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.
This is the Good News
Sermon Preached at Germantown Mennonite on July 29, 2018
Based on 2 Samuel 11: 1-15
The Bible is full of Good News. News of healing, liberation, justice, and a vision for a new way the world could be.
But there’s also a lot of bad news in the Bible. There are stories of people being hurt by the powerful, stories of enslavement, of sexual violence. Today’s story is a bad news story. It’s bad news for women, bad news for anyone in the service of the powerful.
This is a bad news story, but not an unusual one. We hear it in one form or another pretty regularly in the news. Powerful man, neglecting his duties, catches a glimpse of a woman and wants her, wants to own her and possess her. So, he sends for her and make it impossible for her to resist–he is, after all the most powerful person in the known world. And he finds a way not to directly kill this woman’s husband, but he put the husband in a position where he would surely die. So many aspects of this story sound familiar. Don’t they?
This is a story of bad news.
But there are places where this story is read and preached as good news. I recall hearing this story preached when I was a kid. And I wish I remembered it because it was a good teaching. I remember hearing this story as “Bathsheba was seducing and alluring King David, a man chosen by God to lead the people.” “Bathsheba wanted the King’s attention.” “Bathsheba was compliant with King David’s wishes because she knew she was part of God’s great scheme.”
I know I’m not the only one that heard that story interpreted like this. And I’m disgusted by this interpretation. Nowhere in the text does is say any of these things. Nowhere does it say that Bathsheba wanted attention, or asked for it. Nowhere does it say in the text that she was scheming, or trying to lure in the king. These are behaviors that have been put on the Bathsheba by the readers. And let’s be honest–they’ve been put on these text by powerful male theologians and preachers.
But, this is not what was happening in this story. Bathsheba was just taking a bath. Some biblical scholars have even made a case that she was “washing” on the roof–washing her hands, washing her clothes, washing her body–we don’t know. She was washing on her roof when all the men of the city–including the King–were supposed to be out fighting in a war. No one was supposed to see her because all the leaders, all the men, should have been out fighting in battle.
This is not a good news story.
In fact, it’s another story in a long line of stories of the leaders of Israel abusing their power, trying to possess and control women–to add them to a collection, a harem.
This is not a good news story, but it is not a surprising story. It’s one that’s played out in the news, in the courts, in our political drama. This is not a good news story. It’s just the news.
We have some indications that David’s behavior is not a surprise to the writer of the book Samuel. The author writes, “In the spring, the time that Kings go to war”. That is the most ho-him thing I’ve ever read. At the time that kings do what they do… It’s as if the author is preparing us for what we all expect–another abuse of power, another assault to the people who don’t even get to tell their own story.
To understand this comment about the king, we have to go back to earlier in the story and remember that the people wanted a king, but the prophets reminded them of what a bad idea it was, and how God wanted better for them. God could rule them instead–they didn’t need a king to lead them, a king that would surely be corrupted by power, wealth and their own selfish aims.
But they insisted. We want a king. And God got tired of fighting, and the prophets got tired of warning them of the eventual selfish narcissism of Kings, so God gave the people what they were sure they wanted.
So the people got their king, and the kings did what they do. They went to war.
And the people became accustomed to Kings taking who and what they wanted for their own pleasure and not thinking about anyone but themselves.
And this became so commonplace, and so bad, that even the author of the book of Samuel has fallen prey to the narcissism. He’s told the story of Bathsheba from the perspective of David. David saw, David wanted, David took. And sometimes, friends, we have fallen prey as readers, because we assume consent. We assume that Bathsheba would say yes, that she would be ok with this, that she would desire this.
But, in the story, we never hear a word from Bathsheba. But don’t be deceived, friends, we know she had something to say. We know she reacted, responded, had strong feeling about the whole experience. I can only assume that she wept when David took her, she wept when her husband was killed, she wept to be David’s favorite wife. Because it was not what she asked for. It was not was she desired.
We have read the scriptures to assume that because David did it, and David was God’s chosen one, that David was perfect, that David thought about his choices, cared about the people he led, desired only good things for them. We assume that David would mind boundaries, would care about Uriah at the very least, and would respect the bond between Bathsheba and Uriah.
But if this is caring about people, if this is leading people, there’s something very wrong here.
This is not good news.
This is abuse. What King David, the leader of God’s people, did to Bathsheba and Uriah was abuse.
Abusive behaviors take place when we fail to see the humanity in other people. This happened in the way that King David treated Bathsheba and her husband. And the abuse continues in the ways we tell the story, and in the ways we interpret the story, when we fail to see the humanity of Bathsheba, a woman with a voice, with feelings and with a complex inner life. The abuse continues when we do not put ourselves in her place, and witness for ourselves all the boundaries that have been transgressed.
The lack of humanity with which David treated Bathsheba, and the lack of humanity with which we have been told this story it is a symptom of a spiritual illness. It’s a narcissism that that insists on telling the story from the perspective of the powerful. It’s a narcissism that desires to be in David’s place, that wants to satisfy our own needs, rather that being present to the pain of others. This is the same narcissism that limits even the vision of the writers of the Hebrew scripture, who cannot manage–despite their gifted writing skills–to give this woman a voice.
The bad behavior of King David, and the flawed assumptions of the writers of theology are more than just troubling behaviors. The way some see this story as good news, rather than the bad news, bad behavior it is, gives us eyes that are untrained to see abuses in the church, in our families, in our communities, and in our political sphere.
Instead of seeing this as just bad behavior, can we see this as a deep need for humanity’s transformation in heart and mind. Instead of seeing this as part of God’s plan, can we see this as David’s deep spiritual illness, despite being labelled as “God’s chosen one.”
The only way we can address this sickness of heart and mind is to bring it to the light. We name David’s abuse of Bathsheba, and all the ways that this went against what God desires for humanity, and it continues with the ways that we have been trained to accept it, condone it, or ignore it in scripture.
We name and bring into the light the abuses of theologians like John Howard Yoder, famous Mennonite ethicist, who sexually abused countless female students and colleagues, all while framing it in a theological construct of “love.” We name the ways that his theological framework did damage to a generation of women in the Mennonite denomination who tried to speak out and who were silenced because John Howard Yoder was “God’s chosen”.
We name and bring into light the abuses of our politicians whose behaviors we’ve ignored because we’ve been enamored with their public persona.
And we even have to name and bring into light the ways that–yes, even in this church–patriarchy rears its head when some women are only asked to be in the kitchen and some men are only asked to be trustees.
The ways we fail to see the full breadth of humanity of each other does damage to our spirits. It is a spiritual illness. And God calls us back. God calls us not to the way of kings. God calls us back to God’s side, back to that place where we are fully seen and known, not as a thing to be possessed but as a person with a name, a voice, talents, opinions and agency. God calls us back to our full humanity, a place where we are treated with dignity, a place where our talents and gifts are understood and respected.
We were not born to be possessed, to be owned. We were not born to assert power over others. We were born to be seen and known by God and each other. We were created to be loved and to love each other in our full humanity.
This is the good news. This is the good news. AMEN.
Lift High The Cross
Sermon based on Numbers 21:4-9 and John 3:14-21
This week, my friend’s cousin in Palestine was killed. Because we live in a 21st century world with instant access, I watched on social media as his shrouded body was lifted high in the air, and paraded down Prayer Road, while his mother wept and could not be consoled. I listened to the heartbroken crowd confidently cry out, “Allah Akbar”–God is the greatest. I wept with my friends, even from thousands of miles, as we watched his body lifted high for all to see.
I’ve never witnessed a funeral like this–one that comes so soon after the death, and becomes such a scene of community grief. But what moved me most profoundly, and also disturbed me, was that as the crowd lifted this dead teenager over their heads, they said over and over, “God is the greatest.”
It’s times like this–when a teenager is senselessly killed–that I reserve the right to NOT say, “God is the greatest.” When children are shot in their schools, on our streets, or by the military in occupied territory, I reserve the right to purse my lips, turn my head and refuse to say that God is the greatest. It is a phrase that is dissonant in my ears and heart when something so unnecessary and so outrageously violent happens.
This funeral procession is not unlike Moses lifting up the snake in the desert. In this strange story from the book of Numbers, God’s people are plagued by poisonous snakes, who are biting and killing the people at random. And the only way to survive the bites was to look at that snake that Moses is holding up. In order for the people to live, they had to look at the thing that was killing them.
This is the opposite of what we usually do. If something is hurting us, we run from it. We don’t look at it, we avoid it.
But this is what God told Moses and the people to do. Look At the thing that’s killing you. That will save you.
And just as Moses lifted up that snake in the desert, so must the Chosen One be lifted up. Just as Moses lifted up the thing that was killing the people, so must we look at the cross, that symbol of all that killed Jesus, and all that is killing us.
In our story from the gospel of John, Jesus met Nicodemus in the cover of darkness. Nicodemus was a Pharisee and religious leader, who couldn’t be seen with Jesus in the light. Nicodemus represented the religious establishment, the powerful and the privileged in Jewish society. And Nicodemus had all of that to lose in coming to Jesus.
But he saw something, heard something in Jesus that he found irresistible. He wanted to be part of the reign of God, but was struggling to understand it fully.
So Jesus said these words to Nicodemus in the darkness: Just as Moses lived up the snake in the desert, so must the Chosen One be lifted up. God loved this world so much that God sent their child–God made flesh–so that everyone that believes will live. God didn’t send this child to condemn the world, but so that the world would be saved. Whoever believes is not condemned, but whoever doesn’t believe is already condemned. Here’s the verdict: Light comes into the world, but the people love the darkness, because that’s where evil hides. Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear of being exposed. But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so all they have done comes plainly into view.
Jesus, who was talking to a proud and powerful Nicodemus in the darkness, was talking about a couple of things at once. First, he’s scolding Nicodemus for coming to him in the darkness. All Jesus did and taught was about coming out of the darkness and into the light. Second he’s revealing himself as God’s child, the light of the world. And finally, he’s calling Nicodemus, and all people, into the light, into the truth of the reign of God.
And, it seems, into order to do that, we have to look at Jesus raised high in the light. We have to look at Jesus on the cross. We have to look at all that killed Jesus in order for the truth to be revealed. And in the case of Nicodemus, he’s being asked to look at the thing that was killing Jesus, killing him, and killing all of us, and face it in the light.
I hate to break it to you, folks, but Christianity is not some sort of sanitized religion, or a feel good faith. This Jesus Christ we follow is calling Nicodemus, and us to look at the thing that killed Jesus, and to look at the thing that is killing us.
The thing that killed my friends’ cousin this week was a system of oppression that demanded obedience to military orders barked at him, and did not care that he was deaf and couldn’t hear the instructions. The thing that killed Jesus was a system that demanded blood, demanded a scapegoat so that people could feel safe. What killed Jesus was a religious and political system that demanded things be hidden.
And that’s what kills us too. Hidden things. Things we refuse to believe, things we are afraid to bring to light in this world.
Yesterday I attended the funeral of an old friend’s fiance. He was 57, and he died of a stroke while on a business trip. I didn’t know Steve–I was there to support my friend–but after hearing so many stories about him yesterday, I decided that I’d like him. He was a talented musician, a rabid sports fan, and he loved good theological conversations.
One friend shared Steve’s favorite toast to make when he and his friends would gather together. They’d get together to sing, laugh and make music, and after the second or third round of drinks, Steve would stand and make a toast–the same one he’d make every time they gathered. He’d lift his beer in tha air and say, “Onward, towards death.”
Steve’s friend said the thing that we often hear at funerals. “Steve wasn’t afraid to die.” Now, I don’t know how true that is, but I’m sure that however Steve felt about death, he was looking it straight in the eye. He was levelheaded enough to know that death is inescapable, and God asks us to look at what is scaring us, and what is killing us.
God doesn’t take away the snakes that bite us–I wish God would. God doesn’t take away the pain of this world, even though I wish God would. God doesn’t even take away death. But God says, look at the thing that kills your body and your spirit, and you will be healed.
In the same way Jesus said to Nicodemus, and to us (who are more like Nicodemus than we’d like to admit)–Just as the Moses lifted up the thing that was killing the people, just as the people lifted up the body of Mahmoud Al Jabari, just as Steve lifted his beer in the air and said, “Onward,towards death!”, so Jesus must be lifted up, so that we can see the things that are killing us, and see the truth of the world. Because that truth–brought into the light of day–will save us. That truth, brought into light, is healing us. And maybe as we who have our battle scars, see how far God has brought us, and experience our healing, we too can say, “God is the greatest.”
AMEN.
Let your anger guide you
Sermon based on John 2:13-22 and I C
orinthians 1:18-25
A few weeks ago, I attended a training on Non-Violent resistance put on by Christian Peacemaker Teams. We did several activities that involved us being put in uncomfortable situations–like pretending we were at a rally, or role playing bystander intervention.
All of those role plays are uncomfortable and thought provoking. The thing that really had me thinking was one particular exercise. We were given scenarios, and based on what we heard, we had to stand in a circle that had been divided into quadrants. Violent on one side of the circle, and nonviolent on the other. And on the other axis–effective or not effective.
Here was the scenario that was given to us: You are at a peaceful demonstration, and police arrive in riot gear–shields, helmets and face masks–and they throw tear gas into the crowd. The tear gas lands in front of you, and immediately begins to spray the noxious fumes everywhere. You think fast, and grab the tear gas and throw it back towards the police.
And then we were asked: Is this violent? Is this effective?
Most people in the room stood over on the violent, non-effective side. I stood on the nonviolent, effective side. It felt pretty lonely over there on that axis, I’ll admit. But I had my reasons. I put myself in that scenario, and was worried about the people around me being hurt by teargas when they had no protection from it. And I knew that the police had protection. So, while they would be mad that I threw it back in their direction. They would also be safe from its impact. And the protesters would be safe too. This move felt to me like the safest option.
There’s was a lot of great conversation generated here. And some people changed their minds, and others did not.
It had me thinking about this text we read today. This one where Jesus entered the temple, makes a whip out of cords, and drove the vendors and animals from the temple. He turned over the money changers table, and the money flew everywhere. This story confounds those that read the texts and try to see Jesus as non-violent. Because Jesus seemed angry and aggressive here. But Jesus calls us to peace. So how do we reconcile this?
This story is often called the “Cleansing of the temple” story. But I’m not sure if cleansing is the right word. I have the sense that Jesus is doing more than simply cleansing. I think Jesus wants to do away with the system altogether, he doesn’t just want to clean it up.
Here’s why: This story is happening in Jerusalem during the Passover, the biggest festival of the year where folks are required to come to the temple to make an offering.
Jesus came to Jerusalem expecting to see a celebration of the people’s liberation from slavery in Egypt, and instead he witnessed a scene where poor people were being exploited.
There were two points of exploitation in the temple that day, and both had become commonplace. First, the selling of ritually pure animals to poor people who could only buy the animals at the temple at outrageous prices. And, the money changers who changed money from international currency to local currencies so it could be used in the temple. Both vendors were corrupt.
The animal sellers sold animals of all sorts in the temple. If you were rich, you’d sacrifice a cow or ox, and if you were poor you’d sacrifice a dove or a pigeon. But the temple couldn’t take just any animal–the animals that were sacrificed had to be unblemished, and in order to ensure that, they had to be purchased at the gates of the temple, where the prices were higher than the countryside prices. And, as with any tax or pricing system, the costs tended to be felt more by the poor than the rich. If you wanted to purchase two doves, you paid two days wages just outside the temple. The doves had to be inspected just inside the temple, and if they were found to be blemished, you had to buy two more doves inside the temple for the equivalent of two months of pay.
The second place of exploitation was found with the money changers who were located just inside the temple court–they bought and sold money because temple taxes could not be paid with roman images on them (graven images). So roman money had to be exchanged for usable local currently.
While money changers were important, they were also corrupt, because they could inflate the exchange rate and exaggerate the fees. So for poor people, the money changers exchange rate was the equivalent of a day’s wages, this was before the person purchased an unblemished animal and had to buy them again at a higher rate because the temple inspector found a blemish.
When all was said and done, a one day stay in Jerusalem could cost $3,000-$4,000 in contemporary value. This was an outrageous expense for a poor family in occupied Palestine.
Jesus, coming from a poor family himself, understood that this system was designed to exploit people, especially poor people. So he made a whip out of what he found lying around, and he ran the money changers out of the temple. He turned over the tables, poured out the coins, and demanded that these folks “Stop making the realm of God into a realm of commerce.” Interestingly, Jesus doesn’t call for a systemic reform, but an end to this system altogether.
Jesus was calling for an end to this system that was oppressing people. And Jesus was bringing about an end–at least temporarily–to this system, by mixing up the blemished and unblemished animals as they ran out of the temple. He was bringing about an end to the money changers, at least temporarily, by having coins scatter all over the courtyard. He was bringing about and end to this oppressive system in the chaos by mixing up who had paid and hadn’t, and by demonstrating the chaos of the oppressive system on poor people’s lives.
Meanwhile–those in power were more concerned about HOW Jesus did something, than they were outraged by WHAT Jesus is exposing. We get more worked up about the anger of Jesus than we do about the system Jesus is calling out. We get more upset that tear gas is thrown at cops in riot gear than we do that cops in riot gear show up at a peaceful demonstration.
And I’m not talking about those people out there that do that–I’m talking about me. I’m talking about us. Mennonites spend a chunk of time deconstructing Jesus’ actions here. Because they scare us. His actions certainly scare me. It scares me that our peaceful Jesus appears angry. It scares me that in order for reign of God to come near, that the world must be turned upside down, property must be scattered, my life must be radically changed, and the system that we comfortably exist in must be chaotically overturned.
Perhaps we are more scared of Jesus’ anger here because it will upend our lives and the ways that so many prosper on the backs of poor.
But anger is a healthy emotion, a good emotion. Because it tells us that something isn’t right. It tells us there is danger. It tell us that we have to pay attention to what is underneath that feeling. Are we feeling protective and that’s why the anger is bubbling up? Are we fearful? Are we feeling deep love?
And what do we do with that emotion, with that anger? Because yes, anger can be toxic–anger can turn into violence, but can also turn into creativity, it can tell us to change our behavior, it can call us to deeper discipleship.
In Jesus’ case here, even in his outrage and anger about what he saw happening in God’s temple, he took time to let his anger guide him. He took time to fashion a whip out of cords. Jesus was resourceful. He was coming up with a plan. This was a well thought out demonstration. He knew what he was doing.
And we are so focused on his behavior, that we forget to look at the system he is criticizing. Where is Jesus’ anger taking us? Where is this outrageous display taking us? Some would argue that our anger and outrage makes us look foolish. How can we work towards the reign of God? It’s wishful thinking. It’s impossible. But I think our anger and outrage at injustice takes us to the cross. The cross is foolishness to those who don’t understand, but to those who have a better sense of what God is up to, this cross–this perceived foolishness–is saving our lives. This outrageous expose’ of injustice and unfair treatment of poor people would send Jesus to the cross, and it would save him and us in resurrection.
Don’t let your anger scare you. This anger could be the Holy Spirit at work–calling you deeper into discipleship. Let it take you to the cross. Let it take you to the place where injustice is exposed and all the hidden things are brought into light. Let your anger guide you to a world as it should be. Let your anger guide you to resurrection. AMEN.
Bow in the Sky
Sermon Preached on 2.18.18, the first Sunday of Lent
Lent has often been perceived as a time when we need to deprive ourselves. We talk about what we should give up, or let go of for a time. In fact, the season begins with indulging in that one (or three) last donuts before a somber, sugarless, coffee less, chocolate less season begins.
But this is the season not to give things up (although if that’s what you feel you need to do this season, go for it), it’s a season to dig deep, to recall God’s work and ways, as we move towards a hopeful Easter story.
But, as with everything in life, before we get to the good stuff–to Easter–we will need to talk about the hard things.
Today’s stories–of the ark and of Jesus’ baptism are stories of God’s presence. Both of these stories have a little something in common–both stories demonstrate God’s presence in signs from the sky.
For most people in ancient cultures, the movement of the stars and other celestial phenomena were viewed as “heavenly writing”. They were omens, placed in the sky by God, and these omens crypically communicated God’s plans to humanity. The rainbow, though not written in the stars, was also viewed as a sign placed in the heavens by God.
Our Genesis story is about God placing a sign in the sky, but not for us to interpret. This sign in the sky–this bow–is placed by God to remind God of the covenant they have made with humanity and all of the animals of the earth. This sign in the sky is placed there by God to remind God that they promised never to destroy the earth by flood again.
This bow in the sky is not actually a rainbow in Hebrew. This bow in the sky is a weapon–a bow used to hunt and kill–and God is hanging it up. God is hanging up God’s weapons and covenanting not to do violence to humanity again. This weapon is not pointed down at God’s creation to threaten the earth, but pointed towards the heavens.
It’s a reminder to God that God cannot force humanity to do what they do not wish to do, even if it’s for their own good. In many ways, God has made a developmental change in parenting tactics. This is the moment for God that many of us have in parenting–that moment where we realized that we cannot make our children do something. We can’t pick them up and move them. And corporal punishment doesn’t work. Instead, we must be in relationship with our children. And we know well that our children, even with the best council, don’t always do what we want them to do.They have to make their own mistakes and we walk with them through those lessons.
So God is realizing here that God’s tactics aren’t worth the damage it does to God’s people and God’s creation, and to the relationship God has with their people. So, God makes a covenant.
I won’t do this again humanity. I won’t destroy you, creation. We are in this together. We are bound together in this covenant. And this bow in the sky is a reminder of that.
This covenant doesn’t say that others will not hurt God’s people. It doesn’t say that humans won’t get themselves and creation into a big mess, as is demonstrated by ALL of human history. But God is promising here that God is not going to be the one to do the destroying. God will choose instead to walk with us.
In the Gospel of Mark, we read of Jesus’ baptism, where the spirit descends on Jesus in the shape of a dove. This is another sign in the sky–another unusual sign, because, like the rainbow, it’s not in the stars, but in the pure bright light of day.
And the sign Jesus is given is the spirit in the form of a dove. Now the dove also showed up in the story of Noah’s ark. It was a sign that life was beginning again. It was a sign that Noah’s family would soon find land, and could get off that boat and away from all those smelly procreating, high maintenance animals.
Like the bow in the sky, the dove is a reminder to Jesus of that covenant. God is promising not to destroy Jesus, but to be present with Jesus through all the difficulties that will come. And we know how this story ends. We know Jesus will face more trials than he even bargained for.
And God’s voice came from the sky to say, “You, Jesus, are my beloved, my own. On you my favor rests.” This sounds like a promise–a covenant–from God to Jesus. You are my own. Remember that promise I made to humanity and creation. I’m making it with you, Jesus. I will not destroy you. I am with you.
This week was ash Wednesday and valentines day–on the same day. Nothing says romance like ashes of mortality smeared on your forehead. This year I witnessed a mom giving ashes to her 3 month old son. This week, I saw the image of a grieving community member standing outside of that school in Lakewood, Florida after 17 people were killed, holding on to someone and weeping, with the sign of the cross smeared on her forehead in a mixture of ash and anointing oil. Remember humanity that you are dust, and to dust you will return. Remember humanity that you will die.
Death is a promise for all of us. It is one of the few things promised to us in this life. Death is promised, but God has also promised to hang up God’s bow. God has promised that death is not at God’s hand. And God is with us through our lives.
Death is a promise. And so is God’s presence.
In hanging up God’s bow, God has said to humanity, “What are YOU going to do about this? How will YOU live in this world as my people?”
This covenant is more than God promising not to kill us. It’s also God handing a measure of responsibility to humanity.
So here, in lent, we begin to see the signs. We see the bow in the sky–God hanging up their weapons against humanity–and we see that dove–a reminder of God’s promise after the great flood. God is with us in all the seasons of our lives. So, how then shall we live? AMEN.