Blessed Disbelief

John 20:1-18
Blessed Unbelief
April 8, 2012—Easter Sunday

As people of the book, we believe in the power of stories. We have experienced the power of transformative stories in lent, as we talked about the cross, and as the cross became personal for many of us. We heard Jay Burkholder talk about the experience of making this cross, which showed up unexpectedly last week. We heard Ken White talk about the cross, with its embracing arms. Katie Ernst described the cross as a reminder of God’s familiarity with our pain—but she did not let God off the hook. She lingered with many doubts about God and God’s power.

Lent was a time for us to reflect on the cross, examine its meaning in our story. But, thankfully, with the stripping of the table and its new symbols in place, lent is over, and we are reminded that this story does not end with the cross. The cross was the confusing, low point in the story. Today, and for the next 50 days of Eastertide, we celebrate the empty tomb. We celebrate the resurrected Christ.

How do we get from the cross to the resurrection? I wish it were as easy as just switching around a few symbols. How do we get from death to life, from abandonment to hope? It’s hard to switch gears, to move from the reflective and the penitential to the rejoicing, praising, and boisterous song singing that we rightly do today.

In our story from the gospel of John, three characters made the transition—from the cross to the resurrection—in three very different ways. Mary came to the tomb early that morning to pay her respects, and when she discovered the tomb was empty, she ran to tell the other disciples. Later, after she returned to the tomb with two of the disciples, Mary sat by the Jesus’ grave, crying. When Jesus came to her, she didn’t even recognize him, until he called her by name. “Mary!” And then the a-ha moment, the moment of realization and recognition. “Rabbi!”

Peter and the other disciple, the disciple Jesus loved, heard the news from Mary and ran to the tomb. The other disciple got there first, but didn’t enter the tomb. When Peter arrived, he walked fearlessly into the tomb, saw the funeral clothing askew, but we don’t know what he thought about it. The other disciple came in after Peter, surveyed the scene and understood and believed immediately.

We don’t know what Peter thought when he surveyed the resurrection scene. But the other disciple understood—his eyes opened to the new reality. And Mary—her response was to assume that someone has taken away the body of Jesus. But it took Jesus calling her name for Mary to understand what had really happened.

I wonder what made it so easy for the beloved disciple to so readily believe, what made it so difficult for Mary, and I wonder why we have no response from Peter. Why such different reactions from these three disciples?

All throughout the gospel of John, Jesus encountered people that were at different places in their faith journeys. Nicodemus, that rich leader that came to Jesus in the night, had many questions for Jesus about what it meant to be born again. But Jesus did not judge Nicodemus. Jesus knew how hard it was for him. Jesus was simply present, explaining his presence, his light, in the world.
Later in John 20, Thomas told his fellow disciples “Unless I see the mark of his nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” And Jesus did not judge. He said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands.  Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt, but believe.” There was no judgment there. Jesus met Thomas in his disbelief, and called him to belief, in whatever way Thomas could get there. Even if it meant that Thomas would put his hand in Jesus’ wounds.

All throughout the gospel of John, we meet characters that believe and do not, folks that find it easy to follow Jesus and believe his claims, and those that find it very difficult. And for all those that were truly seeking, really trying to understand, to believe, and to follow, Jesus showed compassion.

Jesus saved his venom for those that were sure they knew the truth, those that had made the law their idol, those that lacked compassion. Jesus saved his outrage, anger and vitriol for the religious leaders who had lost sight of belief in favor of perfection, in favor of the law.

But for Mary, Jesus saw her confusion, her disbelief, and he called her by name. Disbelieving Mary, unsure Mary—she was the one who was called to tell the disciples the good news. She was the first person that day to really see Jesus.

And for Peter who—for once—was silent, Jesus gave Peter a most important role. Peter became the rock of the church. The church was built on the denial of Peter, the questions and confusion of Peter, this loud and impulsive disciple.

So often, I long to be that disciple that Jesus loved, the one that came to the tomb, saw Jesus’ burial gowns eschew, and got it. I wish it were that easy for me. I wish I didn’t have the questions of Mary, the doubts of Thomas, and the silence of Peter. I wish I looked at the world every day and saw the resurrection, and saw the transforming power of God breaking into our world. Some days all I see is the cross, the brokenness of the world. And some days that is where the story of Jesus’ life ends for me.

I am encouraged today to know that God does not judge our unbelief, that God is not discouraged by our questions. Instead God keeps calling us and working with us. And according to this story, the more our unbelief, the more opportunities we have to serve, to follow, to be called.

Today we celebrate the resurrection—we rejoice that death could not hold Jesus in the cold tomb. Today we sing, and rightly so—Christ is alive, Up from the grave he arose, Lift your Glad voices in triumph on high. We sing because we believe in the resurrection. We sing, even though we have doubts. We sing and pray, through our questions, our wondering, our silence. And God honors that.

Blessed are you, people of the resurrection. Blessed are you in your doubts and questions, in your misgivings and confusion. Blessed are you, people of the resurrection. For in your doubts, God calls you by name. In your silence, God works with you. In your belief, God rejoices. Blessed are you, people of the resurrection. Rejoice and be glad! You are being transformed by this story! Christ is alive, and God will reveal God’s self to you, in your belief and in your unbelief. AMEN.

Stay Alert

Preached at Germantown Mennonite on 11/27/11

Mark 13:24-37; Isaiah 64:1-9

A few weeks ago, I was driving my son to school early in the morning, and he asked me an impossible theological question. This is the usual time when I get the “Stump Pastor Mom” questions—in the car, where we don’t have to look at each other, kids feel this sense of safety to ask the hard questions.

On this particular morning, when I was not yet at proper levels of caffination, Willem asked me this question: “Mom, why did God create free will?

Free will? Really? At 7:30 in the morning?

The question was intriguing to me, but the “why” of the question was of more interest. “Why do you ask such a thing (so early in the morning)?”

Turns out that what he really wanted to know was not why God created it, but why God allows us to do stupid things, to our own detriment? “Isn’t there a place we get to where God just reaches down and fixes it, so we don’t make such a mess out of things down here?”

Oh that you would rend the heavens and come down,
That the mountains would shake before you!
As fire kindles the brushwood and makes water boil,
Make your Name known to your adversaries,
And let the nations tremble before you!
When you did awesome things that we could not have expected,
You came down, and the mountains quaked in your presence!
From ages past no ear has ever heard,
No eye has ever seen any God but you intervening for those that wait for you!
Oh, that you would find us doing right,
That we would be mindful of you in our ways!

The question of a curious 5th grader is the same question of the Israelites. “God, when will you open up the heavens, come down, and fix this mess? We know you can and will intervene—we are waiting for you to do it—now!”
This text from Isaiah finds the Israelites in post-exile. They had been in exile in Babylon (as Ezekial was in last week’s text), but when King Cyrus defeated the Babylonians, he decreed that the Israelites could return to their home—to Jerusalem.
It sounded like a dream come true—after years of slavery, heading back home is what the people had longed for all these years! But, that great feeling quickly left when it came time to get to work on rebuilding the city, and restoring the temple, the house of God. The city was not coming together as some had hoped. And, the people of God were calling out to God, saying, “Fix this! Rend the heavens, come down, and make this right!”

This demand of the Prophet Isaiah also implied something difficult to hear: That the people of God—the chosen ones—were not feeling the presence of God among them. They lament that God was not there and begged God to show up, to be present to them again.

If the Isaiah passage are the questions—Where are you God? When are you going to intervene?—the Gospel of Mark could be the answer. The prophet Isaiah called on God to open the heavens, and Mark showed in vivid images what happens when the heavens open up.

But in those days, after that time of distress, the sun will be darkened, the moon will lose its brightness, the stars will fall from the sky and the powers in the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see the Promised one coming in the clouds with great power and glory; then the angels will be sent to gather the chosen from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven.

The people of Israel want God to show up in grand fashion, showing God’s power. But, I wonder if they actually considered what that experience might be like. A dark sun, pale moon, stars falling from the sky, and the heavens being shaken up, God coming down in the clouds—none of that sounds like the welcome event the prophet Isaiah was hoping for. It sounds downright terrifying. It sounds more like God leaving that God arriving.

No, the apocalyptic God is not what Isaiah is hoping for. In fact, I think that Isaiah was hoping for quite the opposite. Isaiah was hoping for a God of order, a God that would straighten up the chaos of post-exilic life, that would solve the problems created by slavery. Isaiah was thinking pragmatically—come down and solve these problems God!

But, take another look at Mark. The author gives us some more ideas of what it might look like for God to show up:

Stay alert! You do not know when the owner of the house is coming, whether at dusk, at midnight, when the cock crows, or at early dawn. Do not let the owner come suddenly and catch you asleep. What I say to you, I say to all: Stay Alert!

Do you catch anything interesting here in this verse?

The time when God might show up is at dusk (when Jesus and the disciples gathered together to share a meal), at midnight (when Jesus prayed with the disciples and was arrested), when the cock crowed (when Jesus was put on trial and Peter denied him), and at early dawn (when Jesus arose from the grave).

God showed up in the very middle of the most terrible, awful, sinful moments of life. In the betrayal and denial, God was there. In the death, God was there. And in the resurrection, God was most certainly present.

It seems that Mark may be giving us a few ideas of how God might show up—in terror and glory, in sin and doubt, right on our doorstep. And it seems that the coming again doesn’t have to happen once. It can happen again and again.

For some—like me—this is a welcome relief. Because I can be a little dense. Sometimes it takes me a little while to catch on to the fact that God is here—again—in all of God’s glory and big energy, or in the smallest whisper of a moment.

This week—of all weeks—I resumed my yoga practice. Now, it’s probably been a good year that I’ve taken a little break from it. I had another plan, another way that I was going to engage my body in fitness. And it totally didn’t work.

So, a few months ago, I realized that I needed to get back to yoga. I began researching places to go, looking at the times of the classes, and getting up the courage to get back to it. And just when I was ready to go back, I couldn’t find my yoga mat, so I took a few more weeks to purchase a mat that I liked (ok, the only spec was that it had to be purple), and THEN I was ready.

So, I went back on Wednesday. And it started out just awful. I huffed and puffed through it. The things I could do a year ago, I just couldn’t do any more. I kept forgetting to breathe. I began cursing certain positions that I was being made to hold for endless minutes.
I was not in a yoga state of mind. At all. My mind was fighting with my body. And losing.

Now, if you have ever attended a yoga class, the instructors are known to throw out nuggets of wisdom in the middle of the class—something about being kind to your body, or gratefulness or something positive. Sometimes the wisdom feels corny. Sometimes it’s nice but not necessarily applicable to where you are in that moment. And sometimes it just smacks you right in the face.

So, on Wednesday, as I was struggling along and feeling pretty mad at myself and my body for not doing what I wanted it to do, my instructor said this: Be thankful for where you are right now; don’t think about where you’d rather be. I had to look around to see if she was talking to me directly. It was exactly what I needed to hear at that moment. It brought me to focus and clarity. And that simple, yoga-style nugget of wisdom got me through the rest of the class. It was my holy interruption, in the middle of my internal structure.

This holy interruption did not come in a cloud from the heavens. There was no atmospheric disturbance. There was no major life event (besides coming to terms with my physical reality), but it was the interruption that aligned my mental and physical state.

There are plenty of other holy interruptions that I miss though. There are many times that my mind and body argue in yoga, and I forget to breathe, and no words of wisdom break through. There a plenty of times that I’m looking for a detail, while God’s doing a heavenly jig in front of me. There are plenty of times that I’m looking for the sky to open, and I miss the still small voice.

This season in advent, we have so many distractions. Black Friday sales that begin at midnight the day after Thanksgiving, holiday concerts, trees to get and decorate, Christmas cookies to make, cards to order and remember to send, suitcases to pack, travel arrangements to make.

Expectations are high during this season. We want things to be perfect. We want things to go well. We want nothing to interrupt our schedule or our well organized plans.

But here, in our time together at church, we have an opportunity. We can—in our worship together, listen for those places, both big and small, where God is interrupting our lives. Perhaps God is breaking open the heavens in a big way, and wowing you with glory and terror both.

Notice it. Pay attention to what God is saying to you.

Perhaps God is revealing herself to you in small, quiet ways.

Notice it. Stay awake. Pay Attention.

God did not show up to the people of Israel in the way that the prophet Isaiah asked, but God was present—in the suffering, in the slavery, in messy return to Jerusalem. God was with them in all of it. God came to them, again and again.

Mark reminds us of this in his text today. God comes in big and glorious ways and in small whispered ways too. God—our holy interrupter—is present to us, and comes to us in the most plain, and the most unusual of ways.

Stay alert—Stay awake. You never know how God is intervening in your life—in our lives—in big and small ways. AMEN.

The Church we Long to Be

Ezekial 47:1-10, Leviticus 25:1-12, Luke 4: 16-22

In the late 90’s U2 front man—and my personal hero—Bono, lent his voice and his passion to the Jubilee project. This project was an attempt to get first world countries who lend money to third world nations to forgive the debt, to erase the slate, and to allow these poor nations to make a new start without the crippling debt.
Bono and others met with world leaders, to try to convince them to cancel debt. There were some successes with this project. Tony Blair, the British Prime Minister at the time, publicly expressed his personal support for, and dedication to, debt forgiveness. The United States during the G-7 meeting in 1999 to cancel 100% of the debt that qualifying countries owed the U.S. Jubilee also lobbied the U.S. Congress to make good on this promise. Congress committed $769 million to bilateral and multilateral debt relief. It wasn’t 100% debt relief, but it was a start.

I love this idea of Jubilee. Land returned, debts forgiven, slaves freed—it’s beautiful, and means that the gospel, the message of our holy scriptures, are more than just spiritual. It has an immediate, justice effect on people than need freedom from financial and physical slavery.

But as much as I love Jubilee, as much as I respect and honor this part of the levitical code—there’s something important you should know about it—in reality it was never fully practiced. It has never been fully practiced, at least not to the extent that the levitical code required. There is no record that anyone ever left all of their land fallow for a year, or freed slaves from servitude, or forgave debt. Jubilee is talked about in Exodus and Leviticus, and I see no record that anyone ever practiced this part of the law. If it was ever practiced, it was a token, a shallow version of the Levetical mandate.

In fact, no one much talked about this decree in the stories of Jesus. Pharisees and Saducees instead talked about cleanliness—keeping themselves away from the unclean, and striving to be pure, both inside and outside. The part of the Levitical code that is about personal purity somehow seems more attainable, and more do-able perhaps than the year of jubilee.  Plus jubilee meant that one had to give up wealth and status for the sake of the oppressed. Personal purity instead became a form of status in and of itself.

The only ones that really talked about jubilee in the Hebrew scriptures were the prophets. And the only one in the gospels that really talked about jubilee was Jesus—in fact this is how he began his ministry in the gospel of Luke. Jesus opened up the scroll in the temple, and read the words of the prophet Isaiah, and declared that in his reading it, the scripture was fulfilled.

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me
Because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor
He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives
And recovery of sight to the blind
To let the oppressed go free
To proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.

Jesus doesn’t say it explicitly, but he is declaring the jubilee. Releasing the captives, recovering sight to the blind, letting the oppressed go free—this is jubilee. This is what Jesus came to do.

Jesus lived a life of Jubilee. Jesus modeled it. Jesus showed us how it was to be done, and send us disciples off to make it happen. But still, Jubilee has not ever been practiced with totality.

Rather depressing to think about. And this has shattered my view of jubilee. I always thought the Isrealites accomplished the laws set out by God. I always thought of the Levitical code as the laws that the Isrealites put into action, rather than ideals that they held up, but never really observed.

So then, why do we talk about jubilee? Why do we social activist types hold up this jubilee concept, yet never practice it? Why do the Israelites tout this law, yet never put it fully into practice?

Which brings me to the text from Ezekial.

If Bono is my rock star hero, Ezekial is my prophet hero. Ezekial, a member of the priestly class, was sent into exile by the Babylonians. The Babylonians thought that if they got rid of the leadership the people of Israel, then the people would be more easily controlled. So Ezekial was sent into exile. He went from being a leader among the Jews to being a common laborer, losing both status and prestige.

Ezekial tried to understand why this had happened. Where does the blame lie—what have the Israelites done to deserve this?
It is unclear whether he was a performance artist prophet or skitzaphenic, or smoking something trippy. Regardless, Ezekial has many visions regarding what is happening to the Isrealites.

Ezekial described God—as a spirit of glory and terror both. He described this glory and terror—this kavod—as a spirit that has left the temple. God was so disgusted with the people of Israel that God just left. God had enough and left.

Of course God does come back to God’s temple. The temple is renewed as a place of hope and life. And it culminated in this glorious vision of what the temple—what the church–can be.

In his vision, Ezekial was led through the temple, a temple where water flowed from its center. Outside the temple, the water flowed, first ankle deep, then knee deep, then waist deep. The water was so deep that it was over Ezekial’s head .

Then Ezekial was led to the bank of the river, where he saw trees that were lush and thriving, and producing fruit. In this river, people could fish, and eat from what they caught. This river was full of fresh water and flowed to water that was stagnant, and it gave that stagnant water new life.

This was a beautiful vision of what the house of God—the place of worship—could be. And it inspires me. What if the church was this place—what if Germantown Mennonite was a stream of new life that turned into a deep river of life that ran over our threshold, into the parking lot and down Washington Lane? What if this water flowed from there down to the wissahickon, and made that dirty undrinkable water clean again? What if that water that flooded from our doors made it possible for people to eat, not just one meal, but to eat in a sustainable way?

This vision of the church gets me very excited! It gets me far more excited than the jubilee texts. Not that they are any different. They both are calling for the people of God to be people of liberation. They both seem rather unattainable. How can we possibly bring about Jubilee? How can we possibly create a church that is a source of liberation and life, from which clean waters flow?

What excites me about the Ezekial text is that it is the gospel—in this middle of this prophet’s possibly drug induced vision is a declaration that prisoners are free, that the captives are released. In the middle of the Hebrew Scriptures is the image of what it looks like if we practice jubilee.

Ezekial is not telling us—this is the law. You must give money to make this vision happen. Ezekial is not saying that God says you’d better tithe, God says you’d better give up all your wealth. The prophet is showing us what it looks like when we participate in the vision. He’s showing us in this beautiful, rich, elaborate vision what we can be as the people of God, participating in the vision with all that we have.

I like Jubilee. But, I have some trouble with the idea that Jubilee is law. It’s probably because I don’t like being told what to do. And I know that I’m not the only one here with this stubborn streak. I don’t want to be told that I must, I need to know the why. I want to see the reason for following—for following this law, for following Jesus. Perhaps this line of thinking sounds stupid to you, but I need to know why it’s important. Why is it important that I follow the law of God, written thousands of years ago?

The prophet shows us this vision in Ezekial—when we all loosen our grip on the material, and share our resources—in this particular image, we are sharing with the church—we begin to see that church can be a place that is more than just paying for a building, or buying Sunday school materials, or paying the pastor’s salary. Sharing our resources with the church is sharing in a vision that together God’s people will be nourished. Together the captives will be released. Together all we come to know the saving grace of God, not just intellectually, but spiritually and physically. Because we share our resources with this community, this place becomes a place of hope and sustaining grace.

Ultimately this vision of Ezekial is not different than Jesus declaration of what he was called to do. And that’s not much different from Jubilee. All of these things are a call to the people of God to share what we have—I share all three of these texts with you today because for each of us these texts appeal in different ways. Some of us like the trippy vision of the prophet—we need to see that vision of what will be, when we work together. Some of us need that Jubilee law—the commandment that is so lofty, but that pushes us. And for others of us, it is important to hear that Jesus declare this vision to be so—in the reading of the word. And as his diciples, we share in that vision.

Whatever the reason that we give, we give so that the grace of God is shared—in word and deed. Let us hold to this vision—as unattainable as it might seem—as we look towards the future of the church. Let us hold on to this vision as we consider carefully how we share our resources with our church. Let us hold on to this vision, as we—the disciples of Jesus—seek the kingdom of God with all that we have.

AMEN.

The Unnamed Woman at Gibeah

Based on Judges 19
Preached at Supportive Communities Network Retreat, October 18, 2011

If you’ve never heard this story of the woman at Gibeah, I’m not surprised. It’s not in the lectionary readings. We didn’t learn about it in children’s Sunday school. I didn’t hear it until seminary, when pastors tend to hear all those stories that the church doesn’t like to preach about.

Here’s the story of the unnamed woman at Gibeah: A secondary wife of a Levite man ran home to dad–we can only guess that it was because her husband did something to deeply offend or hurt her. And after the woman had been home with her father for four months, the husband returned to bring her back to his home. Despite the father’s pleading the couple left the wife’s childhood home mid-day, because the Levite man was anxious to return home. They got off to a late start, and the couple needed to stay somewhere overnight. Instead of staying near Jerusalem, the couple stayed in the town of Gibeah, because according to the husband, Jerusalem was full of foreigners, and Gibeah was inhabited by good, Israelite people.

They went to Gibeah, and were taken in by a local. But as they were eating and drinking in the host‘s home, the men of the town surround the house and asked for the Levite man to come out so they could have sex with him. The host went out to reason with these men, and pleaded that they take his own daughter and the Levite’s wife instead. The men became enraged by this, until finally the Levite man pushed his wife outside, throwing her to the voracious men to be abused, humiliated and tortured all night.
In the morning, the woman was lying in front of the door of the house—it’s not clear whether she was alive or dead. Her husband told her to get up, and when she didn’t respond, he slung her over the back of his donkey and brought her home, where he cut his wife up into 12 pieces, sending a piece of this unnamed woman to each of the twelve tribes of Israel.

The response to this event by the people in Israel was no less disturbing. When the Israelite leaders heard the testimony of the Levite husband (a testimony that conveniently made him look innocent to any part of her death), the eleven tribes of Israel rose up against the tribe of Benjamin, where this horrible event took place, and they killed over twenty five thousand Benjamite warriors in one day. They also killed the children and mothers of the tribe of Benjamin.

After the massacre, the eleven tribes of Israel gathered with the remaining Benjamite men, making peace with what was left of the decimated tribe. In the “peace negotiations” the elders of all the tribes of Israel were concerned that the tribe of Benjamin not die out as a result of this bloody civil war. So they instructed the remaining men of Benjamin on where they might find unmarried Israelite women that they might have. So the men of the tribe of Benjamin went out to that place and took these women into a forced marriage through rape.

And, the people did what was right in their own eyes.

This is how the book of Judges ends.

This story is full of unnamed victims –the secondary wife of the Levite, the unmarried women who were abducted, raped, and forcibly married, and the men, women and children of the tribe of Benjamin who were brutally killed–none of these victims had a voice in this story.

But, as horrible as this story was, there were variations of it all throughout our scriptures. In Genesis 19, Lot’s home was surrounded by the men of Sodom. These men demanded that the guests of Lot be sent out to be abused and humiliated. Lot goes out to the people of Sodom to reason with them and offers his daughters instead. This infuriated the people of Sodom who try to tear the doors of the house down. Somehow these guests–who were angelic visitors to Lot–manage to bring Lot back into the house to safety, and no one was hurt.

But the woman at Gibeah, this second wife of the Levite–she had no angelic visitors to help her that night. Her host did not help her, her husband did not help her. She had no voice. She was cast off without regard for her humanity.

This story from Judges 19 also makes me think of Mary, the mother of Jesus, who when we first met her in the gospel story, was in a desperate situation. She was pregnant and unmarried, leaving her in danger of death and abandonment by her family. An angelic messenger of God appeared to her, and said, “Peace be with you.” I can’t help but wonder if she was thinking about this woman at Gibeah, who was offered those same words from her host, “Peace be with you,” which in effect means, “Relax. You are safe here.” But how many times have women in the Hebrew scriptures heard this peace be with you, only to find that things were not peaceful, and they had no reason to get too comfortable. Did the words Mary heard from this angelic messenger really give her hope?

But, at least Mary had a voice in this story. At least Mary could ask, “How can this be?” At least Mary could voice her concern, and ask assurance of this messenger and of God. The woman at Gibeah could not ask for help. She had no voice, she could not ask the host for his assurances that she would be safe.

I think also of Jesus’ own death and dismemberment. Like the woman at Gibeah, Jesus’ body was beaten and brutalized. He was sexually humiliated on that cross–we like to think that Jesus was at least wearing a cloth around his most private parts, but like the woman at Gibeah, his body was fully exposed to people that hated him and wanted nothing more than to see him exterminated. His life, and his body had no value to his captors–just like the woman at Gibeah.

I also find it remarkable that during Jesus interrogation, he also has no voice. He gave it up voluntarily. In light of the story of this woman at Gibeah, I find some small comfort that Jesus also understands her silence, her powerlessness, because he experienced it in his own torture and humiliation. Jesus understands the plight of the voiceless because he himself had no voice in the most terrible moments of his life.

I wonder why this Judges 19 text is in the scripture at all. There seems to be no redeeming value in it. The whole situation just reeks of blame shifting and denial and complicity. This story sickens me. It infuriates me. It also scares me. Because as horrible as it is, it happens all the time. This is not the first time a woman has been abused and left to die.  We know it happened during slavery, we know it happened during the holocaust, we know it happened during Jim Crow, we know it happens now in Darfur, Rwanda, Iraq. We know it happens here today. It happened with Matthew Shepherd in Wyoming. The voiceless, the defenseless, the unprotected–they are victims of people who–like men of Gibeah–do “what they think is right in their own minds”.

I can relate to the impotence of the host, and the father of this woman at Gibeah. Because that is how I feel about the bad things that happen in this world. Because I don’t know what to do, I allow things to happen all around me; I feel confused and helpless to the power others exert around me. The people of Israel throughout history have felt this confusion about this story from Judges 19. Hosea says of the people at Gibeah, “They have deeply corrupted themselves…God will remember their iniquity; God will punish their sins.” (Hosea 9:9). Amos says, “the prudent one will keep silent about such a time, for it is an evil time” (Amos 5:13).

But neither of those responses seem adequate responses to the terror of the woman at Gibeah. “God’s gonna get ‘em” does not end the horror. “Don’t talk about it” certainly does not stop the violence. As people of God, as preachers of the good news, what are we to do? How are we to respond?

The story of the unnamed woman at Gibeah brings me to Jesus‘ last days on earth. When the Levite cut up his wife’s body and sent it to the twelve tribes of Israel, I can’t help think about communion. Let’s face it, communion is pretty barbaric. When you eat bread, think of my broken body. When you drink wine, think of my blood. Why on earth would Jesus want his disciples to remember that? Shouldn’t this horrible event be best forgotten, like Amos said? Or shouldn’t we be content to know that God will punish the people that do terrible things, as Hosea says?

Jesus, gathered with his disciples around the table, asked for something quite different than forgetting or waiting for God‘s vengeance–Jesus asks us to remember. Our eating and drinking needs to be a remembering of Jesus death and suffering, and remembering of the blood spilled, a remembering of his silence, his sexual humiliation, his abandonment by those that could have spoken for him.

Our communion theology as Anabaptists is broad and grace filled. We share in the ritual of communion, and we also recognize that we participate in communion every day. We give and receive communion when we gather together. We give and receive communion when we eat with friends and family. We give and receive communion when we give and receive hospitality. And in gathering together as people of God, we remember Jesus–his life, his death, his last meal with his disciples–and in doing this, his life and death have meaning for us.

Around our family table every night, we like to tell stories. My ten year old son, Willem, usually gets this going. “Mom, tell me a story from your childhood.” So, I tell him how I broke the TV as a kid and tried in vain to fix it with crazy glue, or my various trips to the emergency room as a child, or how Charlie and I met at college. Willem also asks about my mom (who he never met), why she died, what she was like, and any stories I know from her childhood.

Telling those stories can sometimes be hard. I don’t always want to talk about my mom. Because when I talk about her life, and remember the funny stories she shared with me about her own childhood, I inevitably remember her death. I don’t want to remember those days leading up to her death, where her body was broken, and cancer had silenced her speech. But, I also want my kids to know about their grandmother whom they never met. I remember her life so that her life can make a difference in their lives.

That’s also one of the reasons why we tell the story of Jesus. When we talk about Jesus life, we remember his teachings, his miracles and his activism, and it makes a difference in our lives today. It becomes our model for living. When we remember his death, we are horrified that it had to take place–that Jesus’ message of peace and his advocacy for the poor and voiceless were so threatening to religious and political authorities that he had to be killed in the most humiliating and brutal of ways.

When I think about the crucifixion of Jesus, I am drawn think about other voiceless folks throughout history that have been brutalized and killed. And it’s so easy to feel desperate and hopeless about the pointless death of people throughout history. We don’t want to remember the terrible things that have been done for the sake of freedom and democracy, in the name of Christianity, for the sake of progress.

But it is only in remembering that these nameless, silenced people begin to have a voice, and their lives begin to have meaning and significance to us. It is in telling the story of the woman at Gibeah that her life has meaning to us. We can say to her death, and to the death of countless other voiceless, brutalized people, “This can never happen again. I will not be silent about this.”

In our own context, as members of the Anabaptist traditions, and members of Supportive Congregations Network, we have to remember the stories that brought us here. The stories of people we know who could not say to their community, “I am gay.” We remember some of our own stories—our inability to come out in our communities, because of legitimate fear of shunning, shaming and persecution. We remember our own experiences of questioning the denomination’s stand on sexuality, and the alienation we experienced as a result.

But as more and more of us remember, and tell our stories, we find that in the sharing of these stories that have been silenced for so long, that we experience unity. Our re-membering brings us unity in the body of Christ.

In remembering and retelling the story of the woman at Gibeah, we weave her story into our own story. We cannot save her, we cannot put the pieces of her body or her life back together, but we can re-member her by recognizing her suffering, and trying—in our own small, often inadequate way–to ensure that violence, misogyny, and ignorance, and power mongering end in our communities, and in churches, in our denominations, and in the church universal.

When we re-member the woman at Gibeah, we become one body, and one community of faith with the suffering ones in this world. Our voice becomes her voice, our suffering is her suffering, and our pain is her pain. And we do not deny people that are part of our community, we do not scapegoat them, and we do not hurt them. They are part of us and to that end, we work to care for an nurture those that are part of us.

Today, we re-member the dis-memberment of the woman at Gibeah. We recognize that her story happens in every age. This story has happened to us, and to the people we know. We take this story of suffering, silence and powerlessness, we talk about it, and it becomes ours. We re-member her and in doing so welcome her into our fellowship. Today we say, this cannot happen anymore. We will not be silent about this. We will replace her silence with our voice. Because is not some distant story, hidden in the Hebrew scriptures, and overlooked by the lectionary readings, she is one of us. She has a name. She is part of our community, woven into this group of people for whom we care deeply. Today, we remember the woman at Gibeah, our sister, friend, neighbor and fellow traveler.

AMEN.

Occupy Church

Sermon preached at Germantown Mennonite Church
October 16, 2011
Matthew 22:15-22

I’ve been keeping a close eye on the Occupy Movement over the last few weeks. For a group that the media tries to portray as disorganized, with divergent interests, Occupy Wall Street—and closer to home, Occupy Philadelphia—appears organized and united.

The facebook feed from Occupy Philadelphia is about requests for food, water, medical supplies, tents, blankets and clothing. It’s announcements about how we can be involved, when their general assemblies are taking place—those are where the group makes decisions about what will happen next with the movement in Philadelphia.

What is most impressive to me, is that Occupy Philadelphia is committed to feeding everyone that is occupying City Hall. Everyone. That includes the chronicly homeless, the folks that were already occupying city hall when the movement began. This movement is not just young, idealistic, middle class bored white kids—it is people of every race and culture, and class, each with their own individual concerns, but each with an overall concern for our society, our care for each other and our care for the environment.
The occupiers have become a community, looking out for each other. Those that have extra share with those that have nothing. They respect the space where they have gathered—they are keeping city hall’s plaza cleaner than it might have been if no one was occupying it—and they are showing respect for each person that comes to them.

It has been reminding me of what we saw happening in the early church. In the book of Acts, followers of Jesus would gather together to share a meal—they would bring what they had, and it would work. Just like we bring food to a potluck, except the stakes were higher. For people that had nothing, and for people who were under attack for believing in the resurrected Jesus, the food they shared when they gathered was vital. It was not just a substitute for going out to lunch after church, it was an act of social justice, an equalizer among people that had varying levels of ability to provide for themselves.

The early church shared each others burdens, making sure there was food and shelter for all. This was a spiritual community, a community built around their experience of the power of Jesus in their lives. But it was also a community of social justice. The early church, loosely organized, looking very different in each city, but shared in common its communal nature. People looked after each other.

For the Occupy Philadelphia movement, as I hear them chant, “This is what democracy looks like,” I’m always thinking, This is what I long for the church to look like.

In our text today, we hear some of the most confusing words of Jesus. In fact, over the last few weeks, as we have worked our way through the gospel of Matthew, Jesus has become more and more difficult to understand, and his words are more and more controversial. First, Jesus talked about the vineyard owner sending his servants to the tenants, who ignore him until the owner sent his son, who the tenants kill. When the Pharisees realized that Jesus is talking about them being the tenants who kill the landowner’s son (Landowner is God, Son is Jesus), this sets them off. It is this explicit parable that makes Jesus a marked man, doomed for death.

Then, Jesus goes on with another parable. This one is about the wedding feast—the text we heard preached by Randy Spaulding last Sunday. All are welcome to table. When the banquet owner could not get a positive RSVP from his friends, then he went to the street, and invited anyone in that needed to eat.

Finally, Jesus ended the trilogy of radical stories with this one that we read today. “Give to the emperor, the things that belong to the emperor, and give to God the things that are God’s.” In our Matthew story today, the Pharisees, along with the Herodians (who are in charge of keeping Jewish ruler, Herod, in power) come to Jesus and try to trap him. They say to Jesus in a typical Torah debate style, “Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor?” These Torah scholars were pretty pleased with themselves for coming up with this question. If Jesus said that it was lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, he would alienate the people who hated the Roman occupation and Caesar. If he said it was unlawful to pay taxes, the people will be pleased, but Jesus will then be liable for arrest by the Romans.

As it turned out, Jesus didn’t go in either of those directions. He was too clever for all that. He took this issue in a whole new direction. Jesus said to the Pharisees and Herodians, “Show me the coin used for the tax.” And the Pharisees and Herodians—while standing in the temple with Jesus—pulled out a denarius, a Roman coin with the image of the emperor on it. You should know that having this Roman coin in the temple was akin to idolatry. Here in the temple they expose their idol in the form of a Roman coin. Jesus here exposed their idolatry in the temple, in front of God and everyone. Embarassing.

But, Jesus continued. “Give to the emporer what belongs to the emporer, but give to God what belongs to God.”  Give to the emperor—or in our case, give to the empire—what belongs to the empire. And give to God what belongs to God.

What is Jesus talking about here?

What exactly belongs to the empire, and what belongs to God?

The answer is disappointing to some, and terrifying to others. We want Jesus to set some bounderies on what belongs to whom, how much of a percent we give, how much we should give to the empire, and how much we get to keep for ourselves. The answer Jesus gave us is not about how much to give, or whether it is lawful to give. The answer Jesus gives us is a reminder that everything we have belongs to God. The empire can have our coin, because what is truly important is that what is Gods is given to God to be used for the building of the kingdom.

And that, my brothers and sisters, is much more frightening than giving just ten percent. That is much more frightening than limiting the work of God to what we take off the top of our family budgets. All that we have belongs to God. This building, our material possessions, our families, our hearts—they all belong to God.

None of this is ours.

The question left implied in this text is this: will we give to God what already belongs to God? Or will we hold on to these things for our personal, financial, and spiritual security?

Because as co-creators in the work of God—or maybe better said—as co-conspirators in the work of God, the work doesn’t get done when we act like the good news is just for us. The work doesn’t get done, when we treat our possessions as if they actually belong to us, and hoard the resources. More specifically, more directly, God’s people don’t get fed when we don’t share our food with others. God’s people don’t get housed when we don’t share our homes with them. God’s people don’t have opportunities for justice, when we don’t share access to resources, power and networks.

Which brings me back to occupy Philadelphia. These folks—who come from all walks of life, are doing the work of God. They are feeding each other, making sure everyone is warm and clothed, and providing medical care for everyone. They are doing what the early church did.

Using social media, they are gathering the resources they need to care for each other, and showing the government—both local and national—that this is what it means to have “liberty and justice for all”. And, it’s been a kick in the pants for some of us in the church. This is what it means to “do justice, love mercy, walk humbly with God.” This is what the early church tried to do. They tried to live the good news with their lives and hearts, and all that they had belonged to God.

This Occupy Philadelphia movement is reminiscent of the Peasant revolts during the birth of the radical reformation. While the gospel was being un-domesticated by reformers who were putting the word into the hands of the people, instead of keeping it safely in the church, the everyday people in Europe were declaring their disgust with the government for overtaxing the poor, while allowing the rich to go untouched. This was an opportunity for the people’s concerns, and the people’s story to be joined with the gospel story, and the liberating message of Jesus. And it changed forever how we do church, and how we read the gospel.

The Peasant revolt wasn’t perfect. Early Anabaptists used violent means to try to built a just society. It was a disaster—many, many people died. But they learned from it. And they changed course.

They learned—as they sought justice—that spirituality must be part of this movement. They learned—as they prayed and studied the scriptures together—that Jesus’ call to all people was the way of peace, and required that they put it all on the line. Because everything they had belonged to God.

And while Occupy Philadelphia is not a religious or spiritual movement per se, there are people at these events that are making this connection. Some of you in this very congregation have seen the connection between the life and practices of Jesus, and the demands of the movement.

Today, there has also been a call among us to remember the need for food in our community. It is world food day, and many of you have brought extra food, remembering that so many in our neighborhood don’t have enough, and recalling that Jesus fed the 5,000 with very little.

There has also been a call to give what we have to the Occupy Philadelphia movement. Katie has called us to bring in blankets, water, food, and other things to support the calls for justice going on at City hall.

Today is also a celebration of communion, an ongoing theme for the month of October here at Germantown Mennonite. As we remember the last meal with Christ, we recall that this is more than a symbolic act, this is a spiritual act, and a justice act. We remember that even as Jesus knew his days were numbered, he made sure there was sustenance for his faithful followers. Those disciple—though they were quite dense at times—gave all that belonged to God, back to God, because they believed Jesus had the power to make a change. As followers in the way of Jesus—as co-conspiritors in the work of God, we too are called to give it all up. Not just 10 percent—we are called by God to give back to God what already belongs to God. And we are called to share all that we have with others—giving strength for the journey in the form of bread and wine (both the spiritual kind, and the physical kind). God calls us to the table to give it all up for the sake of the kingdom.

AMEN.