Stay Alert
Preached at Germantown Mennonite on 11/27/11
Mark 13:24-37; Isaiah 64:1-9
A few weeks ago, I was driving my son to school early in the morning, and he asked me an impossible theological question. This is the usual time when I get the “Stump Pastor Mom” questions—in the car, where we don’t have to look at each other, kids feel this sense of safety to ask the hard questions.
On this particular morning, when I was not yet at proper levels of caffination, Willem asked me this question: “Mom, why did God create free will?
Free will? Really? At 7:30 in the morning?
The question was intriguing to me, but the “why” of the question was of more interest. “Why do you ask such a thing (so early in the morning)?”
Turns out that what he really wanted to know was not why God created it, but why God allows us to do stupid things, to our own detriment? “Isn’t there a place we get to where God just reaches down and fixes it, so we don’t make such a mess out of things down here?”
Oh that you would rend the heavens and come down,
That the mountains would shake before you!
As fire kindles the brushwood and makes water boil,
Make your Name known to your adversaries,
And let the nations tremble before you!
When you did awesome things that we could not have expected,
You came down, and the mountains quaked in your presence!
From ages past no ear has ever heard,
No eye has ever seen any God but you intervening for those that wait for you!
Oh, that you would find us doing right,
That we would be mindful of you in our ways!
The question of a curious 5th grader is the same question of the Israelites. “God, when will you open up the heavens, come down, and fix this mess? We know you can and will intervene—we are waiting for you to do it—now!”
This text from Isaiah finds the Israelites in post-exile. They had been in exile in Babylon (as Ezekial was in last week’s text), but when King Cyrus defeated the Babylonians, he decreed that the Israelites could return to their home—to Jerusalem.
It sounded like a dream come true—after years of slavery, heading back home is what the people had longed for all these years! But, that great feeling quickly left when it came time to get to work on rebuilding the city, and restoring the temple, the house of God. The city was not coming together as some had hoped. And, the people of God were calling out to God, saying, “Fix this! Rend the heavens, come down, and make this right!”
This demand of the Prophet Isaiah also implied something difficult to hear: That the people of God—the chosen ones—were not feeling the presence of God among them. They lament that God was not there and begged God to show up, to be present to them again.
If the Isaiah passage are the questions—Where are you God? When are you going to intervene?—the Gospel of Mark could be the answer. The prophet Isaiah called on God to open the heavens, and Mark showed in vivid images what happens when the heavens open up.
But in those days, after that time of distress, the sun will be darkened, the moon will lose its brightness, the stars will fall from the sky and the powers in the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see the Promised one coming in the clouds with great power and glory; then the angels will be sent to gather the chosen from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven.
The people of Israel want God to show up in grand fashion, showing God’s power. But, I wonder if they actually considered what that experience might be like. A dark sun, pale moon, stars falling from the sky, and the heavens being shaken up, God coming down in the clouds—none of that sounds like the welcome event the prophet Isaiah was hoping for. It sounds downright terrifying. It sounds more like God leaving that God arriving.
No, the apocalyptic God is not what Isaiah is hoping for. In fact, I think that Isaiah was hoping for quite the opposite. Isaiah was hoping for a God of order, a God that would straighten up the chaos of post-exilic life, that would solve the problems created by slavery. Isaiah was thinking pragmatically—come down and solve these problems God!
But, take another look at Mark. The author gives us some more ideas of what it might look like for God to show up:
Stay alert! You do not know when the owner of the house is coming, whether at dusk, at midnight, when the cock crows, or at early dawn. Do not let the owner come suddenly and catch you asleep. What I say to you, I say to all: Stay Alert!
Do you catch anything interesting here in this verse?
The time when God might show up is at dusk (when Jesus and the disciples gathered together to share a meal), at midnight (when Jesus prayed with the disciples and was arrested), when the cock crowed (when Jesus was put on trial and Peter denied him), and at early dawn (when Jesus arose from the grave).
God showed up in the very middle of the most terrible, awful, sinful moments of life. In the betrayal and denial, God was there. In the death, God was there. And in the resurrection, God was most certainly present.
It seems that Mark may be giving us a few ideas of how God might show up—in terror and glory, in sin and doubt, right on our doorstep. And it seems that the coming again doesn’t have to happen once. It can happen again and again.
For some—like me—this is a welcome relief. Because I can be a little dense. Sometimes it takes me a little while to catch on to the fact that God is here—again—in all of God’s glory and big energy, or in the smallest whisper of a moment.
This week—of all weeks—I resumed my yoga practice. Now, it’s probably been a good year that I’ve taken a little break from it. I had another plan, another way that I was going to engage my body in fitness. And it totally didn’t work.
So, a few months ago, I realized that I needed to get back to yoga. I began researching places to go, looking at the times of the classes, and getting up the courage to get back to it. And just when I was ready to go back, I couldn’t find my yoga mat, so I took a few more weeks to purchase a mat that I liked (ok, the only spec was that it had to be purple), and THEN I was ready.
So, I went back on Wednesday. And it started out just awful. I huffed and puffed through it. The things I could do a year ago, I just couldn’t do any more. I kept forgetting to breathe. I began cursing certain positions that I was being made to hold for endless minutes.
I was not in a yoga state of mind. At all. My mind was fighting with my body. And losing.
Now, if you have ever attended a yoga class, the instructors are known to throw out nuggets of wisdom in the middle of the class—something about being kind to your body, or gratefulness or something positive. Sometimes the wisdom feels corny. Sometimes it’s nice but not necessarily applicable to where you are in that moment. And sometimes it just smacks you right in the face.
So, on Wednesday, as I was struggling along and feeling pretty mad at myself and my body for not doing what I wanted it to do, my instructor said this: Be thankful for where you are right now; don’t think about where you’d rather be. I had to look around to see if she was talking to me directly. It was exactly what I needed to hear at that moment. It brought me to focus and clarity. And that simple, yoga-style nugget of wisdom got me through the rest of the class. It was my holy interruption, in the middle of my internal structure.
This holy interruption did not come in a cloud from the heavens. There was no atmospheric disturbance. There was no major life event (besides coming to terms with my physical reality), but it was the interruption that aligned my mental and physical state.
There are plenty of other holy interruptions that I miss though. There are many times that my mind and body argue in yoga, and I forget to breathe, and no words of wisdom break through. There a plenty of times that I’m looking for a detail, while God’s doing a heavenly jig in front of me. There are plenty of times that I’m looking for the sky to open, and I miss the still small voice.
This season in advent, we have so many distractions. Black Friday sales that begin at midnight the day after Thanksgiving, holiday concerts, trees to get and decorate, Christmas cookies to make, cards to order and remember to send, suitcases to pack, travel arrangements to make.
Expectations are high during this season. We want things to be perfect. We want things to go well. We want nothing to interrupt our schedule or our well organized plans.
But here, in our time together at church, we have an opportunity. We can—in our worship together, listen for those places, both big and small, where God is interrupting our lives. Perhaps God is breaking open the heavens in a big way, and wowing you with glory and terror both.
Notice it. Pay attention to what God is saying to you.
Perhaps God is revealing herself to you in small, quiet ways.
Notice it. Stay awake. Pay Attention.
God did not show up to the people of Israel in the way that the prophet Isaiah asked, but God was present—in the suffering, in the slavery, in messy return to Jerusalem. God was with them in all of it. God came to them, again and again.
Mark reminds us of this in his text today. God comes in big and glorious ways and in small whispered ways too. God—our holy interrupter—is present to us, and comes to us in the most plain, and the most unusual of ways.
Stay alert—Stay awake. You never know how God is intervening in your life—in our lives—in big and small ways. AMEN.
An In-Between Place
Last Friday, the city of Philadelphia handed out eviction notices to Occupy Philadelphia, notifying the residents that they had to leave by Sunday at 5pm, or they would be removed.
While, I haven’t been a part of this movement, I’ve been observing them from the edges. And, when I heard about the eviction, I was anxious. I saw the UC Davis footage, I read stories about violent evictions in other cities—I was worried about Occupy Philadelphia.
The Interfaith Clergy group called on Philadelphia pastors to go to City Hall on Sunday night, to stand as a witness and reminder that we are called to the way of peace. So, my colleague and I headed downtown.
It was obvious that we were clergy—some people would walk by us, and thank us for coming, but mostly we were relegated to the edges of the event. We were marginalized, and that was ok. We were observers, not participants.
When the Eagles football game let out, we saw more movement around the Occupy Philadelphia encampment. Disappointed sports fans were coming up from the subway, and streaming into the square. Many were intoxicated. A few were very angry with the Occupiers.
One group of young men concerned me right away. I heard them making plans to pick a fight with the protestors, to get themselves on the news. They were convinced that they would be hometown heroes.
I watched them scheme, and as I did, I stood up, and looked directly at them. As they moved towards the Occupiers, I continued to try to catch their eyes.
And then, distracted by activity at the other side of the square, and I lost track of them.
I found the young men again, because they approached me. They were large, muscular, intoxicated guys—and I’ll be honest—I was scared of them. I forgot my own role until one of the men extended his hand to me and said, “Sister, I don’t need forgiveness or absolution. I just need you to know that I’m about to do something you aren’t going to like. You can’t change my mind. But I’m probably going to say and do some things you don’t want me to do.”
I stuttered and stumbled over my words. “Uh. Ok. Please be safe. Please be safe.”
And then, they disappeared into the crowd again.
Several minutes later, the young men returned. “We blame you for this, Sister. We couldn’t go through with it, because you were standing there…watching.”
These men weren’t much different than the protesters. These men had all been unemployed at some point during the recession. Dave, an experienced electrician, said if the Occupy movement started last year when he was out of work, he may have been out there with them.
What confused and angered these men—and what made them want to hurt people—was that there was no leader and no clear message in the movement. They believed that the movement made poor, unemployed people looks lazy. “All these people sitting around—what’s the point?”
My colleague and I listened, laughed and shared stories with these new friends, there on the steps of city hall, between the Occupy Philadelphia movement and the police on the street. The in-between place was not a comfortable one, and if I knew what I would encounter that night, perhaps I would not have gone. We stood where no one else wanted to stand— at the place where opposing sides meet to argue, fight and plan revenge. But, the in-between place is exactly where the church needs to stand, as a guidepost to our better humanity, as a reminder of our common status of children of God, as listeners, story-sharers, and reconcilers.
Cross-posted at http://young.anabaptistradicals.org/2011/11/28/an-in-between-place/
The Church we Long to Be
Ezekial 47:1-10, Leviticus 25:1-12, Luke 4: 16-22
In the late 90’s U2 front man—and my personal hero—Bono, lent his voice and his passion to the Jubilee project. This project was an attempt to get first world countries who lend money to third world nations to forgive the debt, to erase the slate, and to allow these poor nations to make a new start without the crippling debt.
Bono and others met with world leaders, to try to convince them to cancel debt. There were some successes with this project. Tony Blair, the British Prime Minister at the time, publicly expressed his personal support for, and dedication to, debt forgiveness. The United States during the G-7 meeting in 1999 to cancel 100% of the debt that qualifying countries owed the U.S. Jubilee also lobbied the U.S. Congress to make good on this promise. Congress committed $769 million to bilateral and multilateral debt relief. It wasn’t 100% debt relief, but it was a start.
I love this idea of Jubilee. Land returned, debts forgiven, slaves freed—it’s beautiful, and means that the gospel, the message of our holy scriptures, are more than just spiritual. It has an immediate, justice effect on people than need freedom from financial and physical slavery.
But as much as I love Jubilee, as much as I respect and honor this part of the levitical code—there’s something important you should know about it—in reality it was never fully practiced. It has never been fully practiced, at least not to the extent that the levitical code required. There is no record that anyone ever left all of their land fallow for a year, or freed slaves from servitude, or forgave debt. Jubilee is talked about in Exodus and Leviticus, and I see no record that anyone ever practiced this part of the law. If it was ever practiced, it was a token, a shallow version of the Levetical mandate.
In fact, no one much talked about this decree in the stories of Jesus. Pharisees and Saducees instead talked about cleanliness—keeping themselves away from the unclean, and striving to be pure, both inside and outside. The part of the Levitical code that is about personal purity somehow seems more attainable, and more do-able perhaps than the year of jubilee. Plus jubilee meant that one had to give up wealth and status for the sake of the oppressed. Personal purity instead became a form of status in and of itself.
The only ones that really talked about jubilee in the Hebrew scriptures were the prophets. And the only one in the gospels that really talked about jubilee was Jesus—in fact this is how he began his ministry in the gospel of Luke. Jesus opened up the scroll in the temple, and read the words of the prophet Isaiah, and declared that in his reading it, the scripture was fulfilled.
The Spirit of the Lord is upon me
Because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor
He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives
And recovery of sight to the blind
To let the oppressed go free
To proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.
Jesus doesn’t say it explicitly, but he is declaring the jubilee. Releasing the captives, recovering sight to the blind, letting the oppressed go free—this is jubilee. This is what Jesus came to do.
Jesus lived a life of Jubilee. Jesus modeled it. Jesus showed us how it was to be done, and send us disciples off to make it happen. But still, Jubilee has not ever been practiced with totality.
Rather depressing to think about. And this has shattered my view of jubilee. I always thought the Isrealites accomplished the laws set out by God. I always thought of the Levitical code as the laws that the Isrealites put into action, rather than ideals that they held up, but never really observed.
So then, why do we talk about jubilee? Why do we social activist types hold up this jubilee concept, yet never practice it? Why do the Israelites tout this law, yet never put it fully into practice?
Which brings me to the text from Ezekial.
If Bono is my rock star hero, Ezekial is my prophet hero. Ezekial, a member of the priestly class, was sent into exile by the Babylonians. The Babylonians thought that if they got rid of the leadership the people of Israel, then the people would be more easily controlled. So Ezekial was sent into exile. He went from being a leader among the Jews to being a common laborer, losing both status and prestige.
Ezekial tried to understand why this had happened. Where does the blame lie—what have the Israelites done to deserve this?
It is unclear whether he was a performance artist prophet or skitzaphenic, or smoking something trippy. Regardless, Ezekial has many visions regarding what is happening to the Isrealites.
Ezekial described God—as a spirit of glory and terror both. He described this glory and terror—this kavod—as a spirit that has left the temple. God was so disgusted with the people of Israel that God just left. God had enough and left.
Of course God does come back to God’s temple. The temple is renewed as a place of hope and life. And it culminated in this glorious vision of what the temple—what the church–can be.
In his vision, Ezekial was led through the temple, a temple where water flowed from its center. Outside the temple, the water flowed, first ankle deep, then knee deep, then waist deep. The water was so deep that it was over Ezekial’s head .
Then Ezekial was led to the bank of the river, where he saw trees that were lush and thriving, and producing fruit. In this river, people could fish, and eat from what they caught. This river was full of fresh water and flowed to water that was stagnant, and it gave that stagnant water new life.
This was a beautiful vision of what the house of God—the place of worship—could be. And it inspires me. What if the church was this place—what if Germantown Mennonite was a stream of new life that turned into a deep river of life that ran over our threshold, into the parking lot and down Washington Lane? What if this water flowed from there down to the wissahickon, and made that dirty undrinkable water clean again? What if that water that flooded from our doors made it possible for people to eat, not just one meal, but to eat in a sustainable way?
This vision of the church gets me very excited! It gets me far more excited than the jubilee texts. Not that they are any different. They both are calling for the people of God to be people of liberation. They both seem rather unattainable. How can we possibly bring about Jubilee? How can we possibly create a church that is a source of liberation and life, from which clean waters flow?
What excites me about the Ezekial text is that it is the gospel—in this middle of this prophet’s possibly drug induced vision is a declaration that prisoners are free, that the captives are released. In the middle of the Hebrew Scriptures is the image of what it looks like if we practice jubilee.
Ezekial is not telling us—this is the law. You must give money to make this vision happen. Ezekial is not saying that God says you’d better tithe, God says you’d better give up all your wealth. The prophet is showing us what it looks like when we participate in the vision. He’s showing us in this beautiful, rich, elaborate vision what we can be as the people of God, participating in the vision with all that we have.
I like Jubilee. But, I have some trouble with the idea that Jubilee is law. It’s probably because I don’t like being told what to do. And I know that I’m not the only one here with this stubborn streak. I don’t want to be told that I must, I need to know the why. I want to see the reason for following—for following this law, for following Jesus. Perhaps this line of thinking sounds stupid to you, but I need to know why it’s important. Why is it important that I follow the law of God, written thousands of years ago?
The prophet shows us this vision in Ezekial—when we all loosen our grip on the material, and share our resources—in this particular image, we are sharing with the church—we begin to see that church can be a place that is more than just paying for a building, or buying Sunday school materials, or paying the pastor’s salary. Sharing our resources with the church is sharing in a vision that together God’s people will be nourished. Together the captives will be released. Together all we come to know the saving grace of God, not just intellectually, but spiritually and physically. Because we share our resources with this community, this place becomes a place of hope and sustaining grace.
Ultimately this vision of Ezekial is not different than Jesus declaration of what he was called to do. And that’s not much different from Jubilee. All of these things are a call to the people of God to share what we have—I share all three of these texts with you today because for each of us these texts appeal in different ways. Some of us like the trippy vision of the prophet—we need to see that vision of what will be, when we work together. Some of us need that Jubilee law—the commandment that is so lofty, but that pushes us. And for others of us, it is important to hear that Jesus declare this vision to be so—in the reading of the word. And as his diciples, we share in that vision.
Whatever the reason that we give, we give so that the grace of God is shared—in word and deed. Let us hold to this vision—as unattainable as it might seem—as we look towards the future of the church. Let us hold on to this vision as we consider carefully how we share our resources with our church. Let us hold on to this vision, as we—the disciples of Jesus—seek the kingdom of God with all that we have.
AMEN.
Podcast Interview
When I wasn’t perseverating about my birthday yesterday, I was being interviewed for a podcast. Check it out.
http://www.laurelville.org/blog/bid/106308/Germantown-Mennonite-Church-creates-a-welcoming-space-podcastGermantown-Mennonite-Church-creates-a-welcoming-space-podcast
Birthday
Today I turn thirty-eight. I’m not one of those people that fears getting older. But this birthday smacked me in the head this morning.
Today I realized that it was twenty years today since my mom was diagnosed with colon cancer, a cancer that would eventually kill her. On my eighteenth birthday, after coming home from a celebrating my birthday with college friends, my dad called to tell me that mom had cancer. It was so shocking, and so overwhelming that I don’t even think he acknowledged my birthday. (And who could blame him.)
Welcome to adulthood.
My mom was forty when she was diagnosed with cancer. Forty seemed so old twenty years ago. Now it feels ominously close to that major turning point in our family’s life. When I was eighteen, I was unceremoniously thrust into adulthood, and forced to deal with adult things–like talking with doctors, navigating the hospice process, and planning for a parent’s death. By twenty-two I was the matriarch of the family.
What’s frightening about the looming fortieth birthday is that I am so much like my mom. I look like her. I have her sense of humor. I interact in the world like her. And, from time to time, when I’m really focusing on something, I scrunch up my mouth, just like my mom did.
I do all I can to prevent my children from experiencing trauma and tragedy, while making sure they have tools for the real world. But cancer is something I pray my kids never have to face. I hope they never have to watch their parent suffer from cancer treatment, or hold their parent’s hand before another surgery.
And, cancer is something I can’t exactly prevent from my experience or theirs.
These next few years are important ones for me. It will be a time for me to decide what changes need to be made. I’ll need to decide how to be as much of the amazing woman my mom was, while learning from some of her mistakes and bad habits. Perhaps making a few smart changes now will mean my children will see me long after my fortieth birthday.
Broken Blessed and Shared
Preached at Philadelphia Praise Center on November 6, 2011
While they were eating, Jesus took bread, and after giving thanks he broke it, gave it to his disciples, and said, “Take, eat, this is my body.” And after taking the cup and giving thanks, he gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you, for this is my blood, the blood of the covenant that is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.”
This was no casual meal—this was a terrifying time for the disciples and for Jesus. The disciples had just been told by Jesus that he would be crucified in the next few days. And as if this news was not upsetting enough, Jesus dropped another bombshell—one of the disciples in that room would betray Jesus, and hand him over to the authorities to be killed.
These disciples were scared, anxious, and fearful.
And then Jesus took bread, and after giving thanks he broke it, gave it to his disciples, and said, “Take, eat, this is my body.” And after taking the cup and giving thanks, he gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you, for this is my blood, the blood of the covenant that is poured out for many for the for the forgiveness of sins.
This was the feast of the Passover, the time when the Jewish community remembered when God saved them from the enslavement of Pharaoh and the Egyptians.
But, now it had become clear. Jesus was the Passover sacrifice. His body would be broken and hung on a cross, and he would be shared with the world. His blood would be spilled and offered for protection.
These frightened, shaky, unsure disciples shared this meal with Jesus, still trying to grasp the statements of man they though would be their Messiah. They had just heard that Jesus would be crucified, that he would be betrayed by one of them, and that he would be the Passover lamb. They wondered what all this could mean. What does it mean that their Messiah would be killed, his body broken? How would any of this be a good thing?
We certainly know the brokenness and uncertainty of the disciples. We understand the question on the disciples’ hearts and minds. We too wonder, in times of uncertainty—“What will happen next?”
There’s no place more uncertain right now than our world economy. We can see the effect of the global down turn when our family members lose employment. I see the toll it has taken on members of my congregation just by looking in their eyes. We worry about paying our rent, and keeping our families fed and cared for. I see this same fear on the faces of the homeless women I work with who are trying to find a job in Philadelphia, in a market where few are hiring. We—the disciples of Jesus—are nervous, confused, uncertain, and afraid. We are broken.
Where is the blessing for the disciples, who knew that their leader, Jesus, would be killed? Where is the blessing for the disciples who knew that one of them would betray Jesus? Where is the blessing we hope for, when our securities fail and break apart before our very eyes?
When I was a student at Eastern University, my mom, Reba, was also a student—at Eastern. Mom quit college to marry my dad and start a family, and when my brother and I were in high school, my mom was ready to finish her college degree. Take a minute to imagine going to school with your parents. For me it was hard enough to live with my parents as a teenager, but when I went to college, there was no place to hide. Everywhere I went on my college campus, I ran into my mom.
My mom was outgoing—it is no exaggeration to say that everyone at Eastern knew Reba. I became known as “Reba’s daughter.” At that moment when I was trying to get out from under the rule and authority of my parents, there I was on campus with my mother, somehow still under her rule and authority.
And as annoying as it was to be in college with my mom, sometimes taking the same classes with her, in so many ways it was a blessing. Because when I was a sophomore, my mom was diagnosed with cancer. It was a blessing to be there with people that loved and cared for both of us, and were holding our entire family in prayer.
In the four years that mom was a student at Eastern, she had four reoccurrences of cancer. But she continued to attend classes, even though she was so sick from chemotherapy. Mom was determined to finish school, and become a social worker.
Mom graduated in May of 1995, and in June was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and given six months to live. With the blessing of her family, mom opted not to have more treatment, knowing that it would only make her more sick and not extend her time. She wanted to enjoy the remainder of her life as much as possible.
And she did. She gave away her possessions, went on trips, and spent time with her family and friends. For a long time, no one could tell that she was sick. Until November of that year she looked fantastic. Then her body started to fall apart. Mom started to look—broken.
In my mom’s last days, we took care of her at our family home. Her hospital bed had replaced the table in the dining room, located in the center of the house. She looked awful in the last two months of her life. Mom was barely a hundred pounds, and her hair was short and grey. Her skin was something between grey and yellow, and her cheeks were drawn in, exposing the sharp lines of her jaw.
Her body was broken but her spirit was not–I knew that mom looked forward to Fridays. That was when two of our college professors from Eastern would come to give mom communion. While mom looked forward to Fridays, I dreaded them. It’s not that I didn’t love to see my professors, but I did not want to be near anything related to God. I was just too angry with God for taking my 45 year old mother away from me. This mom that I had complained about all through college, I now wanted to hold on to so tighly. So, the thought of being near people taking communion, let alone taking it myself, well, it was just out of the question.
But on the last Friday that our professor friends came to our home before Mom died, for some reason I agreed to take communion. I don’t remember much about what was said or how we shared the bread and wine. What stands out in my mind is that mom, whose voice was silenced by cancer, suddenly began to talk. When we gathered around her bed to share in the Lord’s Supper, and touched her hand, she responded. She was lucid, alert, present. What had been broken, was—even for a brief moment—restored.
I had no delusions that she was well again, or that any sort of permanent miracle had occurred in my mom’s broken body. But I knew that something had happened to me—I had experienced God. My professors and I—all gathered around mom’s bed, had seen the presence of Christ in the frail body of my mother, had heard the voice of Christ in her weak voice, and had caught just a glimpse of wholeness and resurrection as we spoke with her one last time. Though the experience was fleeting, we were reminded that God was among us, even in mom’s broken body, even in my broken heart.
I still find ways that mom is shared with me. I see my mom’s personality and her unmistakable smile every time I look at my daughter, who is also named Reba. And when I see my mom’s friends and family, I’m sure to hear a wonderful story about mom that I’ve never heard before. And when I welcome people to stay in my home, I remember those times when my parents welcomed family and friends into my childhood home, to stay as long as was needed. Though mom’s body was broken by cancer, her life was blessed, and I am blessed to have shared in it.
Those disciples—all gathered around the Passover meal–didn’t know it yet, but they would see Jesus again—restored and resurrected, walking among them. And after Christ returned to God, they would experience the Holy Spirit through Pentecost. Like Jesus, the disciples were broken. Like Jesus, they were blessed, and with the power of the Holy Spirit they would share the good news.
We continue to be anxious about the economy. But, when I wonder about how my family will continue to live in a financially insecure world, I have to remind myself of the most important things. That in being with other believers, I have experienced communion. I have experienced Christ. And that has done something dramatic to me. And, empowered by the Holy Spirit, I can’t help but share the good news—that God loves us, and God’s grace is for all.
And then Jesus took bread, and after giving thanks he broke it, gave it to his disciples, and said, “Take, eat, this is my body.” And after taking the cup and giving thanks, he gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you, for this is my blood, the blood of the covenant that is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.
As we gather together, we recognize that we are broken, in one way or another. But in this brokenness and frailty, we come to together, as believers in the resurrected Christ. Though we have fear about the future we know that when we gather together, the risen, whole and perfect Christ is present here, and we are blessed. And we draw comfort from the Holy Spirit, and are empowered by God’s love and grace to share that blessing with others.
What is beautiful about sharing the love of God is that we are still broken. We are not yet fully healed—God is still working on us. Despite the brokenness, we have been blessed by God, and called to share.
As you worship today, experience the blessing of communion. All of you who are broken, experience the blessing of life together with other broken believers. Despite the brokenness in our lives and in all Christian communities, we still see moments where Christ reveals to us a glimpse of what will be. Despite our brokenness, we are blessed, and called to share God’s love with others, just as Christ shared it at that last supper so many years ago, and just as Christ is shared when we worship God together. AMEN.
Re-Form-ation
October 30, 2011
Matthew 23: 1-12
Today, in the protestant church tradition, is reformation Sunday. Reformation Sunday is a remembrance of the day that Catholic Priest, Martin Luther, nailed his 95 theses on the door of the Wittenburg Church in 1517. Luther was concerned about the burdens that the church was putting on its people, for the sake of money and control and order.
But today, we are not going to be talking about Martin Luther. He is a heroic icon in other parts of the Christian tradition. But, the Anabaptists don’t typically look to Luther as their bold leader. His protest of the church in the early 16th century may have been the spark that began the reformation, but Luther turned his back on the radical reformers, our theological ancestors. In fact, he led the charge against the Anabaptist, advocating for their murder, and sending them into hiding.
So, today, unlike much of the church universal, we’re not thinking about Martin Luther so much. We’re thinking today about our own radical reformers, and about Jesus, the great reformer.
You heard the story shared by Dottie with our children this morning. This story is how our tradition began. A few people gathered together to study the texts, and to understand the meaning of Jesus for themselves. And, inspired by the holy spirit, the members of this group baptized each other and shared communion together.
Lest we forget the radical nature of this event, I’ll remind you of a few key things: First, their gathering together to read and study the text was illegal. It was against the law of the church and the state for them to do this. And, second, adult baptism was completely forbidden. It was beyond the scope of the Church’s imagination, really. Why would you be baptized again? Baptism at that time was done for infants to secure their salvation, and was part of the state system of record-keeping. Refusing to baptize children, and baptizing each other—it was utter destruction of the social, theological and church systems that had been created and upheld for centuries.
And yet, in doing these simply radical, or radically simple acts of love for each other—sharing communion and baptism rituals together in a home, while reading the texts together—these first Anabaptist seemed to get closer to those first teachings of Jesus. They released themselves of the burdens of the church—the burden of hierarchy, of order, and of certainty. And in sharing secret baptism and communion together, they took their first life changing, life threatening steps of radical discipleship.
In our text from the gospel of Matthew, Jesus said some confusing, contradictory things. After Jesus answered the question of the Sadduceess—what is the greatest law?—Jesus launched into an angry rant against the Pharisees. Jesus said to the people—your leaders have inherited their authority, so listen to what they say, but don’t do as they do. They do not practice what they preach. They give you the burden of the law, but do not practice the law. All that they do, they do so that others will see them and be impressed. So they wear large phylacteries—doesn’t that sound like such a naughty thing? Phylacteries? Well, phylacteries are large amulets that religious leaders used to wear—they held portions of the holy scripture in them. These scriptures we held close to their hearts.
Jesus was concerned about the shallow showiness of the leaders at the time. All piety, purity, and place, with seemingly little interest in social justice. If they did care about social justice, they would not have asked Jesus about the greatest law, and they would not have plotted to kill him for suggesting that all were welcome at the banquet table.
In hearing this text today, I can just about hear Grebel, Blaurock and Manx discussing it in secret in their homes on January 21, 1525. I can just about hear the water being poured over their heads, and see the bread and cup being shared. I can imagine that the words of Jesus were liberating to them, as they re-imagined what it meant to be the body of Christ. They had been part of a church that had placed great burdens on the people, and had made no attempts made to lighten the load—Anabaptist’s sluffed off these burdens in favor of what was most essential about the gospel. Instead of the indulgences, and fear based theology, they choose to risk their lives to live in community, and to try—in their time and in their context, to follow in the way of Jesus.
But, even as I talk about this Radical Reformation story, I see how easy it is to make a phylactery out of it. How easy it is for us to become burdened by the powerful story of discipleship. We carry these burdens around in our collective anabapist psyches—burdens of martyrdom, right relationship in community, the ways we live out peace, the ways we baptize—the list could go on and on. And, of course, there’s nothing intrinsically wrong with these things in our history. There’s nothing wrong with remembering the martyrs, with being right with our brothers and sisters, with striving to live at peace in all the layers of our lives, and valuing adult choice in baptism—the problem is when we wear them around our necks like phylacteries. The beautiful gift of our stories and tradition should not become our piety our adornment, our idols. They should become—like Jesus—a model for following God.
In Matthew 23, Jesus was calling his community to reform. He was calling his community put aside their piety, and follow God. He wanted them to recall that loving God could not be separated from loving neighbor, that justice and mercy were at the heart of God’s relationship with God’s people.
The radical reformers were calling the church to reform as well. Perhaps some of you Anabaptist historians will correct me if I’m wrong, but I have never understood the radical reformation as the act of petulance or or belligerence. These Anabaptists loved God, they loved the church, and they were inspired and confronted by the words of Jesus as they read them together.
Jesus’ words in Matthew 23, and in the last few chapters of Matthew that we’ve read this fall—they confront us, and challenge us. And, in light of reformation Sunday, they remind me that reformation is not something that happened 2,000 years ago, when Jesus was alive and in conflict with the Phariseess and Saduccees. This is not something that took place 500 years ago in Europe, and ended the difficulties of the church. Re-form-ation is constantly happening. We must always be listening to the words of Jesus as we are challenged to be the church together in our context.
And, what worries me about the Mennonite church is that there is a part of the church that has decided that what is means to be Mennonite is to have the right name, to act with certain sensibilities, to attend the right schools. Because is doing this, our church becomes an ethnic tradition, rather than a community embodying discipleship.
This summer the Mennonite convention, I met a pastor who is leading a small intentional community and house church in the mid-west. Matt and I had spent the evening with other urban Mennonite pastors, and the next day I saw him in the convention center, looking rather deflated. When I asked him if he was ok, he told me his story. He was new to the tradition, and coming to the convention, he realized that he was not “one of them.” Matt had no familial connections here. He didn’t know the songs in the hymnals, he didn’t understand the politics. Matt also works for his conference, and had just written two articles in a Mennonite publication. One was about sexuality, and one was about church polity. He was not criticized for the sexuality article, but his job was threatened for criticizing the denomination’s structure and leadership. Between his experience at the convention and this experience with his bosses at the conference level, his bubble was burst. He wasn’t sure anymore that he wanted to be Mennonite.
Now it’s very easy to criticize our denomination—with some distance we can see the holes in the polity, the problems with the structure, and the areas of neglect. But, it’s almost too easy.
What we really are being asked to do in this text is to examine ourselves—our own community. As the priesthood of all believers, what are the phylacteries that we wear around our necks? Is it our pedigree? Is it our rigid interpretation of the story? Is it “we’ve never done it that way” and “Anabaptism can only be expressed in this way”?
Jesus calls us to not just teach the words, but live the words we teach. Otherwise those good words that have become so dear to us, are no more than ornaments around our necks. They are nothing more than flash and show. The words become our idolatry, but do not change us.
Our radical reformation story is incredible to me—these folks read the scriptures together and decided that the church was not acting the way Jesus called them to be. And so they decided to live differently. But we cannot hold up the radical reformation story if we are going to be unmoved by it, if we will not allow it to re-form us. Because when we do this, we make that incredible 500 year old story our phylactery, our icon.
Following in the way of Jesus is never static. We are—in every age and generation—being called to re-form-ation. Let us seek to day those places where the words of Jesus and the actions of our reformers re-form us. AMEN.