos worshipping his god.” To the ancients (both Greco-Roman and Jewish) the idea that a God or messiah would be crucified bordered on the edge of improbable. It was foolish. Jews in the ancient world scoffed at the idea of the Messiah being crucified—a curse according to the Hebrew Scriptures. The ancient Greeks and Romans worshipped an entire pantheon of indestructible gods who made their abode atop Mt. Olympus and dared the mortals below to provoke them. So, maybe, just maybe, when Paul stood in the Areopagus to preach to those who wanted to hear this “new thing,” he elected to omit the necessary reality of the crucifixion in order not to ostracize his audience.
Can you blame him though? After all, how many times have you had a conversation with someone and the talk turns to religion, and all you manage to say is that you believe in God and attend church regularly? How many times have you held back from doing what you felt the Holy Spirit was calling you to do just because you thought someone might make a fool of you? How many times have you stood with your feet glued to the floor when God calls you to move just because you don’t want to look foolish? We could go around this room and collect volumes of those kinds of stories, so maybe we shouldn’t rush to judge Paul’s shortcomings at Athens; after all, there were some who believed (though no church), and he did go on to Corinth where he established a church on the foundation of proclaiming a crucified Christ.
Christ crucified. For Paul, this is not some historical point on a map of Jesus’ accomplishments; this is the crux of Jesus’ identity as savior. He was crucified; he is crucified. It seems foolish, foolish to worship a savior who would die, foolish to serve one who did not deliver himself from pain, torment, and death, foolish to worship a God who has died a cruel, criminal’s death. And you know what? It is foolish! But thanks be to God for Paul’s words in verse 25: “For God's foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God's weakness is stronger than human strength.”
We have all done something foolish at some point in our lives, and you may be reluctant to share such experiences with others. But do not think that the foolishness of following Christ is not worth sharing. You may find it difficult, just as Paul did at Athens, to speak the name of Christ and the truth of his crucifixion in the midst of listening ears, but do not be afraid. You may be called foolish, but the foolishness of God is greater than the wisdom of this world. So be foolish, foolish in your reckless proclamation of the crucified God. May you be foolish in your love for others as Christ was foolish in his love for you. May you be foolish and believe in the power that Christ demonstrated in his selfless love for humankind in his death upon the cross, and may you find in the power of Christ’s crucifixion salvation, hope, peace, joy, and love. May you be foolish today. Amen.


Preaching to the Choir (Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost)

Ezekiel 33:7-11
7 So you, mortal, I have made a sentinel for the house of Israel; whenever you hear a word from my mouth, you shall give them warning from me. 8 If I say to the wicked, "O wicked ones, you shall surely die," and you do not speak to warn the wicked to turn from their ways, the wicked shall die in their iniquity, but their blood I will require at your hand. 9 But if you warn the wicked to turn from their ways, and they do not turn from their ways, the wicked shall die in their iniquity, but you will have saved your life. 10 Now you, mortal, say to the house of Israel, Thus you have said: "Our transgressions and our sins weigh upon us, and we waste away because of them; how then can we live?" 11 Say to them, As I live, says the Lord God, I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but that the wicked turn from their ways and live; turn back, turn back from your evil ways; for why will you die, O house of Israel?

            What can the preacher preach to a gathered congregation during those times when the world seems so dark? What can the proclaimer proclaim when it seems like the battle is lost and the enemy has one? What can the politician pronounce to his supporters when it’s time to concede without dissolving all hope for the future?  What can a prophet prophesy to a people in the midst of exile? What words could such a prophet say to an entire nation (or at least the captive upper-class) that has been carted off from their homeland and relocated within the borders of a heathen kingdom? Surely such a task would seem great, nearly impossible. To keep the people’s eyes fixed on hope without ignoring the current situation, without lying about the reality of the future, surely it would feel like an enormous burden. This is just the predicament in which we find the prophet Ezekiel in the book that bears his name.
            Ezekiel is what we call an “exilic” prophet, which means his time spent as a prophet was during the Babylonian Exile of the kingdom of Judah which began in 597 B.C.E. with the deportation of Judah’s upper-class elites and reached its climax with the destruction of Jerusalem and the temple in 586 B.C.E. after a failed uprising from the people of Judah. The exile would end only with the fall of the Babylonian Empire to the Persians in 538 B.C.E. Ezekiel was likely a part of the first wave of deportations that began in 597 B.C.E. Therefore, Ezekiel’s prophetic career takes place among the elite exiles in Babylon. The prophet is charged by God with the task of preaching, prophesying to those whose homeland had been lost, destroyed, those whose hope may have been destroyed with it. Ezekiel is charged by God to prophesy to these people (which it may be pertinent to mention here that the biblical understanding of “prophesy” is not “to tell the future,” but to speak on behalf of God to the people of God); he is called to prophesy to them in the midst of their despair. That is a heavy burden to bear indeed—and for more reasons than we may realize.
I suppose if Ezekiel was most concerned about the emotional well-being of the people, he might have made grand speeches riddled with apocalyptic references of a coming day when the heathen Babylonians would be crushed and all of the good people of Judah would not only be saved from such wrath, but given back everything they once possessed, ten times over. I suppose Ezekiel could have stood among the grieving people and proclaimed to them that everything was going to be alright, that everything that happens to them is a “part of God’s plan,” and that God’s plan surely included the proliferation of (the then divided and depraved) nation of Israel. Ezekiel could have stood among the people there in Babylon and preached to them that God was totally, completely on their side, that they had in fact done nothing wrong and God was going to put everything back the way it used to be because that’s the way it ought to be. I suppose the prophet could have said that to the people.
Prophets and preachers do that sometimes you know? When it seems like reality is too harsh, or it seems like “the way things are” are worse than “the way things used to be,” they wrap the hard truth of the present in a lighter, easier-to-swallow, pseudo-theology, even throwing in a proof-text or two just to make it all seem legitimate. They tend to ignore the present with all of its difficulties, and perhaps more importantly, they conveniently forget the evil of the so-called “good ole days” and how such actions brought them to their current place. They point instead to rose-colored future that promises that everything is going to be alright, and there’ll be cake and ice cream, dancing, no taxes, and all the comfort one can stand. If Ezekiel was looking to settle the people down, have them eating out of his hand, and dumping piles of money in the plate when it passed by, then I suppose he could’ve prophesied about the coming calamity to Babylon and the coming comfort to the people of Judah. But that’s not what Ezekiel prophesied.
I suppose he could have played it another way: he could have pointed to the destruction caused by the Babylonians, to the power exhibited by the great empire as it so easily expel the elite of Judah. Ezekiel could have proclaimed to the people there in Babylon of a coming great day of fire; he could pounded the pulpit and spit into the third row as he shouted, red-faced, about the hellfire and brimstone that boiled in the bowls of the Babylonian hell for those towards whom God’s wrath was so obviously stirred! He could have fanned his arms out, symbolically encircling the masses, and preached of the coming day when all of those who stand against the God of Judah will be thrown into an eternal pit of black fire, and how such destruction caused by the Babylonians would seem like joy and relief in such a day. I suppose the prophet could have shouted that at the people.
Prophets and preachers do that sometimes you know? When it seems the call to love God and our neighbors as ourselves isn’t filling the pews, when it seems that the reality of God’s love is no longer keeping the church coffers full, and fewer folks are showing up to Sunday School because it seems that the truth of Christ’s call to self-sacrifice just isn’t compelling folks to show up, well, that’s when the tone changes to talk of hellfire and demonic torture. Because nothing fills the pews and gets folks “convicted” like (literally) scaring the hell out of them! For whatever reason, it always seem more persuasive to threaten folks with the wrath of hell and damnation than to show them the love of God and the path of selflessness Christ calls us to follow. If Ezekiel was looking to stir the people up, “prick their hearts,” and move them to conviction; if Ezekiel wanted a “full altar” after the first stanza of “Just As I Am,” then he could have exposed the exiles to the obvious wrath of God, present in the power of Babylon. But that isn’t exactly what Ezekiel prophesied.
You see, Ezekiel wasn’t concerned about how the people would respond to his words (a trait I’m afraid is scarce among contemporary “prophets”). Ezekiel didn’t allow the hypothetical response of the exiles to his message sway what God had given him to say or how he would say it. No, if we hear anything in these verses we’ve read today it’s that Ezekiel was charged to proclaim exactly what God had given him to proclaim—regardless of how the people might respond. After all, the response of the people to the prophet’s words (God’s words) was the responsibility of the people, not the prophet. The prophet’s responsibility was to be sure to proclaim what God had given him to proclaim. This isn’t just a word of warning and instruction to the prophet Ezekiel in the sixth century B.C.E., this is a word for prophets, preachers, and believers today.
I’m not sure exactly when it started, perhaps it was in the 1960s with Donald McGavran and the so-called “Church Growth Movement” out of California, reaching its crescendo in the 1990s with Bill Hybels and the “seeker-sensitive” movement out of Illinois, but at some point in recent history, Christianity in this country became obsessed with numbers. I mean everything was about numbers. It got to the point where the gospel was watered down to prosperity hocus-pocus or roasted over an open pit of fire from hell, just to get folks to fill the pews, build colossal auditoriums, and swell budgets. It’s not just megachurches that were (and still are) concerned about numbers, but small churches tried every boxed program from their denomination that guaranteed church growth, and when that didn’t work, they either fired the pastor or began to claim that the megachurch model was the worst thing ever (while of course secretly wishing they could be just like those big churches).
Because of this new, number-driven way of doing ministry, preachers began pulling back on the reins or they began shaking their congregations favorite sugar stick in the pulpit, whatever would get them in the pews and keep them there. Baptisms became competition events in order to see who could have the most at one time, in one year, and who could come up with the most creative ways to do them. Education buildings were erected with coffee bars, rock-climbing walls, and children’s worship areas designed by the “Imagineers” at Disney (I even heard of a church in Arkansas with a baptistry shaped like a fire truck, complete with flashing lights and a siren that would go off every time a child was baptized!). Whatever it took to get the numbers higher so the church’s or the pastor’s name could be printed in the denominational newspaper. It didn’t matter if the word from God got smaller, so long as the numbers and the building got bigger.
You see, the prophet Ezekiel could have had an easy time in Babylon if he had taken such an approach, if he had only told the people whatever it took to get them on his side, to get them to pay attention. But Ezekiel was a true prophet—not one who tells the congregation it’s all about them and not about God. Ezekiel was told to proclaim the words God gave him and leave the results up to the people themselves. You see, when we become so focused on the response to the good news of God’s love and salvation we too often forget to actually show and tell that good news. God gave Ezekiel a hard word in a difficult time, no different that the word that Christ gave to his followers when he told them to take up their own crosses if they want to follow him. That’s the word God still gives us, the word to take up our cross and follow Jesus. That’s the word he gives us to share and show the world. We cannot get so tangled up in what we might imagine the response to such a word would be. We must be faithful in living it out and proclaiming it!
You see, there’s a frightening word that God give Ezekiel in this passage, a frightening word about the consequences of not proclaiming the whole of God’s message. In verses 8 and 9 God says to the prophet:  “If I say to the wicked, ‘O wicked ones, you shall surely die,’ and you do not speak to warn the wicked to turn from their ways, the wicked shall die in their iniquity, but their blood I will require at your hand. But if you warn the wicked to turn from their ways, and they do not turn from their ways, the wicked shall die in their iniquity, but you will have saved your life.” That may be a hard word to hear—that if we are silent, if we do not share the love of Christ with those both in our words and our deeds—we may be held responsible. That is to say, if we are more concerned with how others perceive us, if we are concerned with having to give up some of our comfort, of we are concerned that things might actually have to change because of the truth of the gospel—then we may be held responsible for the change that DOES NOT happen. However, if we do our best to live the truth of Christ’s gospel, if we deny ourselves, take up our crosses, and follow Jesus, if we seek to do as Francis of Assisi so wonderfully put it, “preach the gospel always, [using] words when necessary”—then we will have not sacrificed the integrity of the gospel for the popularity of prosperity. We will have been faithful in what God has called us to be.

May we heed the words God spoke to the prophet Ezekiel all those years ago. May we never forsake the gospel, the call Christ has given us, for the sake of comfort. May we never be led to believe that the reason we exist as a church is to achieve “higher numbers.” May we always understand our calling to be that of the prophet, one who proclaims and lives the gospel of Christ, regardless of how the world may respond. Amen. 

Get Your Mind Right (Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost)

Matthew 16:21-28
21 From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised. 22 And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him, saying, "God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you." 23 But he turned and said to Peter, "Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me; for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things." 24 Then Jesus told his disciples, "If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. 25 For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it. 26 For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or what will they give in return for their life? 27 "For the Son of Man is to come with his angels in the glory of his Father, and then he will repay everyone for what has been done. 28 Truly I tell you, there are some standing here who will not taste death before they see the Son of Man coming in his kingdom."

            It was the first Christmas I had an actual paying job. I decided that even though I was stilled considered one of the “kids” I was going to buy gifts for everyone in my family that year. For most of the people in my family, I found it to be a pretty simple task, especially if there were couples (aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, etc.); I could simply group them together and buy them something to share or use together, like kitchen gadgets and toys. For others in my family it was a bit trickier, but I think I did alright, but then there was my dad (whose birthday also just happens to be Christmas Day).
            Now, shopping for my dad is difficult because, well, dad never seems to want anything or have any real interests, so it’s hard to know exactly what he’ll like. Most of the people on that side of my family get out of such  a predicament by buying Dad the same gag gifts every year, whether it’s a pair of cheap sunglasses or a ball point pen, we all laugh and chalk it up to “tradition” and go on about the business of gift-giving. But that first year I bought gifts I decided I was going to be different; I was going to buy dad a “real” gift, something he could use, something he didn’t already have, something that wasn’t another tool or redundant piece of gag gift tradition that would get lost in the wrapping paper as it was thrown out later that morning. I had decided that I was going to “win” Christmas that year.
            So I consulted with my step-mom and she told that my dad really needed some “normal” clothes. You see, dad tended to rotate between his work uniform during the day and pajama pants once he settled down for the night. Therefore, getting dad “normal” clothes seemed like the perfect gift. I remember even thinking to myself how such a gift could go so far as to change Dad’s very way of life: he’d have some “walking around clothes,” “Sunday clothes,” clothes he could wear out in public without looking like he was at work, clothes that could possibly wear to a “sit down” restaurant, or even clothes he could wear when people who weren’t kin to us came over to our house! Now, don’t get the wrong idea: my dad didn’t walk around looking like an unpresentable mess; he just wasn’t (isn’t) what you might call “fashion-forward.”
            Well, with my dad’s clothing sizes in hand, I headed to the place I knew I could find some nice clothes, a place where I bought most of my clothes—Wal-Mart. I decided since I was my father’s son that my dad would probably share the same taste in clothes as I did, so I picked out a pair of pants—khaki-colored cargo pants (these were going to be non-work clothes after all)—and a shirt—a plaid, cotton, button-down shirt. I made my way to the register feeling as if I had just climbed Mt. Everest or swam the Pacific Ocean, as if I had done the impossible. I brought the clothes home, put them in a gift box, and wrapped them for Christmas. When the day came and it was time, I handed Dad the box and waited for what I was sure would be a monumental moment in my family’s history. Dad peeled off the paper, broke the tape holding the box closed, and when he opened the box he looked across the room at me and said, “I think you put the wrong name on this box, son.” I don’t think he ever wore those clothes, but it wasn’t because he mean-spirited or ungrateful: they just weren’t his style. So much for my plan to change my dad’s personal life with a pair of pants and a plaid shirt: it was an honest gesture, but one that honestly came from the wrong place, the wrong perspective.
That sort of thing happens all the time though, doesn’t it? We make plans, execute them perfectly, yet they still don’t pan out the way we want. Sometimes it’s because the timing is all wrong. Other times it’s because we’ve underestimated the outcome. When it comes to matters of faith, however, I believe that when our plans don’t pan out, when we don’t get things the way we want, it’s likely because our hearts and minds are in the wrong place; we’re seeing things from the wrong perspective. We have to get our minds right. And we have to keep them right.
I believe it’s just this sort of thing we’ve witnessed in this text from Matthew’s gospel this morning. You see, just prior to this text, in verses 13-19, Jesus gives the disciples a sort of, messianic, Christological, pop-quiz: “…he asked his disciples, "Who do people say that the Son of Man is?" And they said, "Some say John the Baptist, but others Elijah, and still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets." He said to them, "But who do you say that I am?" Simon Peter answered, "You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God." And Jesus answered him, "Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven. And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven." Man. I bet Peter’s head swelled so much with pride he had to prop it up with sticks on his shoulders just to keep it from rolling off his neck! Peter gave the right answer: Jesus is the Son of God, the Messiah, and since Peter’s confession of Jesus as the Christ was spot-on and true, Jesus declares him the rock (“Peter” comes from the Greek word petros, which means “rock”), the rock on which Jesus will build a Hades-proof Church. On top of that, Jesus declares that Peter has the keys to the kingdom and can bind and loose things on earth and in heaven. That’s a lot of power to bestow so suddenly onto a rough, ole fisherman from Galilee. Of course, it isn’t long before Peter puts his foot in his mouth as such power seems to have gone straight to his head, knocking his mind off track.
In our text this morning, we find a sort of turning point in Matthew’s telling of the gospel narrative: “From that time on…” suggests that there has been a shift, an indication that the story is going to take on a different tone from this point forward, and it does as Jesus and the disciples draw closer to Jerusalem and closer to Jesus’ inevitable execution on a Roman cross. That shift is further emphasized by the first of Jesus’ predictions concerning his crucifixion in verse 21: Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised. This marks a distinct change in tone from a narrative filled with moral teachings, prayers, and healings, to a narrative defined by the looming presence of the cross.
Jesus is no longer just the good teacher, blessing the poor, meek, and lonely in his sermon on the mount; he’s much more than that, and one would think that Peter (the one who confessed Jesus as the Son of God and Messiah) would get that, that he would understand that this shift in tone was coming…but he didn’t. In fact, it seems like all that bragging Jesus did on Peter had gone to the Rock’s head and only acted to harden it, because we hear Peter in verse 22 pull Jesus to the side and try to straighten him out on all this “suffering, getting killed, and resurrecting business.” Peter says, “God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.” Imagine the intestinal fortitude it would take for one who has just claimed that Jesus is in fact the Son of the Living God to say to that same Jesus, “What you just said…yeah, that’s not going to happen!” In effect, Peter tells Jesus, “Over my dead body will these things happen. I pray to God they don’t!” Peter must have had some guts to stand up to Jesus like that, to pull him aside and set him straight…well, he either had guts or he was out of his mind!
The latter seems to be the case given Jesus’ response to Peter in verse 23: “Get behind me Satan! You are a stumbling block to me; for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.” The rock previously proclaimed as the foundation stone of the Church has become a stumbling block to the Messiah. Peter’s mind isn’t right; he’s got a plan for what the Messiah is going to do, what the Christ is supposed to be. Peter’s plan is fixed upon the notion of a Christ who preaches good news and blessings, a Messiah who quietly sticks up for the little guy while putting the powerful in their place through his mastery of Scripture. Peter’s plan has no room for a suffering, rejected, crucified Christ.
Jesus is so disturbed by Peter’s misunderstanding that he calls Peter “Satan,” and to make sure the rest of his followers understand the fullness of what following him as Messiah means, Jesus says in verses 24-26: "If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or what will they give in return for their life?” This clarification from Jesus seems necessary at this point in the gospel journey, for if the Rock missed the point, surely the rest would too, as they most assuredly had their own visions, their own hopes of what the Messiah might be. Likely, their collected minds were not right as they focused on those things of this world, those things that would have made their lives better, those things that would, in essence, save their lives from poverty, from oppression, from the hard times of this world. But according to Jesus, the gospel isn’t about comfort, complacency, or golden crowns of power—the gospel is about suffering, rejection, selflessness. It’s about a cross!
Following Jesus is not going to guarantee one safety and protection from the pains and grief of this world. In fact, it is in many ways a guarantee that one will most certainly face more pain and more grief! Lest we be confused, however, it is important to say here that the gospel really doesn’t begin with us in the first place. The suffering that comes with the cross-bearing discipleship of God’s kingdom is not a suffering meant to be put on display in order to draw pity, attention, or the admiration of martyrdom. No, the suffering that comes with the disciple’s cross is one that finds its genesis in self-rejection, in the ever-lessening presence of selfishness and sin and the ever-growing presence of the suffering Son of God. That’s the message we so desperately need to hear as Christ’s disciples in this culture we have created today.
We need to hear that the call to discipleship is (in the words of Dietrich Bonhoeffer) “the call to come and die.” That the title “Christian” is not one for our own making, nor is it a title that ought to demand positions of power and privilege. We need to be reminded that the shape of the gospel is a cross and not the dollar sign! We need to get our minds right! Because too many people who call themselves Christians, Christ-followers, disciples, believe that the way to glory is paved by their efforts, their hopes and dreams of prosperity in this world (even at the expense of others). We need to hear those words of Jesus, jarring us to radical, self-surrendering discipleship, reminding us that while we may desire the world, in the end we may just lose our own souls. We need to get our minds right and understand that when Christ calls us to come and follow him it is not simply so he may make us lie down in green pastures or lead us by the still waters, for it is also a call to follow him through the dark valleys and even up the hill called Calvary to the pain of a cross!
May you hear the call of the Christ to come and follow. May you hear and not give in to the temptation to believe that it is a call to comfort and prosperity. May you hear the call of Christ for what it is, a call to come and die, so that you may truly live, so that you may truly live in the fullness of Christ and the absence of sin and selfishness. May you hear the call to come and die, to come and follow Jesus, and may you respond to that call this day.
Amen.





Tuesday, August 26, 2014

A Body of Living Sacrifice (Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost)

Romans 12:1-8
 1 I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. 2 Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect. 3 For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of yourself more highly than you ought to think, but to think with sober judgment, each according to the measure of faith that God has assigned. 4 For as in one body we have many members, and not all the members have the same function, 5 so we, who are many, are one body in Christ, and individually we are members one of another. 6 We have gifts that differ according to the grace given to us: prophecy, in proportion to faith; 7 ministry, in ministering; the teacher, in teaching; 8 the exhorter, in exhortation; the giver, in generosity; the leader, in diligence; the compassionate, in cheerfulness.

            You woke up this morning and made the decision to come to worship. That’s great. You got out of bed, maybe you showered, picked out your clothes, ate a bit of breakfast, maybe a cup (or two) of coffee. Those of you with children probably had to wake them up, make sure they got ready, had a bit of breakfast themselves (maybe they skipped the coffee). Then you jumped in the car and found your way here to the corner of Nisbet Lake Road and Pleasant Valley Road for worship at ten o’clock, and most of you got here on time. Some of you even came a whole hour earlier for Sunday school, and still a few of you got here before that for deacons’ meeting or just because you get here before everyone else in your Sunday school class. However or whenever you got here is irrelevant at the moment because, well, you’re here now, and that’s great.
            Now, there are a number of folks who aren’t here: some because they’re not really “church folks” who come regularly, some because they’re on vacation, sick, or working, some because they’re visiting other churches, and then there are some who aren’t here because so much of their time is taken by the general rhythms and complexities of life that to take an hour or so to come to worship would be sacrificing more than they can truly bear. Because in our present culture where “money makes the world go ‘round” and “time is money” the seconds, minutes, and hours we feel we possess are extremely precious. So in many ways, some of you are to be commended for being here today, sacrificing some of those precious minutes of your life in order to worship the God and Savior of the universe.
            But I’m not sure I’d put it like that. Don’t get me wrong, being here for worship is extremely important, and I know your time is valuable. The Church (and the local congregation) is absolutely essential in the life of faith; the writer of Hebrews upholds the practice of meeting together regularly in chapter ten of that epistle.[1] I suppose, though, what I mean is that I wouldn’t necessarily call what we’re doing here today a “sacrifice.” You see, that word once had a much different meaning, a meaning that involved much more than showing up to sit on a padded pew in an air-conditioned room for one hour a week. That word once carried with it the image of a gilded temple and vested priests; that word once sounded with the racket of a crowd gathered with all manner of animals and produce, of the clanging metal of gongs and cymbals; that word once reeked with the smell of fire, smoke, incense, and burnt animal flesh. That word “sacrifice”—especially in the context of ancient, Judeo-Christian worship—once brought to mind the long process of choosing the best of what one had in order to bring it to the temple so that it could be offered on an altar of fire for God. That word sacrifice was a whole lot grittier than it is today.
            I suppose the change in that word began to take place with those first Christians, those who understood Jesus’ death to signal the end of such bloody sacrifices. Those Christians realized that God could not be kept in a temple-shaped box, and with the resurrection of Christ, they realized that God could not be kept in a grave-shaped box either. Death, so to speak, was no longer listed in the order of worship. However, these early Christians knew that behind the very act of ritual sacrifice was a much larger truth, for you see, God no longer required the blood of a goat or the burning of wheat from those who sought to follow God. No, but God in Christ was still calling forth from his followers the same sense of sacrifice in the way they lived every moment of their lives—and Christ continues to call us to do the very same thing today, with every moment of our lives.
            This is what the apostle Paul is getting at in the text we’ve read here today. He’s spent the first eleven chapters of this epistle to the Romans making his grand theological arguments, and in verse one of our text today he writes, “I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.” With that word “therefore” Paul is saying that because of the deep, complex, theological description of God and Christ he has laid out in the preceding words of this letter, those who call themselves followers of Jesus are called—not to continue the bloody business of animal sacrifice, but— “to present [their] bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is [their] spiritual worship.”[2] In other words, the sacrifice of animal flesh and the first fruits of one’s harvest may no longer be required upon an altar, but the sacrifice of one’s life—a life lived in order to bring the kingdom of God to its fullness on earth as it is in heaven—that is the renewed definition of sacrifice.
What’s more, the phrase translated as “spiritual worship” can also be understood as “reasonal worship,” implying that this is something of the mind, as if it ought to be common practice, common sense to those transformed by the Holy Spirit.[3] You see, Paul is not calling for some kind of disconnected, over-simplified, check-your-brain-at-the-door kind of worship. Far from it! In fact, just listen to what he says in verse 2: “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.” There are an awful lot of words in that little verse that have to do with thinking, and it’s because Paul understood that command that echoes through the ages and the pages of Holy Scripture: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind [emphasis mine].
Now, the truth is, too many folks don’t want to engage their minds in worship (or in any other arena of faith for that matter). In this age of technology it’s far too easy to type our spiritual inquiries into unfathomable depths of Google and be satisfied with the most popular answer or the answer that best suits our immediate circumstance. I think in many ways Paul’s words about non-conformity and discernment have just as much to do with those things we witness within the modern sub-cultures of Christianity as they do with those things that bombard us from the so-called “secular world.” This redefined, “living sacrifice” form of worship to which we are being called is one that requires more form us than a simple appearance when the role is called; it compels us to be fully engaged with our whole selves, and that most assuredly means our minds!
However, lest we be too quick to use our minds to reflect on our own grand deeds and our singular accomplishments, the apostle says in verse 3: “For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of yourself more highly than you ought to think, but to think with sober judgment, each according to the measure of faith that God has assigned.” Paul writes these words through the grace given to him, yet I have a feeling they weren’t received with a whole lot of grace, especially from those who were guilty of thinking more highly of themselves that they ought to think! One of the recurring issues in many of Paul’s letters in the New Testament is the division within congregations caused by those who view themselves in one way or another as being better than others in the congregation: sometimes this is manifested as racism (divisions between Jews and Gentiles), classism (divisions between the rich and the poor), or even as differences over giftedness as some saw their gifts as better or more important than the gifts of others. The truth is these sorts of divisions only began with the congregations of the first century, for they still plague congregations today!
That is why it is so important to hear Paul’s words, not only in verse 3, but in the rest of the text before us this morning, for Paul goes on the say in verses 4 through 8:For as in one body we have many members, and not all the members have the same function, so we, who are many, are one body in Christ, and individually we are members one of another. We have gifts that differ according to the grace given to us: prophecy, in proportion to faith; ministry, in ministering; the teacher, in teaching; the exhorter, in exhortation; the giver, in generosity; the leader, in diligence; the compassionate, in cheerfulness.” Paul pulls out his favorite metaphor for the Church: the body, and he does this in a brilliantly connective way in his whole redefinition of sacrifice as presenting one’s entire body as a living sacrifice. I don’t believe this is coincidental at all. In fact, I think Paul means to make that connection in order for us to understand worship as both an individual and communal act.
In verses 4 and 5, Paul describes the unity of the body of Christ, that we are all one body, but each of us within the body serve a different purpose, and he goes on to list some of those purposes and gifts in verses 6, 7, and 8. What is so important to note here, however, is that Paul never once says, “this gift is the most important,” or “this gift is better than that gift.” Not once does Paul ever even so much as hint at the notion that there are some people in the body of Christ who are in any way, shape, form, or fashion better than anyone else. I’m not better than you. You’re not better than me. That person over there isn’t better than that person over here. The lifelong church member who’s given thousands of dollars to the ministries of the church isn’t any better than the newcomer who hasn’t even so much as placed a penny in the plate on Sunday, nor is the person with perfect attendance in Sunday school any better than the person who’s never seen what nine o’clock looks like on a Sunday morning in this building. Those of you who’ve gathered in this room this morning are not better than those who aren’t here, and those who show up to other things you don’t aren’t better than you either!
Paul warns about this created sense of self-importance because it can sour worship—true, spiritual, reasonable worship, the kind of worship that looks like a living sacrifice. He warns about this holy haughtiness because it can divide the church and fool us into thinking that we don’t have to think, that we don’t have to bring our whole selves into the sacred space of worship, that we can leave our hearts and minds in the parking lot but parade on in with our egos. Each one of us is given the amazing gift of God’s free grace, yet so many of us refuse it because we see it’s reflection warped by the way others who call themselves believers speak about one another, the way they treat each other.
May we begin to correct this misrepresentation of God’s grace today by offering ourselves as a living sacrifice. May we be living sacrifices, each of us, as we give the whole of who we are (our heart, our soul, our strength, and our minds) to God for the work of God’s kingdom. May we be people who are non-conformist, not allowing the world or even others in the popularized “church” to influence us without the discernment that comes from the Holy Spirit. May we be people who do not think highly of ourselves, believing that we are better than anyone else. Above all, may we be a united body which celebrates its diversity in giftedness, ideas, and perspectives so that we may offer this body we call First Baptist Church of Williams as a living sacrifice to God, not only when we meet in this room for the hour we mark as “worship,” but in everything we do and say in all the places we may find ourselves. May we strive to be holy and acceptable to the God we love, serve, and worship.
Amen.  



[1] Hebrews 10:24-25.
[2] N. Thomas Wright “Volume X: Acts, Introduction to Epistolary Literature, Romans, 1 Corinthians,” The New Interpreter’s Bible: A Commentary in Twelve Volumes. Abingdon Press: Nashville, TN (2002) p. 703.
[3] see margins of NRSV.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

What Defiles (Tenth Sunday after Pentecost)

Matthew 15:10-28
10 Then he called the crowd to him and said to them, "Listen and understand: 11 it is not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person, but it is what comes out of the mouth that defiles." 12 Then the disciples approached and said to him, "Do you know that the Pharisees took offense when they heard what you said?" 13 He answered, "Every plant that my heavenly Father has not planted will be uprooted. 14 Let them alone; they are blind guides of the blind. And if one blind person guides another, both will fall into a pit." 15 But Peter said to him, "Explain this parable to us." 16 Then he said, "Are you also still without understanding? 17 Do you not see that whatever goes into the mouth enters the stomach, and goes out into the sewer? 18 But what comes out of the mouth proceeds from the heart, and this is what defiles. 19 For out of the heart come evil intentions, murder, adultery, fornication, theft, false witness, slander. 20 These are what defile a person, but to eat with unwashed hands does not defile." 21 Jesus left that place and went away to the district of Tyre and Sidon. 22 Just then a Canaanite woman from that region came out and started shouting, "Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon." 23 But he did not answer her at all. And his disciples came and urged him, saying, "Send her away, for she keeps shouting after us." 24 He answered, "I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel." 25 But she came and knelt before him, saying, "Lord, help me." 26 He answered, "It is not fair to take the children's food and throw it to the dogs." 27 She said, "Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters' table." 28 Then Jesus answered her, "Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish." And her daughter was healed instantly.

            It’s 2014. Aren’t you just a little disappointed that no one has invented a time machine yet? I mean, just think of how convenient that would be; think of all the wrongs that could be put right. You could simply jump in your handy time machine, and with the turn of a few knobs, the flip of a few switches, or (given that this would likely be a modern, advanced machine) the launch of an app, be transported back in time. Just imagine it: you could go back and keep your younger self from making the decisions you now regret, or you could wind the dial back to the early nineties and warn the world about Billy Ray Cyrus and his “Achy-Breaky Heart”(not to mention Miley, but we won’t go there). You could travel back to the eighteenth century and tell the founders of this country to be a little more specific when they write the Constitution and the Bill of Rights; that might actually keep some folks from fighting and claiming they know exactly what the founders meant when they said this or that. You could travel back two millennia and find yourself on the parched terrain of ancient Judea, somewhere between Gennesaret and the villages of Tyre and Sidon, and when you arrive there, you could observe those ancient Pharisees and their commitment to dietary laws and religious requirements related to hand-washing.
You could hear how Jesus calls these hypocrites and cites Scripture calling them out on their vain attempts at honoring God with their words and rote actions while their hearts are far from God and God’s intentions. You could even witness firsthand the words we’ve only heard in transcription and translation this morning in verses 10 through 20 as Jesus explains that what goes into one’s body is not what defiles it or makes it spiritually unclean. Eventually, Jesus says, that stuff winds up in the toilet and in the sewer! What defiles is what comes from the heart, “For out of the heart come evil intentions, murder, adultery, fornication, theft, false witness, slander. These are what defile a person, but to eat with unwashed hands does not defile." If you could travel back to that time and place, you might even hear one or two of the disciples say “Oh snap!” as Jesus “left that place and went away to the [Gentile] district of Tyre and Sidon.”
But if I had a time machine, and I traveled back in time to the original occurrence of our text this morning, I know exactly what I would do: I’d ask Jesus: “Jesus, why did you call that woman a dog?”
You see, after Jesus lectures the Pharisees in the first twenty verses of this chapter, he passed through a Gentile territory when Matthew tells us in verse 22, “Just then a Canaanite woman from that region came out and started shouting, ‘Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.’" Now, this may seem like your ordinary, “person-shouting-at-Jesus-to-heal-a-family member” incident from the gospels, but this one is different, especially the way Matthew tells it. This woman is a triple offender when it comes to breaking some cultural rules of the day. First, we’re told by Matthew that she is a Canaanite woman. Now, here’s the thing: there weren’t any Canaanites living in the first century (strictly speaking),[1] so why did Matthew use this term to describe this woman? Well, if you were to look back over the history outlined in the Hebrew Bible (the Old Testament) you’ll find that the Canaanites were some of the earliest opponents of the Israelites. In fact, the term Canaanite in the Hebrew Bible can refer to a specific people group or any of the non-Hebrew people who lived in the land of Canaan (the land promised to Abraham by God). So, perhaps Matthew is calling this woman a Canaanite to highlight her racial, ethnic, and cultural difference from the Jews, in this case, Jesus and his disciples. So, she’s a Canaanite: strike one.
Strike two: she’s a she, or rather, she’s a woman. Now, I’m ashamed to say that even today in our modern culture, women aren’t exactly treated fairly: they aren’t fairly represented in decision-making bodies, they make around 70% of what a man makes doing the same work, they still have to struggle with antiquated stereotypes of another era, and in many religious circles they are treated as second-class citizens, but in the Ancient Near East…women were seldom seen and never heard. For this mother to even make an appearance to ask Jesus for help was atrocious. She was a woman: strike two. The third and final strike came in the way she shouted after Jesus. One didn’t do that sort of thing, especially if one was a woman! It was gaudy, disruptive, and downright uncalled-for.[2]
This woman, this Canaan woman, this loud, social-more-breaking, Canaanite, woman shouts out to Jesus in verse 22 "Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon." How she heard about Jesus down in Tyre and Sidon is anybody’s guess; Jesus’ reputation often went before him in the gospels, but when this woman hears that Jesus is in the area she seeks him out and calls him “Lord,” and “Son of David.” Now, the word “Lord” could simply mean “sir;”[3] in this case, however, with the woman’s use of the title “Son of David” it likely means much more. She recognizes Jesus as one with the power to exorcise the demon tormenting her daughter. This sounds like a classic setup for Jesus in the gospels: a Gentile woman (a marginalized member of society) comes to him for help, expressing faith and identifying him as lord or messiah. Then, those of us familiar with Jesus’ actions in the gospels, we expect Jesus to buck societal expectations and help this marginalized, outcast member of society. But that isn’t what happens here.
No, at first, Jesus ignores the woman. We’re told in verse 23: “But he did not answer her at all.”  That seems strange; maybe Jesus couldn’t hear her too well. That theory goes out the window though when we’re told that “his disciples came and urged him, saying, ‘Send her away, for she keeps shouting after us.’” She’s shouting after them; the disciples heard her, so we have to conclude that Jesus simply ignored the pleading of this woman. What’s worse, though, is what Jesus says next: “He answered, ‘I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.’" All of the sudden, Jesus is some sort of ancient Zionist, only keeping his message and ministry for those who belong to the race of the Israelites? Maybe Jesus is just saying this with his tongue in his cheek, or maybe there’s something more to what he’s saying, like he is implying that Israel is bigger and more inclusive than those first century folks may have believed.
Nope, because after she pleads for help a second time, Jesus responds to the Canaanite woman in verse 26 by saying "It is not fair to take the children's food and throw it to the dogs." He is calling this woman (and others like her) a dog! While others have pointed out that this is the diminutive form of the word for dog used here by Jesus[4] (perhaps translated as “puppy” or “pet”), he’s still called this woman a dog (and Greek is a language of nouns with gender, and anyone who’s ever looked up cuss word in the dictionary when they were in elementary school knows what we call a female dog!). This doesn’t sound like the airbrushed Jesus of our Sunday School pictures. This doesn’t sound like the Jesus who sits and lets the little children come to him. This doesn’t sound like the Jesus with gentleness in his voice cleansing lepers and healing the sick. This sounds like a first-century Jewish man with all of the instilled prejudices and cultural hang-ups that would have come with being raised a Jewish boy in first-century Judea. It sounds that way, because that’s exactly what it is!
Now, I know for some of you that may be flirting with blasphemy, but one of the oldest theological confessions of Christianity is that Jesus was fully God and fully human.[5] We cannot read the gospels honestly without witnessing the ways in which Christ was (self) limited in his knowledge.[6] Jesus was surrounded by the influences of first-century, Jewish culture, and his response to this Canaanite woman is evidence that perhaps some of it rubbed off. But before you’re ready to throw Jesus’ divinity out with his humanity, before you tune out because of your own discomfort with such an idea as Christ’s humanness, watch what happens in the rest of this encounter with this Canaanite woman.
In verse 27 [s]he said, "Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters' table." Jesus has called this woman a dog, and rather than balk at his name-calling or slouch back home believing she had wasted her time with a so-called messiah, she shows even more faith, faith through her hope and her own humanness. In effect she says, “You may call me a dog because of my race and relation to the Israelites, but even dogs get to eat the scraps, and all I need is a crumb—all I’m asking for is a crumb.” Her faith in Jesus’ power to heal her daughter is so strong that all she needs is a crumb from Christ; she’s not asking for the whole spread, the entire song-and-dance; she doesn’t need Jesus to walk on water or make enough to feed five thousand. She just needs a crumb! What faith! What hope! To risk so much, to dare to be so vulnerable and human as to endure even insult for the sake of her daughter and the trust she has in Jesus’ power to make her well.
Such hope, such faith, such humanness…those are the kinds of things that can bring forth love and compassion from even the hardest of hearts. Those are the kinds of things that can strip away the callouses from a heart worn by the influence of ignorance. Those are the kinds of thing that do not defile, but can wash clean from the heart those things that do. For you see, when Jesus saw the woman’s humanness, when he saw her hope, when he saw her for what she truly was as a woman, a child of God, not a race, gender, or something to be called different, when Jesus saw her faith, he said to her, "Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish." And her daughter was healed instantly.
Now, it may be unsettling for you to think that Jesus called a woman a dog, and it may be uncomfortable for you to think that Jesus could change his mind, that the Christ could change the way he felt about a person, about a group of people. But what if he did? What if this encounter with this Canaanite woman is meant to show us the truth about Jesus being fully human as well as fully God? What if this is actually a story about our Lord and Savior calling a woman a dog simply because she belonged to a different race of people? What if this is actually an account of Jesus changing and growing, perhaps even growing out of the cultural influences he had grown up experiencing? If it is that kind of account (and I think it is) what does it then say about us?
What does it say about us whenever we claim about our ignorance, about our own sinfulness, “Well, that’s just the way I was raised”? What does it say about us when we look on another person and refuse to see their humanness, when we refuse to see them as equal to us? What does it say about our own arrogance when we refuse to grow, to change, to see others we once saw as “dogs,” as those less than us, even less than human, when the Savior himself was able to let go of those cultural ideas that had previously shaped his understanding? Are we better than Christ?! Would we dare claim that we don’t need to examine ourselves and the possibility of our own ignorance created by our own upbringing? Can we continue to believe that we can point to “the way we were raised” as a justifiable excuse for our sinfulness? Can we really think that we are incapable of growth and change when Christ himself, in his own humility, has shown us that such growth is part of kingdom of God?
What beliefs do you still harbor in your heart, knowing they are unclean and unfit for God’s kingdom? What do you continue to claim as acceptable—though you know it to be wrong—simply because our culture, your upbringing, or your own comfort says it is fine? May you search your heart and cleanse it of the ignorance, the hatred, the selfishness, or all the things that truly defile it. May you see the Lord’s example as one that calls you to follow, and may you choose this day to stop clinging to beliefs and notions that allow you to continue in a life of self-driven comfort so that you may grow and be transformed more and more into the likeness of our Lord and Savior, the fully God/fully human, Jesus Christ.
Amen.



[1] Marilyn Salmon, Commentary on Matthew 15: [10-20] 21-28 (August 17, 2008) from the website “Working Preacher.”  https://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=125
[2] Jae Won Lee, “Proper 15 (Sunday between August 14 and August 20 inclusive): Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word. Westminster John Knox Press: Louisville, KY (2010) pp.358-9.
[3] The Greek word here is kurios, which can often be understood as “sir” when used in the form of an address.
[4] M. Eugene Boring, “Volume VIII: New Testament Articles, Matthew, Mark,” The New Interpreter’s Bible: A Commentary in Twelve Volumes. Abingdon Press: Nashville, TN (1995) p.336.
[5] John Anthony McGuckin, “Hypostatic Union,” The Westminster Handbook to Patristic Theology. Westminster John Knox Press: Lousiville, KY (2004). p.175, (This is but one example of such a confession)
[6] see Mark 13:32, Matthew 24:36, Luke 8:45 as a few examples