Carry the Cross, a sermon based on Matthew 16:21-28

During the  month of August, I’ve been thinking a lot about crosses.

I’ve been thinking about the crosses that used to be set on fire in people’s yards, a warning sign from hooded white folks to brown and black folks that they needed to behave themselves, or else.  Or else, their homes were next, or their churches, or their children, or their even their own bodies.

We don’t see crosses burning in this part of the country any more–at least not on anyone’s lawn.  What we see feels more subversive and sinister.  We see laws meant to injure communities of color.  Three strikes  and you’re out for drug offenses; voter registration laws requiring kinds of identification that poor folks don’t tend to get if they don’t have a car; a refusal to properly fund schools for Philadelphia’s children, children that can’t afford to opt out.  And most painfully this summer, the shooting of a black teenager, who put his hands up, said “don’t shoot”, and was shot by a police officer in broad daylight in Ferguson, Missouri.

These are our burning crosses.  But it’s harder to notice them when they happen so subversively, so quietly.  It’s hard to notice those burning crosses through the fear, through the debate about whether the brown and blacks skinned victims of gun violence did something to “deserve” it, or “earned” their stay in the penitentiary.

In our text today, Jesus begins to prepare the disciples for what will eventually happen to him.  It’s a turn from the teaching the disciples believed they were receiving–they thought they were receiving lessons in how to live  a long and prosperous life using the simple principles of Jesus.

But that was the Jesus before Matthew 16.  The Jesus of Matthew 16 says some things that make it clear to the disciples that they have taken up with a man that knew he would die.  His remaining time with them was not a trip toward his suicide, but a journey toward being fully alive, living a life that exemplified love and solidarity.

This month of August, as I’ve watched people marching in the streets of Ferguson, I’ve thought about crosses–the crosses that used to burn in front of people’s homes and businesses, the crosses burned as a warning and a threat.

And as I’ve watched the protests and anger boil up in Ferguson, and watched the militarized response to the anger, I’ve thought about these words of Jesus to his disciples, “If you wish to come after me, you must deny your very selves, take up your cross–take up the instrument of your own death–and begin to follow in my footsteps.”

I’ve watched as the people of Ferguson–folks who have seen the body of Michael Brown left in the street–stand together and say, “We are taking up the cross of our own oppression–the instruments of our death no longer frighten us.”  Though faced with tear gas, stun grenades, rubber bullets–those same weapons used in Gaza and in the West bank on Palestinians–the people of Ferguson moved forward towards justice.

I’ve been thinking a lot about crosses this month as I’ve watched the anger unfold in Ferguson, the righteous indignation spill over into the streets of the city.  And, as I watched and felt helpless, I wondered what my cross was.  What was it that I was supposed to take up?

I was invited a few weeks ago to a prayer service for the people of Ferguson, and feeling helpless to do anything else, I went.  I wanted to support the people of Philadelphia who were angry and sad, and who knew too many Michael Browns and Treyvon Martins.

But it was not the kind of service I was expecting.  Because after the prayers, a mother stood up, told us about having “the talk” with her beautiful brown son–what to do when he is stopped by the cops, how to act, what to say.  She told the story of her son, who was waiting at the bus stop in their suburban neighborhood in his work uniform, and was stopped by the police just for being there.

And then she turned to all of us well meaning, angst ridden white folks, and said with sincere kindness and love, “My white brothers and sister, what are you going to do about this?”  She invited us to stand and say what we were doing to address the violence against communities of color; she invited us to risk saying the wrong thing in her company; she invited us to end our silence.

I was expecting to sit respectfully at this gathering of prayer, to listen and to pray.  But this mother was so right–sitting and praying was good, listening was good–but I was being called to take something up.

I’ve been thinking about the cross I needed to take up and here it was–the cross was my own privilege as a white, educated, middle class, cisgender female.  This privilege was the instrument of my own death, a death by blindness and ignorance.

My cross is my own privilege in this city.  I don’t have to have those conversations with my son.  I have never worried that he is going to get arrested when I put him on the train to go to school.  I presume his safety, I presume that he should trust those in authority over him.

I can ride my bike anywhere in my neighborhood and not worry about anything, except whether I can get up that one steep hill.  But my brown skinned friend, James, who rides his bike to work every day–from North Philadelphia to Chestnut Hill–is regularly stopped by the police and asked, “What are you doing in this neighborhood?”

In all my many years living in this city, I can only think of one time I was stopped by a cop–I did a U-turn at a four way stop in West Philadelphia in front of a police car.  I was reminded that what I did was illegal, and when I apologized, I was sent on my way.  My friend’s 17 year old brown skinned son, has been pulled over half a dozen times in the few short months that he has been driving.  No reason has ever been given for his being stopped.

I can take the train anywhere and don’t think twice about it, but my friend Adrien, is terrified to take the train anywhere beyond his suburban college for fear that someone will ask him for his green card, a card that he has never had.

My privilege is that I don’t have to think about what it means to be a person of color in our society.  I don’t have to worry about what happens to other people–only what happens to me.

The cross I’m being asked to take up is the one that names my own privilege, that owns it, and that uses my privilege to name injustice that I see, and to stand against it.

What’s confounding about this cross is that no matter who we are, we have to choose to carry it.

The people of Ferguson must choose to carry the cross, and name their own oppression and to stand against it. The students of Philadelphia schools must carry their cross, and name the inequities of the system to law makers.  And we must carry our cross of privilege that blinds us to how others experience the world.  And in carrying the cross, we see how our friends of color experience the world much differently.

We have to decide everyday if this is what we are going to do.  Are we going to name the injustice and the inequities that we can finally see, now that we carry the cross?  Are we going to do our part to call it out?  Are we going to stand up when the next Michael Brown or Trayvon Martin is shot?

Jesus said to the disciples, “if you would save your life, and put down that cross, you will lose your life.  But if you lose your life for my sake–in taking up the instrument of your own death and following me–there you will find your life.

We all have crosses that we must choose to take up.  Each one looks a little different, and each one impacts us differently.  But the strange joy of following Jesus is that we can choose every day to walk with all of God’s people, each with their own crosses.

There is something beautiful and brave about walking together in the way of Jesus.  We gain strength when we see we are not alone.  We find our lives together, when we let go of those things we thought were so important, and learn that there is something better, something lighter and more life-giving, as we together carry the instruments of our own death, without fear.  AMEN.

In the Weeds

Sermon based on Matthew 13:31-33

Every year, there is this giant weed that grows up in my yard.  I don’t know what it is, or what it’s called.  It’s the kind of thing that grows boldly, so at first I think it’s not a weed.  It has a thick stalk, and big elephant ear leaves on it.  But, once it gets to a certain point, I realize it’s that an annoying weed, and I struggle to pull it out.  But by then it’s deeply rooted–entrenched in the soil.  It’s not a wanted plant as I so optimistically hope it will be earlier in the season; it’s an annoying intrusive and invasive  weed growing up among my lovely hydrangeas and daffodils.

While it look and acts much differently, the annoying weed in my yard reminds me of kudzu, the invasive, fast growing weed that seems to have taken over the south.  Kudzu was introduced to this country from Japan in the 1876 World’s Fair, held in Philadelphia.  It was introduced as a shade plant, and later as a way to prevent soil erosion.

But no one took into account its invasive qualities.  Now, if you drive down the highways of the south, you’ll see that this plant has taken over and choked out trees, houses, cars, and anything else in its way.  It is annoying, invasive, and unwanted plant.

Our Matthew texts today give us several examples of the reign of God–what it’s like when God’s world is made known to us.  And Matthew gives us these examples by way of parables. John Dominic Crossan defines parables as the opposite of myths.  Myths are stories that we live by; stories that tell us about ourselves and what we value.  Parables, on the other hand, are designed to undercut those myths.  And, since parables tell us about what the reign of God will be like, it seems to be Jesus’ way of saying, “The reign of God will not look the way you think it should.  It’s going to look like this other thing instead.”

For the people of Israel, the tension between the everyday reality and the mythical vision was never more stark than the times they were living in.  God’s people had been on a slow descent downward for many centuries, since the time of King David and King Solomon.  The people longed for a day when they would be tall and strong and powerful again, like the Cedars of Lebanon, the cultural and mythical equivalent of our redwood trees.

The Cedars of Lebanon were a forest that flourished in the time of the Kings.  The forest was decimated by King Solomon in the making of all his palaces.  But the prophets, like Ezekiel and Isaiah often likened the restoration of the people of God to the Cedars of Lebanon.  Ezekiel said, “Behold, I will liken you to a cedar in Lebanon, with fair branches and forest shade” (Ezekiel 31:3)

Instead Jesus proposed that the reign of God is like a farmer who plants mustard weed in the field, and it grows up into a bush.

In the cultural and religious tradition of the time, mustard was forbidden in a garden.  It was invasive and choked out vegetables.  Order was associated with holiness–in rabbinic law, one could not mix certain plants in the same garden, and mustard was one of those plants.  But in this parable, a farmer threw mustard seeds into the field willy nilly.  The hearers of this story knew that the farmer was doing something completely outlandish.

So an unclean image, an outlandish image,  became a starting point for Jesus’ vision for the reign of God.

The reign of God is like an invasive weed that no one wants in their garden.  It’s a fast growing, shrub like weed that no self-respecting, law abiding person would dare have in their field.  It’s a four foot tall weed that does nothing more than shade the birds.

That’s not the reign of God that the people were looking for. In fact, it feels like a letdown compared to the tall cedars of Lebanon, those big graceful trees that seem towering, indestructible, and impenetrable.

What does it mean that the reign of God is like an invasive weed, a bush that is only good for annoying farmers and shading trees?

It sounds to me like the reign of God is not the conquering reign that–in our heart of hearts–we really hope to have.  We aren’t much different from the first followers of Jesus who longed to see the victorious reign of God made known, for our opponents to lose, and for us to be winners, to walk tall like the cedars of Lebanon, or the great redwood trees of California.

But, unfortunately, the reign of God doesn’t work like this–Jesus destroys that myth with his parables.  The reign of God comes to us through the the most unacceptable kind of weeds, through tiny little seeds thrown into the empire, creating a giant mess.  The reign of God is insidious, unwelcome, frustrating, and impossible for the powerful to contain.

That’s how the reign of God feels to those in power, to those that they have something to lose, to those that experience the reign of God as an annoyance, when there’s money to be made and power to be gained.  It wrecks the order that the empire tries to create with its rules about how things should be, what is good and evil, and what is proper.

The mustard bush is an unwanted thing if you are in charge of the field, but if you are a bird, it is a welcome shade.  If you are not in power, it provides comfort and sustenance, and alternative to the harshness of the empire.

The annoying weed in our garden is a reminder that despite our best attempts to create it, order is not necessarily a part of God’s reign.  Order is not what is valuable to God.  What is valuable are the birds that need a home, that need shade from predators, that need a place to rest.

When Hugh Hollowell, my Mennonite friend who works with homeless folks in Raleigh, came to spend the weekend in Philadelphia, I lamented to him that the programs that congregations have put in place to help address homelessness, don’t always meet the needs.  One family in particular didn’t meet the parameters of any of the programs this congregation supports.  Hugh reminded me in his very sweet, Southern, Hugh-like way, “Amy, sometimes those structures get in the way of us building relationships with folks that come to our door.  You are so quick to want to solve the problem of the person in front of you, that you don’t take the time to build a relationship, have a cup of coffee, sit in silence, or be present with them.”

I was mortified by what Hugh said to me.  Because he was absolutely right.  I was thinking about this all wrong.  I spent so long as a social worker, conditioned to solve problems, that I had forgotten to sit with folks in their need, without solving problems, without trying to fix anything.  We in Northwest Philadelphia, have become conditioned to solving big problems using a non-profit model, a 5 year plan, and some grant money.  And I–as a pastor–have become really good at referring the problem cases to these non-profits, rather than just sitting with folks and listening to their stories.  Sometimes what people need is not a tidy garden, free of annoying weeds, but a shade tree to sit under.  Sometime what people need is not to have all the problems solved right here and now, but to have a moment of compassion and kindness in a harsh world.

The reign of God is counter-cultural–we know this.  But it is also, and quite often, counter-intuitive.  It is nonsensical, whimsical, and always out of our control.

Feeding people doesn’t solve the problem of hunger in our city.  But it lets those who are hungry know that they are loved and they can carry on for just a little longer.  Accompanying our friends from New Sanctuary Movement to court doesn’t stop our nation’s policies on the undocumented, but it gives the families we accompany share for a time.  Making a meal for someone who is sick in our congregation doesn’t stop them from being sick, but they know that they are loved, and cared for and prayed for.

Those actions don’t solve poverty, hunger, anti-immigrant policies, or sickness.  Sometimes it feels like it doesn’t do a damn thing.  But the food we share is a mustard seed of hope, and our acts of solidarity are an annoying weed in the empire’s attempts to create an orderly garden.

This is the reign of God made known among us.  When the little birds have shade, a place to make a nest, even in an ugly bush that gets in the way.

On one hand, our scrawny, ugly, mustard plants are an act of resistance in a corrupt and self-serving world.  But, on the other hand, they are safe places for folks to take shelter, to rest, and to make a home.

The reign of God does not look like the tall stately Cedars of Lebanon.  They were destroyed by our greed centuries ago.  But the reign of God looks instead like a field of annoying mustard bushes that take over, and that give shelter and sustenance to the birds.  AMEN.