God who demands hospitality

Preached on September 15, 2019 at Frazer Mennonite Church

Sermon based on Genesis 19

Before I left for my trip to Palestine in August, I told you about my friends, the Issa family, who live just outside of Jerusalem in the refugee camp of Anata.  The wall that divides the West Bank from Israel literally runs through their back yard. They are that close to Jerusalem, and they cannot legally enter. 

When I told you about the family in August, I told you about their amazing hospitality to me, helping me and my delegation when we were lost, even though the language difference between us would have made it easy for them to say, “Sorry, we can’t help” and walk away.  

This year, I went back to visit the family, and this time I brought my mother in law, Judy, and my Rabbi friend, Linda.  And all along the way, from the city of Jerusalem, on the bus and in the Issa family’s home, we received incredible hospitality. Again.  

The bus driver knew where to drop us off, because I showed him a text in Arabic that my friend sent me and told me to show the driver.  And when he saw me looking worried on the bus, because the ride was taking longer than I remembered, he assured me that our stop was coming up.  

When we got off the bus, and I confidently headed up the hill towards the Issa’s house, guess what? I got us lost–again.  And because I was travelling with women who had difficulty getting around, I was really nervous. So the minute I thought I recognized the Issa house in the distance, I saw a neighbor, waved him down, and pointed to the house for confirmation.  

Turned out this neighbor spoke English, confirmed that we were headed to the right house, except that to get to the house, we’d have to slip through his olive grove, and jump off a two foot high wall.  No big deal for me, but he was worried about my companions, so he accompanied us, and held our hands as we maneuvered our way down the wall.  

We arrived at the Issa’s house, and I shared some gifts I had brought for the family.  It included a quilted wall hanging, made by Annabelle, Sydney and Kay, some Penn State swag for Papa Issa, and for the kids–Pop rocks.  Let me tell you the pop rocks were HOURS of entertainment.  

And then Mama Issa asked us if we’d had dinner, which we had not.  And the kitchen went into a frenzy. Before our delicious dinner, we were offered cake, juice, and fruit.  So, by the time we got to dinner, we were full. But we knew better than not to eat. If we didn’t eat, we were going to be stared down by mom.  

And then she brought out the cake.  And the hookah. And coffee. And tea.  We were all stuffed, but we had to eat it.  It felt like an insult not to. And also, it was so good.  

By now it was 11pm, and I thought maybe we should get going.  After visiting for five hours, we were all getting tired. But then they were showing us picture from a recent wedding they attended, and when I remarked on the amazing 5 inch heels they wore, mom made me put hers on.  

They were amazing heels.  Terrifying, but I looked good in them and they fit me perfectly. 

By midnight I was putting my foot down.  It was really time to leave. But the family wanted us to stay overnight.  This was not just a “no…please…stay….” It was a genuine invitation, which we declined.  But I promised them that next year, I would stay over.  

Dad called a car to drive us back to Jerusalem, but when the driver arrived, we had to wait a few minutes so he could have tea, then coffee, then he–of course needed cake.  And a cigarette.  

It was another day of hospitality in a place where I felt so undeserving of it.  It was all so lovely, so genuine, so heartfelt. And this hospitality had not western time table.  It didn’t care that we thought it was time to go. We just had to enjoy it. 

In our text today we heard one of the most awful stories in the Hebrew Bible.  The story begins with God sending two angels to visit Sodom. I want to remind you that the angel/messenger character in last week’s text becomes God later, so these strangers entering Sodom also have the opportunity to be God–even if that is never said in this text.

God sends angels/messengers to Sodom, and like travelers did at the time, they waited at the gate of the city for someone to offer them hospitality.  Lot was at the gates of Sodom, and welcomed the guests to his home, offering them a place to bathe, refresh themselves and eat. These angels refused the request politely, but Lot insisted.  

He brought the visitors home made sure they were able to eat and clean up after being on the dusty road for so long.  And just as they were getting ready to sleep, Lot’s home was surrounded by all the men of Sodom who demanded that they “know” these men.  

This act the men of the town wished to inflict on these angels is the worst form of humiliation for a person.  It’s not an act of pleasure, but an act of power.  

And Lot, himself a product of his own culture, which valued strangers over his own female children, offered up his own daughters instead of these angel strangers.  

I admit that’s a part of the story I have to take a big cleansing breath after.  Because I am so angry with Lot his lack of value for his daughters.  

And, I remember, that while God is present in this story, and a truth is being told, these stories are written down by humans with their own biases and value systems.  And, once again, we will need to wade through those to get to the truth God has in this story for us.  

Lot tried to talk the angry mob out of their evil plans, and his neighbors, noting Lot’s status as a foreigner, threaten to do WORSE to him than they had planned for the strangers.  

Here in this story, the stranger and the foreigner had no value.  In the eyes of the people of Sodom, they are free to assert power over Lot and the angels, not treat them as revered guests, neighbors and friends.

The strangers pull Lot back inside the house and mad sure he found a way out of his home and to safety.  And they said to Lot, “We are going to destroy this city. The outcry to the Lord against God’s people is so strong that God has sent us here to destroy this place.”

The idea of God destroying people doesn’t feel good, but wow, I do empathize with God on this one.  These people that want to exert power in violent and destructive ways over people that they do not know or understand–that is the height of inhospitable.  And it is clear that God despises this lack of hospitality.  

Hospitality is a central value to God.  So central, in fact, that there are countless verses in the bible that talk about kindness to strangers and outsiders.  Deuteronomy says, “Love the stranger, for you were once strangers in the land of Egypt.” Psalm 146 says, “The Lord watches over the strangers; God upholds the orphan and the widow, but the way of the wicked are brought to ruin.” Jesus in Matthew 25, says “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me…in as much as you did it to the least of these, you’ve done it to me. Hospitality to the stranger is very important to God. 

So much so, in fact, that God destroys those that are unable to practice this central value of hospitality.  The prophet Jeremiah writes, “For if you truly amend your ways and your doings, if you truly act justly one with another, if you do not oppress the alien, the orphan, and the widow, or shed innocent blood in this place, and if you do not go after other Gods,, then I will dwell with you in this place.”

In case you are wondering about this particular interpretation of the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, in case this telling of the story is new to you, let me assure you that it is affirmed by the prophet Ezekial who wrote “‘Now this was the sin of your sister Sodom: She and her daughters were arrogant, overfed and unconcerned; they did not help the poor and needy. They were haughty and did detestable things before me. Therefore I did away with them as you have seen.”

Jesus also affirmed this understanding of the text when he said in Matthew 10, “And if any one will not receive you or listen to your words, shake off the dust from your feet as you leave that house or town. Truly, I say to you, it shall be more tolerable on the day of judgment for the land of Sodom and Gomorrah than for that town.” This text from Jesus is about the disciples looking for hospitality among the towns they enter to preach the good news. 

The crime of Sodom and Gomorrah is their lack of hospitality. And yet, over the centuries, the popular moral of this story has become that God despises gay people.  If this text was about gay people, it would be some of the men coming to surround the town, in fact, statistically speaking, it would have been about 10% of the men in the town.  But it was all of them that surrounded that house. This was about power.  

Jewish and Christian readers of the text understood this Sodom and Gomorrah story to be about the lack of hospitality show to the angels, up until the 2nd and 3rd century, during the time of Constantine, who made Christianity the religion of the empire.  Lack of hospitality might cut too close for Empire Christianity, and it would be easier to blame the sexual outcasts for the destruction of Sodom than it would be to take a look at how we treat those who are not like us. 

It’s easier to blame the outsider–in this case gay folks–than it is to face the truth of this story: that we do not welcome the stranger.  And that lack of hospitality will be the death of us. 

The story of Sodom has me looking at myself differently.  Where have I lacked hospitality? Where have I seen myself as better than others?  Where I have refused to help, and to share what I have? I can think of plenty of instances.   

The story of Sodom has me looking at God differently. It’s clear throughout human history that God tolerates a lot from us humans.  But this thing is too much for God. God loves us and created us as very good, an when we twist that around and decide that we are God and outsiders are bad, God cannot abide this.    

The story of Sodom helps me to see what our lack of hospitality has done to us and is doing to us. 

But there is hope.  We can change. We can be the hospitable people God created us to be. 

Back to the Issa family. I told you I brought my mother in law and my Rabbi friend.  We didn’t tell the Issa’s that Linda was a Rabbi because we weren’t sure how they would react.  But after a few hours at the home, Linda decided she was ready to tell him. And when she did, they were surprised, and then completely delighted.  They began to call family and friend and tell them they had a Rabbi in their home that loved Palestinians. This was a really big deal to them. The wall behind their home–the one that separated them from Jerusalem–that wall was still there, but we were watching other wall being torn down as we shared our lives together. There is hope for us to change.

Yesterday was the last day of food distribution at the garden. I’ve loved being out there every Saturday, meeting our neighbors and sharing the bounty of the garden.  It feels good to tell our neighbors, “Take what you need, there’s plenty.” It feels good to see that there is always enough–more than enough–for us and them. 

And our neighbors that come every week bring things for us too.  Yesterday a Chinese neighbor brought moon cakes from their recent festival.  A few weeks ago a Moroccan woman brought us tea and fresh bread she made. Other neighbors like to sit with us, one friend to another, as we share stories about our lives together.  We promise to pray for them as they are facing housing transitions, difficulties with families and uncertainty about job prospects. It felt good–and holy–to stop our busyness and share our lives together.  There is hope for all of us to be the hospitable people God created us to be. 

Hospitality that we share and that we receive is life changing.  And it’s what God wants for us. The hospitality that God expects from us is because we are very good in God’s eyes and we are called to reflect that goodness.  When we start acting like we are God, and when we make the strangers among us less in our eyes, God is angry. Because God loves them too. God also created the stranger as very good. 

God loves us.  God calls us very good.  We know that from Genesis 1.  God cares about us, deeply. We know that from Genesis 16, the story of Hagar.  And that love demands something of us. God demands our hospitality–God asks us to open our doors, to unlock our gates, to expand our hearts.  

That is an ongoing process, and as we open ourselves little by little, we get to know God more, and we see that God is among us, in the stranger, in the messenger, in our neighbor.  AMEN.

We have a story for times like this

This Easter Sermon was preached at Frazer Mennonite Church on April 21, 2019.

Several years ago, you may remember the stories coming out of Philadelphia about the school budget problems.  As a parent of Philly school kids, it was a traumatic, difficult time. I watched my kid’s school lose their nurse, school counselor and safety patrol, along with the gifted program and art department.  

It was a terrible time to be in the school district, but we were determined not to give up.  In truth, we could supplement our kid’s education with special after school programs, but so many families didn’t have this luxury.  

The school crisis was something that local clergy talked about a lot.  How do we respond to this crisis? At one local clergy gathering, we were talking about this, and a colleague, who walked in late, jumped into the conversation rather abruptly.  

He said, “Schools have gotten so bad that i think we just need to give up on them. The era of public schools is over”  This colleague named the neighborhood school my children attended as part of his diatribe. He declared something I cherish and champion–dead.  

Needless to say, I was pretty angry.  

After the meeting, two pastor friends, Jarrett and Martin, surrounded me, to check in on me and me still raging blood pressure.  They had watched as my face turned red, as I shifted angrily in my chair, and they secretly enjoyed watching me call him out.

I struggled, with them, to understand how someone could give up on schools and our children like this.  

After a couple of minutes of debriefing together, Jarrett reminded us,“You know, we have a story for this. We are Easter people.  Resurrection people.”

We are resurrection people, friends.  And when things feel difficult, when things feel dead and buried, we know better.  We know we have a story for moments like this.

Here’s the part of resurrection that we don’t often like dwell on at Easter. And this is an uncomfortable truth about this season. We have no idea what resurrection looks like until we’ve experienced death.  If we have not experienced death, pain suffering, then resurrection just looks like spring. Resurrection looks like daffodils and lillies. We can look at these flowers and think, “There’s that new life. That promise of spring. That must be what resurrection is.”   

But that resurrection is only six inches deep.  The resurrection I’m talking about is the kind that is dead and buried six feet underground, forgotten about, and restored to life–against all hope.

The women were the witnesses to Jesus suffering on the cross, his death (they saw him in the tomb), and finally his resurrection.  Had they not witnessed to the suffering of Jesus on the cross, had they not seen him dead in the tomb, they may not have experienced the joyful, incredulous reaction to the resurrection.   So let this be a lesson to you all–listen to women. Believe women. They know what they are talking about.

One year while travelling in Jerusalem, we stopped at an alternative burial site for Jesus.  It was just outside the Damascus gate, a quiet, secluded, and cool spot to rest before our next event.  After we debriefed about what we had seen that day, a volunteer tour guide from Texas showed us around the gardens.  He pointed out the spot that may be where Jesus had been crucified–what is now a Palestinian bus station.  He suggested we sing a hymn. We did not. It felt forced. Hokey even.

Then the Texas tour guide showed us the empty tomb where he believed Jesus was buried.  He led us into the tomb, let us touch the walls, sit at the spot where Jesus may have been laid after his death.  We irreverently took photos coming out of the tomb (a thing that apparently a lot of tourists like to do.) And still we didn’t feel anything.   

We didn’t see Jesus on the cross.  We didn’t watch his suffering. So that empty tomb was just empty to us. Meaningless.    

But the women at the tomb knew that suffering.  They stayed at the cross on that terrible night. They saw Jesus struggling, ridiculed, gasping for breathe, for comfort and for a sign that God was there.  They witnessed these things and they did not look away. They stayed until the end. And they felt their own pain as they watched helplessly. If we don’t know what death, pain, and difficulty are, we don’t know what the resurrection is.   

But, people of Frazer Mennonite, you know what the resurrection looks like. You have stories of sadness, death and confusion here.  Several years ago, you saw the need for new life, and you prayed for families with children. And guess what–a lot of families with children came.  Ten years ago, you had conflicts with the conference about who was allowed to be part of this congregation. After what felt like death, you joined a new conference, and felt the new energy and new life in Atlantic coast.  

You have opened your building to folks in recovery.  Almost every night of the week, the parking lot is filled with people who find our fellowship hall to be a safe space, a space for healing from addiction. You wondered what you were called to do, and found that call in the soil on this very property.  And now, because of a garden, we have people that come to our building and our property, and can eat. We have a story for these times. We have the resurrection story. It is our story.

We live in difficult times.  We live in times where angry people cause carnage.  We live in times where fearful people put up walls, literal walls, to keep out people they fear.  We live in times where our government legislates hate. We are witnessing suffering and death every time we tune into the news.   

We have urges to shelter ourselves from this, to turn off the news, to run away from the realities of our world.  We have urges to protect ourselves from personal harm–to escape vulnerability–I find myself trying to do that with my kids and family all the time.  But, we can’t really know how good the resurrection is, until we’ve experienced pain, or sat with those in crisis.

That’s when resurrection is truly miraculous.   

To those who haven’t experienced suffering, perhaps this story–the one we Christian tell of resurrection seems like an idle tale, a silly, unbelievable story, told by overwrought women who didn’t know what they were talking about.  Maybe those who haven’t experienced suffering and pain can appreciate this story, but it doesn’t connect at a deep level.

But we’ve seen death.  We’ve seen pain. We know what heartache looks like, because we’ve shed our fair share of tears, and have called out to God saying, “Where are you?”  So, when hope comes, when God shows God’s self to us, when something comes from utter desolation, we have a name for it. It is called resurrection.

We have a story for difficult times.  The story is resurrection. It’s not just something that happened to Jesus.  It is something that happens to us and in us. This is our story. The resurrection story.  

It is Finished….

I preached this sermon at a Seven Last Words Community Service. I had the sixth word–It is finished.

My daughter, Reba, was two when I entered seminary.  On days when I didn’t have class, and it was just her and I at home, I would sometimes take her into school, to run around the beautiful grounds.  One morning I took her into the main building on my seminary campus, and there she encountered her very first crucifix, and a life sized one at that–Jesus hanging limp on the cross, in obvious pain.  Reba was aghast. “Who is THAT, Mama?”

It was at that moment that I realized she only had memories of encountering a cute, cuddly, helpless baby Jesus in the manger.  She knew how the story began, but not how it ended.

At that age, I had never talked to her about how Jesus died.  I don’t think it was a deficit in my parenting. Who should have to explain Jesus’ death to a toddler?  Who wants to explain Jesus’ death to a child, let alone look at death, facing the reality of the cross where Jesus was crucified at the hands of the state, an ancient version of the lynching tree, gas chambers, firing line, the executioners chair. No one should have to explain that to a child.

So, while I wasn’t sorry I held back, I also wasn’t exactly ready for her to meet dying Jesus like this.

Two year old wide eyed Reba looked up at life sized Jesus, hanging in agony on that cross, black body against black wood.  She saw his form, degraded and humiliated on the cross. She touched Jesus’ feet tenderly, tracing his toes and the nails in his feet.  Then she turned and looked at me, with her most serious, intense, two year old face, and said, “Poor Jesus. He needs a doctor.”

I feel badly for laughing at her in that moment.  It wasn’t a “kids say the darndest thing” moment. It was a moment of deep sadness for my daughter.  She saw the pain of Jesus on that cross, a pain to which I had become numb. I walked by that same Jesus hanging on that same cross several times a day, and never gave it a thought.  I never noticed the pain in his tense muscles, recognized the agony on his face. It is important to see that pain, and I was glad that my daughter brought me back to that in the crucifix.  

But, there is much more to this story than the pain. So, while we pay attention to the state torture of Jesus on that cross, I want us on this Good Friday to also notice these words.  “It is finished.”

“It is finished” is one word in greek–tetelestia.  And while “it is finished” sounds more final, more poetic, a more accurate translation is “It is completed.”  

It is completed.  

Here in this moment on the cross, Jesus finished the work of teaching us and showing us how to live.  After three years of ministry, after a lifetime of worrying his Mama and learning carpentry from his Pop, after escaping death at an early age, after learning all he could in the Synagogue as a young child, after walking through cities and countryside alike, preaching and teaching, after making religious and political leaders angry enough to kill him, he had completed his work. He had done all he had set out to do.

To everyone else at Golgotha, the place of death, Jesus was a mockery, a joke.  To them, he had received the appropriate consequences for messing with the powers of Rome and the powers of the established religious authorities.  

But, even in his agony up on the cross, Jesus knew better.  He knew his work was completed. It was finished, for now. It was finished for the time being.  And soon–in three short days–all would see. First the women would see it, because while women were and are underappreciated and undervalued, they often have more wisdom than those that claim to be wise.  Soon, those women would see that what had been completed in Jesus ministry would be sealed in the resurrection, and soon they would tell everyone.

That resurrection was an “I told you so” to the “it is finished” on the cross.  The resurrection was a “you didn’t think I would, but I did” to that cross. The resurrection, witnessed first by the women who stayed for Jesus’ very last breath, was Jesus’ hold my beer oh ye of little faith.  Watch what I do next.

It is finished.  It is completed. Jesus taught us up until his last moments how to live, without fear.  Jesus taught us, in his every breath, to live as the people God has created us to be. Jesus taught us to bring our fully human selves to the work of discipleship, just as he did.  

Another story about Reba.  When she was 8, she heard an animal crying in our backyard.  We looked for the source of the cry, and finally, found the tiniest kitten wedged between our fence and our neighbors.  I struggled for a while to rescue this sick, dying kitten, and finally gave up. “Reba, we can’t get to it. I’m sorry. I think it might die.”  

I went back inside, and Reba stormed in behind me.  She would not take “no” for an answer. “Mom, you told me to always look after God’s creatures.  And that’s what I’m trying to do. You are a pastor! You’d better help me!”

Emotional manipulation at its finest.  But she was right. Yet again I had become numb to suffering. This kitten need saving and we were her only hope.  So, what could I do? We had to go back out there. By then, this kitten, small enough to fit into the palm of my hand, had freed herself.  She was sick and malnourished. But she would be ok. She found us and we would carry on the work of caring for this sweet kitten, a work that continues to this day.

As always my kids model to me the way of faith.  Reba made the connection between someone else’s suffering, and her responsibility, between the “it is finished” and our own call as faithful followers of Jesus Christ.  On the cross, Jesus completed his work of teaching us how to live, of showing us what lived faith looks like, and now he has passed the work onto us.  Jesus work in human form is now down and we take up the cross and the example of Christ. We become the living stories of healing, hope, comfort, care and inclusion that Jesus lived in the gospel.

Jesus took his work from birth to his death on the cross, and now it is complete.  So–the challenge of Good Friday is–what will we do to live fully as the people God created us to be?  How will we follow Jesus’ example and care for all God’s children?

God, who began a good work in us, will be faithful to complete it, just as he faithfully walked with Jesus who completed his work on the cross.  

This holy week, let us follow in the way of Jesus, being fully the people God created us to be.  Let us continue on this uncertain road of discipleship, knowing that God will complete the work in us, walking with us, showing us the way, remaining with us until the very end, until our work is completed. AMEN.  

Jesus’ Financial Text of Terror

Based on Mark 10:17-31, and borrowed heavily from the work of Ched Myers.

In 1984, Phyllis Trible, feminist theologian and biblical scholar, wrote her groundbreaking book–Texts of Terror.  This book took a critical look at some of the worst stories in scripture in their treatment of women. It focuses on four stories in the Hebrew scripture–the story of Tamar, Hagar, The unnamed woman at Gibeah, and the daughter of Jepthath.

If you’ve never heard of these stories it’s because we don’t teach them in Sunday school.  They are rarely preached on. Scholars and preachers can’t put a positive spin on them. They are stories of assault, violence and deeply rooted oppression against women.

While these stories are difficult, they have also been empowering for women to talk about.  Because this is the struggle women continue to face today–violence, oppression, assault have not gone away.  It’s been very important for women that the church honestly and publicly address these wrongs both in scripture and in our daily living.

There are another set of stories in the gospels that are also terrifying, though not in the overtly violent way that Trible’s book described in these stories about women.  There are texts of terror from the mouth of Jesus–and they are terrifying because they have to do with money. Our money.

In the 39 parables in the gospels stories, Jesus talked about money in at least 11 of them.  One in every seven verses in the Gospel of Luke refers to money. But how often do we talk about money in church?  We talk about salvation, justice, discipleship, service, and a whole host of other things, but not often do we talk about money.  Not often do I preach about money.

Talking about money (in church and culture) is taboo.  We don’t want to get into it because it gets close to things that feel pretty private, pretty touchy, pretty personal.  The best we do is to talk about why we should give money to the church–that sermon happens about the time when we are preparing our church budget for the next year.  It’s not a condemnation, by the way, just the reality of how churches work.

But Jesus doesn’t seem to have any issue talking about money.  So perhaps we should also be willing to dive in and talk about this taboo subject–this financial text of terror.  

This text came at a crossroads for Jesus.  This was the last story we heard from Jesus in the gospel of Mark before he turned towards Jerusalem, and towards his inevitable death.  This is a theological crossroads as well, because while this rich man–and probably many others–were concerned about eternal life, what Jesus was talking about was the kingdom of God.  The man was concerned about what happened to him when he died, and Jesus was concerned about how people were living here and now, and how this man’s wealth was making life for others around him more difficult.  

I am convinced that this text is speaking directly to us at this crossroads.  To Frazer Mennonite Church. To the Mennonite Church in North America. To Western Christianity.  Because we represent the rich man.

Certainly this text can’t be about us though, right?  We’re not rich. I know I don’t feel rich. I struggle some months to pay the bills.  I can’t send my kids to a private school, I have debts to pay and I have to keep the lights on, food on the table, and clothes on my growing children.  I’m certainly not rich.

But panning back from our own bank accounts, we middle class North Americans are among the richest 1% of the world.  We are wealthy. We have resources, or connections to resources. Many of us own property. We are the rich man.

So, what is Jesus trying to say to us?

This rich man came to Jesus ready to do anything so that he could to inherit eternal life.  He promised Jesus that he kept all the commandments

But–and this is something I’ve missed every time I’ve read it–no one can inherit eternal life.  This statement from the rich man reeks of entitlement–eternal life, like property was something for him to inherit.

This is what we know about the rich man–he “possessed” many properties.  In first century Palestine, land was the basis of wealth, and the wealthy took great care to protect their entitlement to it from generation to generation.  Wealth grew for the rich in a few different ways–assets could be consolidated through marriage or political alliances. But the most common way that land could be gained by the wealthy was through debt default of the poor.  When the burdens of rent, taxes and operations were too much, a poor farmer would take out a small business loan from a wealthy person. If they fell behind on those payments, they lost their land to the lender, to the rich man.

It was for this reason that there was so much inequality in the time of Jesus.  And it is almost certainly how this man that came to Jesus ended up with so many properties.

Here’s the other often overlooked part of this story–when Jesus recited the commandments, and our eyes start to glaze over because we know them so well, Jesus slipped in something that’s not a commandment.  He snuck in a word from Leviticus. “You shall not defraud.” In the greek, this word, translated as “defraud”, can also mean “deprive.” Jesus snuck a bit of midrash, a bit of interpretation into this recitation of the commandments.  He snapped into focus the problem with the rich man’s question when he mentioned fraud–that this is how this man had become more and more wealthy. He had been defrauding the poor.

And Jesus looked at this rich man, and he loved him and said, “You lack one thing.  (or, more accurately said, you do not possess this one thing) Get up (which by the way is a phrase Jesus often used when he healed someone), sell what you have, and give to the poor.”  In other words, according to theologian Ched Myers, the rich man “must deconstruct the fraudulent system from which he derives his privilege, and restore to the dispossessed what has been taken from them.”

Jesus was not telling this man to change his attitude about wealth, to treat his servants better, or to change anything about his personal life.  Jesus was saying here that the precondition for discipleship is economic justice. Economic justice must happen in order for the kingdom of God to be seen and known. Jesus did not seem to care about eternal life.  Jesus cared about the kingdom of God, right here and now for all people.

The rich man, stung by the story, slipped away into the darkness–and was the only person in Mark’s gospel to refuse the call of discipleship from Jesus.

But the story didn’t end here.  Jesus turned to the disciples and overturns, in a few short sentences, their assumptions of wealth and power coming from human merit or #blessing.  And by now the disciples were confused and outraged, so they ask, “Who can possibly be saved, Jesus?  The bar is too high, Jesus”  The disciples felt hopeless about seeing a change to the system of oppression that was so deeply entrenched in their culture.  And Jesus assured the disciples–and us–in his words, “It seems impossible to you, but to God all things are possible.”

Here’s what is so problematic about this whole story, and probably why this text is not taken more seriously in Christian circles–In capitalism, redistributive justice is heresy. The justice that cares that all are fed, that all have what they need to live goes against the over-simplistic “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” philosophy of capitalism.  But for Jesus in the Gospel of Mark, redestributive justice is the kingdom of God. So those of us who are rich have reason to be concerned by this text. If we take it seriously it has an important challenge for us.

But, if we look at it from a kingdom of God perspective, to practice redistributive justice, to return that which has been taken from the poor, means that we are participating in God’s joyful economy, an economy of grace.

The rich man in this story was willing to do anything in exchange for an inheritance of eternal life.  Anything except change his economic practices. Anything but share his wealth and resources.

Maybe this is why church folks doesn’t talk about money that much, except to talk about our congregational budgets. Maybe this is why this text feels terrifying.   Because Jesus is asking us to turn our economic systems upside down. Jesus is asking us to move from a reliance on capitalism to a reliance on the economy of grace, a reliance on the upside down kingdom of God. Jesus is asking the church to look differently than the economic systems that exist outside these walls.

You will hear me talk a lot about God’s love.  And rightly so, because Jesus said these difficult words with deep love for the rich man.  But church is also about mutual accountability and discipleship. So, if we are going to truly live as members of the reign of God, Jesus’ words are clear–wealth amassed on the backs of poor people must be redistributed.  Discipleship is about following in the way of Jesus, a way that demands economic justice.

Are you feeling terrified by these words from Jesus?  Are you feeling prickly? Are you considering this whole Jesus-following thing?  Jesus’ words here are biting and personal.

It’s ok.  It’s ok if these words from Jesus are terrifying.  It is ok if they feel like too much work, to much to ask.  Too much to give up. Because we are not alone in feeling this challenge.  We rich North American folks can take this challenge and face it together.

Having these hard conversations about money brings to light all the practices we employ without knowing their impact on our neighbors around the world. And just as it has been essential to women around the world that we talk about the violence against women found in our scriptures and in our daily lives, we too must wrestle with these terrifying stories from Jesus about money and its violent impact on poor people around the world.

Because changing how we use and amass our wealth and possessions doesn’t just save us rich people.  It saves everyone. AMEN.

#Blessed

I revamped this “oldie but goodie” sermon and preached it at Frazer Mennonite Church and Church of St. Martins-in-the-Field.

October 7, 2018

Based on Job 1:1; 2:1-10

If you are on social media, like instagram, twitter, or facebook, you may be familiar with hashtags.  You put the hashtag in front of a word or phrase you can search for the phrase and find out what people are saying.  

The one I see a lot is #blessed.  

“I got into graduate school”  #blessed

“I went on the vacation of my dreams.” #blessed.

“What a great day with my best friends.” #blessed

It’s become the equivalent of a humble brag.  Folks don’t like to say how much money they have or how many good friends they have, or what an amazing school they are attending, so they say they are #blessed.

But in this particular context, “blessed” is used in our culture as lucky more than anything.  They feel lucky to have gone on vacation, gotten into school or have so many friends. But blessed? I don’t know.  Blessed is one of those biblical words that has been removed from our relationship with God, or falsely used to talk about our good fortune.  And I would like to explore the nature of this word, in the context of the book of Job.

There’s a lot in these verses from the book of Job that are disturbing.  Just listening to this text again gives me the shivers. God was playing games, using Job as a pawn to prove the goodness of Job.  

So, here’s a little backstory on this book.  Satan–better translated as–the accuser or the adversary–is an associate of God’s.  It’s Satan’s job to wander the earth, and gather the worst of humanity. So Satan reported to God that after journeying the whole earth, he decided humanity was made up of bad people.  And God, unconvinced, reminded Satan of Job.

Now already in the first chapter of Job, Job’s children were killed in a freak accident, his oxen and camel were stolen, and his servants were murdered.  And after Job heard this news, he tore his robe, shaved his head, sat naked in a pile of ashes, and worshipped God. He said, “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I shall return there; the Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”

And now, in chapter 2, the part of the book that we just read, God invited Satan to test Job once again.  And God gave Job over to Satan, and Satan inflicted sores all over his body, from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.  

I take issue with humanity being used as pawns in a game between God and the Adversary.  I have to be reminded–when my blood begins to boil and I begin to take this story literally–that this is a story written by humans about humans trying to understand the place of God in the suffering of this world.  

So, in this sermon, I’m not going to get into the issue of humans in this chess game between God and Satan, because this story is a literary device.  This book is a classic theodicy–a kind of story used to interrogate the ongoing human struggle and ask the question: Where is God in this human mess of suffering and evil?

You may have read other books outside the bible that try to address this question too:  CS Lewis has written a few of them, like The Problem of Pain and A Grief Observed; Night by Ellie Wiesel, and the contemporary work The Shack.

Job and his wife had been through more than their fair share of suffering in a very short amount of time.  And in her grief and frustration, Job’s wife says to Job, “You should Curse God and Die.”

Maybe you can relate to Job’s wife’s anger here. I’ve had more than a few days where I’ve had some very unsavory one-sided conversations with God.  I’ve cursed God. I’ve cried out to God, “Where are you? Why aren’t you fixing this? What good are you?”

Maybe this is not something you want to hear your pastor say, but I have to be honest about this.  This relationship with the divine is not often an easy one.

Curse God and Die–That’s what Job’s wife suggested he say to God.  In taking a look at the Hebrew word for curse here, you’ll find something very curious.  The Hebrew word for curse is actually “Barach”.

Besides this being the first name of our last president, who knows what Barach means?

It means to bless.

So why does this phrase get translated as “curse” rather than “bless”?

According to Biblical Scholars, this word for bless, barach, is also a euphemism for “curse” because no one would want to actually say “curse God” out loud.  That would be blasphemous. So instead, Job’s wife says, “Bless God”, but we all know what that really means.

It is like families 100 years ago saying that their daughter was “going to visit family out of town” instead of saying she want to have a baby.  Or like saying that someone “passed away” instead of saying that they died. Sometimes it’s easier to sugar coat the language we use than it is to say what we mean, and what is really on our hearts. So “Bless God” is just a nicer ways to say “Curse God”

Job’s wife could have been blessing or cursing God.  We don’t know which it is. Maybe it was both. Rabbinic scholars believe that blessing and cursing is very closely linked.  Because how can we bless God when good things happen but not hold God equally responsible for bad things. If we are all about blessing God for the good things, should we not also bless God for the bad things?  If we are going to curse God for the bad things, should we not also curse God for the good?

We want to attribute the good things in our lives to God but then perhaps we must also attribute the bad things to God.  And this is where I start to get a little nervous. Does this mean that when bad things happen, they are God’s doing? Because it starts to feel like we are living in a Biblical theodicy, that perhaps God is pulling strings from heaven, deciding when good things and bad things happen.  It starts to feel like maybe we need to tiptoe around God and not raise the ire of God.

But for many of us, we operate with a view of God that is like this–God is someone we have to appease to make our lives good.  If God is angry with us, then we can lose everything. And I have trouble with that concept of God. It’s one that doesn’t take into account the institutional sin and oppression to which we are inextricably bound.  You can be a good person,but if you are born in a refugee camp in Syria, life is just going to be tough. You can pray every day, but if you are born into poverty, you will have extra challenges in your life. 

You can go to church every single Sunday, read the scriptures faithfully, do all the right things and still get diagnosed with a debilitating disease, or have fertility issues, or struggle with depression or addiction.

Things happen.  Life happens. Sometimes it’s all really good, sometimes it has its ups and downs, and sometimes it’s challenge after difficulty after trauma.  

So if we are going to bless God for the good, perhaps we also need to ready to bless God for the bad.  Because good things are not about being lucky or #blessed by God. More and more I understand this life to be about God walking with us, in the #blessed and in the #worst day ever.

You will never hear me say as a pastor, that God made a good or bad thing happen just for you.  I believe God’s power is far more creative than that. When I pray for healing, I do that sure that healing will come, but not always in the way we expect it and not always with immediate effect.  When I pray for a change in a situation in my life, I pray convinced that in whatever happens, God will walk with me. When I pray for an end to suffering, I recognize that while the suffering may not end, God will give me strength.

God is not our fairy godmother, available to grant our wishes.  God is not our puppet-master, pulling the strings while we have no control or agency in our lives.  God is not a sadist, waiting eagerly to ruin us when we screw up.

God is love.  

It’s as simple as that.  

God. is. Love.

And that love is the kind that walks beside us in good days and bad, in terrible life circumstances and when feel on top of the world.

We often mistake the highs of life for God’s blessing.  We praise God for these things. And certainly God is worthy of all our praise.  But can we muster that same praise for God when times are tough? Because in all of these times–the good and the bad–God is with us.

For Job, by the time we get to the end of this book, he had put God on trial.  He cursed God, he blessed God, examined and cross examined God. And God finally replied by saying in chapter 40, “What do you really know, Job?  Who do you think you are? Were you there when I created the earth? Do you know how my mind works?”

And Job realized just how little he knew.  And he gave up. Job stopped interrogating God.  God responded to Job’s demands, not by giving Job what he wanted but by reminding Job of his place in the universe.  And what could Job say to that?

So Job relented.  Job blessed God, and cursed God just as every person of faith had done before him.  

We come from a long line of faithful followers of God who live in that mess–who live somewhere between the blessing and the cursing.  Blessings and curses aren’t mere hashtags to be strewn about on social media. They are serious business. They are the heart of our faith and our questions.  Blessing and cursing God means that we are still engaged with God, that we are still wrestling with a God we don’t fully know or understand. And that is a good thing.  

Let us Bless the Lord.  Thanks be to God.

You Will Be Found

Friends, this is my last sermon at Germantown Mennonite Church, and it’s based on Luke 15:1-10.   In a few days, I begin a new ministry with the people at Frazer Mennonite Church in Malvern, PA.  

I know a bit about being lost.  

The first thing I know about being lost is that I really don’t enjoy it.  I’m not one of those folks that is like, “We’re lost! That’s great! Adventure time!”

I’m usually more like, “I’m lost?  What’s wrong with the GPS? How can this happen?  We’re gonna be late!”

The other things about being lost is that I’m usually the last to realize that I am lost.  And I will not ask for help. Charlie McGloughlin can testify to this, as can John Bergen. I’m sure I know where I am until I’m absolutely sure I don’t know where I am.  And then it’s a crisis.

When I prepare to lead a Christian Peacemaker Teams trip, I spend a lot of time making sure I know how to get where we’re going.  That’s not an easy task because using google map in Palestinian territories is nearly impossible. Many of the locations I visit literally can’t be found on any GPS, because Israel only recognizes Israeli territory on the GPS systems.  So I take a lot of notes about which bus to take, landmarks and anything else I can find to make sure I know where I’m going.

But even with the best of directions, and the best notes, sometimes I take the wrong bus.  

The first day of the delegation this year was my worst nightmare as a leader.  I got us on the bus headed to Anata road. But the bus was actually to the village of Anata, more specifically the refugee camp of Anata, outside the city of Jerusalem and through a checkpoint.  

The bus driver dropped us off in the center of this town that we weren’t supposed to be in, and sped off, and the group looked at me expectantly.  I looked around for someone that could speak English. By the way, even though I hate asking for help, it’s an amazing experience to ask someone, “Do you speak English?” and have that activate an entire group of people to help me.  This sort of thing never happens in this country.

One of the men in the group contacted his cousin, who spoke English, and I talked to him on the phone.  I told him where I wanted to go, and he instructed me on how to get there.

So, I confidently began to climb a steep hill with the delegation.  And a block in, I knew that I was in the wrong place. So, I started to look for help.  “Do you speak English?” “Do YOU speak English?” I was hot, exasperated, and really embarrassed to be leading my delegation astray on the first day, when I found someone to ask….one more time.  “Please…..do YOU speak English?”

The man didn’t speak English, but jumped into his car, began backing up the hill, and motioned for us to follow him.  

What choice did we have?  We were at his mercy. We were lost, and he found us. So, we followed.

The man excitedly backed into the driveway of his home, jumped out of the car, ran up the stairs to the entrance to his home, and then wildly gestured for us to come in.  

In the United States, this is the beginning of a horror film.  Cue the stabby music. But, what choice did we have? We were so lost.  

We reluctantly entered the house and found this man’s family in the living room.  They jumped up, offering us comfortable chairs, bottles of water and fans. And still, no one spoke English.  

And then Islam entered.  She was 22, beautiful in her colorful hijab, and radiating joy.  She greeted us in perfect English, introducing herself, and all the other members of her family.  The father, who brought us to the house, the mother (Reem), the sisters, brothers and Aunt.

Her family offered us classic Palestinian hospitality–tea, then coffee, then grapefruit juice, and sweets.  Then, once we were all comfortable, hydrated and smiling, Islam asked, “Now where were you going?” I showed her the website for the organization we were visiting, and she called them.  She laughed and said, “You are nowhere near where you are supposed to be”, which I knew. Islam instructed her father to call a van to pick us up, and we prepared to leave.

But this family was not done showing us love and hospitality.  Islam’s mother, Reem, said to me, through her daughter, “Can you all come back?  For dinner?”

By now we were all practically family.  So how could I say no. We arranged to come back in a few days for dinner.  

And as, you might imagine, the dinner was amazing, the hookah was top notch and the kinship was easy.  The Issa family, even though we haven’t known them for long, are connected to me now in deep ways.

And this family that found us by pure accident is now our family.  A few of us are hoping to be in Palestine next summer in time for Islam’s wedding.  Because that’s what family does.

I don’t like being lost.  Because I am not in control.  But I can’t think of a better way to begin this year’s trip than to get lost in Anata.  I can’t think of a better way to begin this trip than to be out of control, to be at the mercy of strangers, to be forced to rely on people and relationships rather than my GPS and my good planning.  

Because when we are lost, we will be found.

This experience in Palestine this year feels very familiar to me.  Because it reminds me of the ways I have felt found by this congregation.  

I arrived here at this congregation in 1996, and I was very lost.  And angry. And overhwelmed. I had just moved to Philadelphia with Charlie, and made big plans to do a rational, reasonable church search in Philadelphia. But, all that changed when I walked into 21 West Washington Lane.  

I felt at home here the moment I stepped into this building.  And there’s no reason I should have. There was a lot of crying that first Sunday.  The kind of crying that should scare off new folks. The kind of crying about personal pain that leaves strangers feeling awkward and uncomfortable.  But all I could think was, “My people! I found them!”

To try to describe the feeling of being found by this congregation only makes sense to a small group of people–usually it’s folks like me that have walked through these doors and described this place as “home.”  I can look out into this room and see plenty of folks that have no other word for this feeling than…home.

This is home.  

And it feels good to have been found by you.  It feels good to know that even when I was busy making rational, reasonable plans, God laughed and dropped me at the door to this community.  God showed me the green doors of Germantown Mennonite, and I knew I was home. I knew i was found.

And not just found, but celebrated, loved and cared for.  

Y’all have celebrated with us when our babies were born, you rejoiced with each new job we’ve taken on, you’ve made us food (Rita–that chicken salad is legendary in our home, and Ruth Marino, your pies–delicious!), brought us flowers from your garden.  You’ve sent cards, which in my opinion is an underappreciated spiritual gift. Beth Sutter remembers me on Mother’s day every year, because she knows how hard it is for me.

When I was lost, you found me.  You showed me the way of Jesus, a way that is risky and daring doesn’t care what others think.  And you celebrated with me, just as you have celebrated each other here.

Being found by all of you 22 years ago gives me the courage, the strength, and the certainty to get lost again.  You give me the courage to get lost in a denomination that I’ve been taunting from the sidelines for the last year.

Because I know you will be here, finding each other, looking after each other, feeding each other, celebrating and grieving with each other.  I know that you will be found.

And I know that I will be found.  Wherever I go. Whether it be the suburbs, the village of Anata, or some other place I didn’t mean to end up.  God will keep finding me, and God will keep finding you. And God will celebrate us all!

I don’t like getting lost.  It’s a terrible, out of control feeling.  But I have enough past experience to know that God’s going to keep finding me.  And I have enough experience here at Germantown Mennonite Church to know that God will find you in this transition, in our national uncertainty, and in the chaos of our personal lives.  God will find us. God is finding us. God will rejoice in finding us. AMEN.

Be Opened

Sermon preached at Germantown Mennonite Church

9.2.18

Based on Mark 7:24-37

Jesus was heading into Canaanite territory to take a respite from his work.  He didn’t want to be noticed. But it was difficult for the Rabbi to be incognito in Tyre and Sidon.  Because he wasn’t Canaanite. Jesus was an Israelite, a Jew, a Rabbi. And he probably stood out. He probably didn’t look or dress the like the Canaanites of the area.

He certainly caught the attention of one woman, who recognized Jesus right away.  This woman, described as Syrophoenician in this text, and Canaanite in others, was Gentile, she was from the area, she spoke Greek, and she knew all about Israelite men.    She knew of the long standing rivalry between Canaanites and Israelites, going back thousands of years to the time when Moses sent the Israelites into the promised land, a land flowing with milk and honey, and a land that happened to be already inhabited by Canaanites.  

This woman knew that an Israelite man would take one look at her, and determine that he was better than she was, simply because of this conflict–inscribed into Israelite mythology–that went back millenia.  It’s not something that Jesus was conscious of, but it was taught to his parents and their parents and theirs. This feeling of superiority went way back.

But this woman was desperate–her daughter was sick, and when your kid is sick or hurting, you do desperate things for them.  

So she went to Jesus, who looked out of place, but who she thought she recognized, and asked him to heal her daughter.  

Desperate words from a desperate woman.  

Now, I’ve preached from this text pretty regularly.  It’s one of my favorite stories. Each gospel tells it a little differently, but the common factor in this story is that Jesus’ ministry changed because Jesus met this woman.  What started out as a reform movement for Judaism, became a movement that included all people–and, I believe that his ministry pivoted around this encounter.

Everything for Jesus changed after this encounter with the Canaanite woman.  Jesus began to hang out with non-Jews, he began to heal them, to eat with them, to share life with them.  All because this Gentile woman asked Jesus to heal her daughter.

I want to be careful here not to overlook the details of this encounter.  Because it wasn’t an easy one for Jesus or the Canaanite woman. Because Jesus said some mean, un-thinking words to the woman.  He compared her to a dog.

And the woman–even though she’s desperate for help–does not take this remark silently.  She gave Jesus a comeback that changed his ministry. When Jesus called her a dog, she replied, “Even the dogs get the crumbs from the table.”  Even we Canaanites deserve a little something, Jesus.  We Canaanites are human, you know. We are more than the savage stories written in your holy book.

When I read this story–and it comes up in preaching every year–I notice the bravery of this woman.  That’s important.

And I also notice that Jesus didn’t get indignant when this woman corrected him.  He wasn’t mad. He didn’t say, “I didn’t mean it like that”, or “I don’t think you understood what I was saying,” or “Why does everyone have to be so politically correct nowadays.”  He didn’t say, “Give me a break, lady, I’m working on my stuff.” or “You Canaanites are so touchy.” He heard her correction. He received her admonition. And he changed course because of it.  

Jesus changed because this woman, this foreigner, called him out.  

This call out from Jesus has me reflecting on these last decades here at Germantown.  I’ve certainly received my fair share of call outs from you, from colleagues, from friends and family. I’ve been working on being grateful for them all.  I certainly haven’t always taken them kindly. Some of them have made me angry, hurt my feelings and left me reeling for days and even weeks.

But in the end, these call outs have shown me my growing edges, have forced me to at least consider change, rather than digging in my heels.  

And let’s face it, we cannot grow until we encounter other world views and perspectives that shake our own assumptions, that challenge the dominant, supersessionist language we use, and that force us to change.  

The first queer people I met in college forced me to change.  When one friend came out to me, and asked me, with tears in her eyes, “Am I going to hell because I love another woman?”, I had to change how I read the scripture, and how I understood love and desire.

When I met Jewish folks that called me out on the anti-semetic ways I read the text, I had to change how I read the scripture, and how I talked about other religious groups.  

My first encounter with a Palestinian man happened here in this church, when we hosted Christian Peacemaker Teams meetings here in 2011.  He reflected on the ways that Christian Zionism has made life difficult for his people on the other side of the world. I had to change.

Those behavior and perspective changes mean that life can’t go on as usual.  I had to live differently because of this.

Jesus took the criticism of the woman.  Because, she was right. There’s never a good or right reason to compare someone to an animal, to dehumanize them.  

In fact, Jesus went as far as to say that this woman’s child had been healed because she called out Jesus.  Jesus changed, this woman’s daughter was healed, and Jesus’ ministry turn a turn towards inclusion.

But this isn’t the end of the story.  We read in the next story about how Jesus changed.  

When Jesus left the region where he met this Canaanite woman, Jesus met more people that needed healing.  And Jesus didn’t turn them away. In fact, Jesus, so transformed and moved by the encounter with the Canaanite woman, that he healed one person by putting his fingers in their ears, and uttering to the heavens “Ephphatha”, which means “be opened.”

This word, Ephphatha, is a Greek form of Aramaic, a language certainly used by the Canaanite woman.  Jesus is so transformed by his encounter with the Canaanite woman, that he used her language, her dialect, to call out to their God.  

This is no magic word.  In fact, I wonder if this word is a reminder to Jesus that he must stay open.  He must be opened by the encounters he has with those he met. In opening the ears of that person, Jesus himself knew how much more open his heart, his ears, his eyes and his mind needed to be as his ministry continued.  

Be opened.  Stay opened.  Ephphatha.

Our inclinations in difficult encounters is to be closed, to protect ourselves from criticism, to save face and avoid looking like a jerk.  

But what if we did the more difficult thing.  What if we called ourselves to Be Opened. What if we called out to God for an openness, a willingness to change, a desire to be moved in an unknown direction.  

Jesus was challenged by a foreign woman to see the work of God as bigger than just for the Israelites.  She asked Jesus to see her humanity, to see that God’s love was for the Canaanites, the Kushites, the Midionites, the Romans, the Greeks, the colonized, the colonizers, the poor, the rich, the included and excluded.

Jesus saw in this encounter that he had a bigger project than he had even anticipated.  And he took it on. He learned from his mistakes. He healed those he encountered. And he called on God–Ephphatha. Be opened.  Stay opened.

Let us too be opened to call outs, because they show us our boundaries and limits.  And they may even show us those places where we are being pushed. Ephphatha. Be. opened. Stay Opened. AMEN.