April 28th, 2019 – Of All That Is, Seen and Unseen, a Sermon on John 20:19-31

John 20:19-31
19 When it was evening on that day, Day One of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” ²⁰ After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. ²¹ Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” ²² When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. ²³ If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” ²⁴ But Thomas (who was called the Twin ), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. ²⁵ So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” ²⁶ A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” ²⁷ Then 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.” ²⁸ Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” ²⁹ Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” ³⁰ Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. ³¹ But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name. 

Let’s begin by taking a deep, prayerful breath.

This morning, I have to tell you about Ruben Pedersen.

Ruben Pedersen. I’ll never forget him.

Ruben was a retired pastor in my internship congregation, Augustana Lutheran in Minneapolis. Throughout his life, Ruben had been a Lutheran missionary in Tanzania. He worked for the department of World Missions for the Lutheran World Federation in Geneva, Switzerland. And then at age of 91, he worshipped faithfully at Augustana with about 50 other regular members in a sanctuary that you used to hold 1,100, and taught me, a new young seminarian, how to be a pastor.

Ruben was like a retired Professor Dumbledore. Caring and supportive in a quiet sort of way, and not afraid to give you encouraging advice. You’d ask Ruben a question and he would raise one bony finger into the air and say, “Ahhhh. That is a good question.” Then everyone would lean into hear what he had to say.

And he wasn’t afraid to tell you the truth. And even if the truth was critical, it felt like the truth spoke in love.

One Sunday, I was the assisting minister – reading the scriptures, praying the prayers. And at the end of the service, as he always did, Ruben would stroll his way up to the worship leaders, as fast as his bent over body and walker could move him, to tell us what a powerful and meaningful service it was.

And then he got really close to me, perhaps so that no one else would hear, and he said, “Lord, in your mercy. Don’t forget about the comma.”

I leaned in and said, “Ruben, I don’t understand. Tell me more.”

“In your prayers. You say, ‘Lordinyourmercy….hear our prayer.’ But there is a comma there. Don’t rush that part. Lord…(pause)…in your mercy…hear our prayer.”

I’ve never forgotten that moment or that comma.

Well, last week, in the middle of Easter worship, I was struck between the eyes by another comma I’d never noticed or paid attention to. And from the sound of it, neither have many of you.

Take a look at page 6 of your bulletin. At the first article of the Nicene Creed.

We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth,

Of all that is,….COMMA….PAUSE…seen and unseen.

When we say it, we say “maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen.”

We rush right through it.

And maybe I’m making more of it than necessary, but in the middle of leading that Creed, I heard Reuben’s voice in my ear, “Don’t forget the comma. Don’t rush through it.”

I discovered this week that it contains so much meaning, depth, richness, and mystery to say, “We believe in one God, maker of heaven and earth, of all that is.”

We believe that God made everything and everyone that exists.

All that we can see and all that we cannot see.

Seen or unseen – all that is belongs to God, our Creator.

We are living in this time when people are demanding to be seen. And for good reason. For so long, some people have not been seen by society – overlooked and ignored and pushed aside. Or not even that, people have simply felt that there are parts of their lives that must be kept unseen –  secret and hidden. Whether it is survivors of sexual assault who finally in the #metoo movement feel like they and their experience is seen or people and families who can finally be open and honest about their mental illness or addiction – these days, those who for so long have been unseen long to be seen.

A couple of weeks ago, comedian Amy Schumer came out with a new comedy special and she surprised everyone when she shared so publicly that her husband has autism spectrum disorder. She said, “Once he was diagnosed, it dawned on me how funny it was because all of the characteristics that make it clear that he’s on the spectrum are all of the reasons that I fell madly in love with him.That’s the truth. He says whatever is on his mind. He keeps it so real. He doesn’t care about social norms or what you expect him to say or do…and he can also make me feel more beautiful than anyone has my whole life.” We hear more and more about children living with autism, but Schumer pulled back the curtain on adults living with autism. And suddenly, a whole community of people who are so often unseen…were seen. In love. With dignity.

Last year, Beyonce was the headlining act for the Coachella music festival. It was her first performance back since giving birth to twins. A homecoming of sorts.  But this concern wasn’t justa concert. It was, as one reviewer said, “a gobsmacking marvel of choreography and musical direction”, that was “meaningful, absorbing, forceful, and radical.”[1]

With over 100 people on stage with her, Beyonce had a marching band, a black orchestra, dance steppers, vocalist, and contortionists. She said, “(In this show), I wanted every person that has ever been dismissed because of the way they look to feel like they were on that stage.”[2]

She wanted those who so often feel unseen, ignored, pushed aside to be onstage. To be seen. And throughout the performance, she would make eye contact with people in the audience and would say, “I see you….I see you…all the way in the back, I see you.”

We believe in one God, maker of heaven and earth, of all that is – seen and unseen.

Our gospel reading this morning is all about that which is seen and unseen.

It is still the day of the Resurrection. Day One. The day when Mary Magdalene went to the tomb and saw the stone had been rolled away. She goes to tell Peter and the other disciple, who race to the tomb to find that it is empty and they return home. But Mary hangs around the tomb. Weeping – distraught, not knowing where Jesus’ body is. Not seeing it. But then she sees Jesus, though she didn’t know it. She thinks he’s the gardener. So, we learn that we can see Jesus without recognizing him as Jesus. We can miss him, miss his presence, when he is right in front of us.

Then Jesus calls her by name – Mary. And suddenly, she can see him. Notice it was Jesus seeing her which helped her to see him. Sometimes in order for us to see more clearly, we have to know that we are seen. That someone sees us and knows our name.

And so Mary, being seen by Jesus and now seeing him, runs to back to the disciples and says, “I have seen the Lord.”

Mary – the first to see and bear witness to the Risen Christ.

But the disciples don’t believe her. Our gospel reading for today picks up later that same Easter evening, we hear that the disciples have locked the doors and locked themselves in a house – in their own tomb of sorts – not out of resurrection joy but out of deathly fear. Because they haven’t seen Jesus.

So, in his own sort of Homecoming story, Jesus shows up. Somehow. We don’t get it but he shows up among them, slipping past or through or under the locked door and he speaks to them. Not a word of anger or judgment or hurt for them betraying and abandoning Jesus. No, he just shows up and see them. Sees their fear and distress. And he says, “Peace be with you.” And he showed them his body. His scars. And the disciples rejoiced for they too have been seen by and now have seen for themselves the Living Lord.

Well, not all of them. Not Thomas. We don’t know where Thomas was or why he wasn’t there. All we know is that he missed this moment. So, the disciples run to tell him. But just like the disciples listening to Mary, Thomas doesn’t trust them.

And so speaking the words perhaps we all echo in unison at some point in our life, Thomas declares, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and touch the wounds…I will not believe.”

 Thomas – you can always rely on him to show up a week after Easter and to name the fear and doubt that we all carry with us. That we have not seen the Lord.

And almost as predictable as the story of Thomas is the week after Easter is the theological debates about Easter – about resurrection. In the days, surrounding Easter, people really struggle with the story of resurrection, as we should. People wonder, “Was this a literal flesh-and-blood resurrection? I haven’t seen it.”

And some people say, “Yes!” And some people say, “No!” And some people say, “Sort of!”

Last week, on Easter Sunday, New York Timeswriter Nicholas Kristoff published an interview where he confessed that he has problems with a literal bodily resurrection. His interviewee, Rev. Dr. Serene Jones, the president of Union Theological Seminary, responded and came alongside him by saying, “For me, the message of Easter is that love is stronger than life or death. That’s a much more awesome claim than that they put Jesus in the tomb and three days later he wasn’t there.”[3]

Almost immediately, there were comments about how Kristoff and Jones weren’t truly Christian. Within days, there were articles in response from those who do believe in the mystery of a literal bodily resurrection.

Like clockwork, every Easter this shows up. And what amazes is me is that both sides use today’s text as supporting evidence. Those who don’t believe in a bodily resurrection point to the fact that the doors in the house were locked. John’s specifically says that. And then somehow, Jesus comes and stands among them. How could he do that with a physical body, they say.

But those who do believe in the bodily resurrection say, “But Jesus shows them his body and his wounds. How could it not be a body?”

Both sides are trying to argue and debate over who sees the realJesus, when really I think they themselves just long to be seen.

To be seen as they are, with their doubts or their belief, and to still be seen as people of faith.

In the midst of this annual debate, I’ve wondered this week…what if our deepest longing, and the heart of this text, isn’t simply about seeing and understand the real resurrected Jesus and believing.

But rather, what if it is about trusting that Jesus sees us. And in seeing us, raises us up from the dead as well.

It wasn’t just about Mary seeing Jesus. She saw him and didn’t recognize him. It was about Mary being seen by Jesus. Him calling her name.

Jesus shows up to the fearful disciples and he sees them. He sees their fear. He sees that the breath of God, the Spirit of life and courage has been knocked out of them, so he breathes on them and raises them up and sends them out of their own tomb. “Peace be with you. As God has sent me, I send you,” he says.

Jesus shows up for Thomas and sees him. Sees his doubt and uncertainty. And Jesus speaks a word of peace, shows him his wounded body, and reassures him. “Do not doubt. But believe.” I’m still here, Thomas. I see you.

And Jesus shows up for us – the ones who have not seen – and he sees us. And blesses us as we walk by faith and not by sight.

The God incarnate in the risen Jesus is the God whom Hagar of the Old Testament calls El Roi. The God who sees me.

The God incarnate in the risen Jesus is the maker of heaven and earth. Of all that is. Seen and unseen. For from the beginning, there is nothing and no one unseen to God, our Creator.

And that includes you. All of you. With your doubts or your faith. With confidence or your fears.

Christ sees you. Breathes into you. And sends you. To bearers of peace to a hurting and fearful world.

Everyone, take a deep breath.

Amen.

[1]https://www.nytimes.com/2018/04/15/arts/music/beyonce-coachella-review.html

[2]See Netflix Documentary – Homecoming, 2019.

[3]https://www.nytimes.com/2019/04/20/opinion/sunday/christian-easter-serene-jones.html

Friday, April 19th, 2019 – A Good Friday Homily on John 18 – 19:42

I have been entrusted to you ever since I was born; you were my God when I was in my mother’s womb. Be not far from me, for trouble is near, and there is no one to help.

Maundy Thursday ends with these words from Psalm 22.

And then silence.

And that silence carries over into today, which in my experience, is one of the quietest days of the church year.

You’ve heard of C and E Christians – those who only go to worship on Christmas and Easter. Believe it or not, I’ve met a few GF Christians too – those who only go to worship on Good Friday. Because, in their experience, it is the most truthful worship of the year.

Be not far from me, O God, for the trouble is near and there is no one to help.

We just don’t know what to say.

And so we are much quieter tonight.

We are silenced tonight by the horror of the story. What happens to the One who has lived among us full of grace and truth. The One who weeps for Lazarus and calls him back to the living. The One who heals and feeds, embodying the love of God and calling us to the same. The One who cleanses the feet of the betrayer and dines with the denier, only to then be stripped down, beaten, mocked, and humiliated on a cross for the whole world to see.

We don’t know what to say.

We are silenced by the horror of tonight’s history. The truth that because of what happened, Christians throughout the ages have sought revenge, turning Good Friday into not only a night of worship, but also a night of terror.  Christians used to riot after hearing the story of Jesus’ crucifixion, seeking to do as much damage as possible to the Jewish part of their town.  Jews have been killed on this night because of this story.

We don’t know what to say.

We are silenced by the horror of our own lives. Silenced by the ways we’ve betrayed or been betrayed, denied or been denied by the ones and theOne we love. Something about this story pulls back the curtain on the crosses we keep building still today, both for ourselves and for those around us who show us the truth of who we are.

We don’t know what to say.

And so we mostly just listen tonight.

A lot of us come to church for answers. Some of us see the Cross as the answer. But as best as I can tell, the tonight’s story is full of questions.

 Who are you looking for?
You are not one of this man’s disciples, are you?
Why do you strike me?
What accusations can you bring against this man?
What is truth?
Do you want me to release for you the King of the Jews?
Shall I crucify your King?

Frederick Buechner once said, “Don’t start looking in the Bible for the answers it gives. Stary by listening for the questions it asks. When you the question that is your question, then you have already begun to hear much.”[1]

In the end, the cross itself becomes the question that we simply cannot answer or understand. As Preacher Sam Wells has put it, hearing this story and being left with this question can leave our faith hanging by a thread.

But maybe that’s exactly how things are supposed to be tonight. Sam Wells says it this way.

“(On Good Friday) We wonder whether this tiny, broken, wasted body can possibly be the body of God. We’re supposed to wonder that. We wonder how any joy, any hope, any glory can possibly emerge from this hideous catastrophe. We’re supposed to wonder that. We wonder why God doesn’t utterly reject us after we’ve shown the very worst that we can do. We’re supposed to wonder that…But for all our wondering and pondering, one thing is utterly clear. When we see the pain, when we feel the grief, when we look upon the loneliness, when we touch the wounds, when we hear the cries, we know, we know that God will go to any length for us…that loving us is written into God’s DNA, that there’s no part of God that has any desire to be except to be with us.”[2]

Despite all of the risks, God has decided to make our story part of God’s story. To be with us, come what may.

So tonight, all we can do is sit back and hear the tragic story of God’s love for the world, which the world will try to snuff out. All we can do is sense how the betrayal and despair, the shame and fear brush up against your own. All we can do is watch the sad story of Jesus who would give up everything for the ones he loves. For there is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. This is God’s story. This is our story.

You don’t have to say anything.

Just listen.

——

[1]Frederick Buechner, https://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/1500-a-troubling-generosity

[2]Sam Wells, Hanging By a Thread.

Sunday, April 14th, 2019 – A Palm Sunday Sermon

Mark 11:1-11
11When they were approaching Jerusalem, at Bethphage and Bethany, near the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two of his disciples 2and said to them, “Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately as you enter it, you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden; untie it and bring it. 3If anyone says to you, ‘Why are you doing this?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it and will send it back here immediately.’” 4They went away and found a colt tied near a door, outside in the street. As they were untying it, 5some of the bystanders said to them, “What are you doing, untying the colt?” 6They told them what Jesus had said; and they allowed them to take it. 7Then they brought the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on it; and he sat on it. 8Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others spread leafy branches that they had cut in the fields.9Then those who went ahead and those who followed were shouting,
“Hosanna!
Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!
10Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David!
Hosanna in the highest heaven!”
11Then he entered Jerusalem and went into the temple; and when he had looked around at everything, as it was already late, he went out to Bethany with the twelve.

Grace, peace, and mercy are yours in the name of Christ. Amen.

A number of years ago, I officiated a little wedding for a young couple down in Owatonna. The wedding was held in this old, little historic church, placed right next to the Steele County Fairgrounds. The church wasn’t much wider than this section of pews, with an aisle running down the middle and only about 8 rows deep. Other than the fact that about 30 of us were crammed into the tiny pews of this tiny church, it was a typical wedding. The wedding party paraded down the aisle. The bride was walked in by her father to Wagner’s Bridal chorus played on an electric ogran. 1 Corinthians 13 was read. The officiant’s sermon was mediocre. Vows were spoken, rings were exchanged.

It was a typical wedding.

Until the sand ceremony.

As some of you may know, sand ceremonies have become a popular replacement for the unity candle tradition at a wedding. As of this weekend, a Youtube video of how to perform a wedding sand ceremony had been viewed 226,383 times. This is a thing.

What happens is just after the vows and the exchange of rings, the couple will each take their own small vase of colored sand and pour it at the same time into a much larger vase. Not only does it symbolize the joining together of two lives as the two colors of sand mix together, but it also creates this beautiful piece of art, right there in the middle of the wedding ceremony.

Sometimes.

At this particular wedding, the sand ceremony was a just a little different. Instead of pouring their bright red and orange sand into a vase – the couple would pour the sand into a picture frame design for just such a ceremony. At the center of the frame was the beautiful engagement photo of the couple sitting in a field somewhere, and the frame was designed so that as the sand is poured in, it would create this stunning pattern of fiery red and orange sand around the border of the photo.

So, after the vows were spoken and the wedding rings exchanged, the organist went into a quiet version of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,” as the couple walked up to the altar.

They started the ritual, but it was a small church. We couldn’t see anything. So, with their backs to us, we waited for the big reveal.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Until all of sudden, in an almost synchronized moment, their shoulders started to shake. We didn’t know what to do. Has something gone wrong? Were they laughing? Were they crying? What’s happening? The organist just kept playing until finally the couple turned around with tears of slightly embarrassed laughter running down their cheeks…and sand all over the place.

Piles of bright red and orange sand all over the original 19th century altar cloths. Smudges of bright red and orange sand smeared across their faces in the engagement photo. And a very slight red and orange stains on their hands, from trying to scoop up the sand and put it back into place.

Needless to say, it was a strange moment for a wedding. Here it was their wedding day, one of the most important days of their entire life, and, unknowingly, the glass on their ceremonial frame had gone askew, off track. So much so that as this couple carefully and thoughtfully combined the fiery colors of their love into one striking image, the sand comes uncontrollably leaking out, onto the picture and the altar, ruining the moment with a disastrous mess.

But in a strange way, this unplanned moment also graced the wedding – with a glimpse of truth.

The truth that life, especially life in marriage, has a tendency to go askew. Off track. And it can feel like all your well laid plans for a beautiful frame around your beautiful life are collapsing and leaking out all over the place.

It didn’t ruin the wedding. It simply humanized it. And in that moment, when the couple turned around, the whole congregation of 30 tightly squeezed people, let out a sigh of relief and broke into laughter of joy with them. The truth of life had punctured the pageantry of the ceremony. It was a moment that said to this bride and groom and really to all of us, “It is a messy and unpredictable world out there and now we walk this journey together.”

And so we stitched up the ceremony, borrowed a stranger’s shop vac to clean up, and then danced the night away.

I tell you this long and somewhat random story because I think there is something similar happening today. On Palm Sunday.

In many ways, today is just like any ordinary Sunday.

The congregation has gathered for worship. We’ve joined our voices in song, we’ve confessed our sin together and received forgiveness. We’ve invited the children forward. A little later we will pray for the church, the world, and all people in need. We will give our gifts, our offerings, back to God, learning to live on less. And we will break communion together. It’s just an ordinary Sunday.

But in other ways, it is not just another ordinary Sunday. And we know it. There are a number of little things, just askew, just offset enough from their frame that when we pour in the sand of Palm Sunday, all the colors of Holy Week come pouring out.

First and foremost – the announcements are in the wrong place today. We’ve postponed them until later, squeezing them in just after the prayers and just before the offering, which is where some church nerds would say they belong. But here it is the sermon and we haven’t even greeted you yet. No “Good morning, and welcome to worship at St. John’s.” No, we’ve just marched in from the back, asked you to stand, and jumped right into the gospel reading. If you were late, you missed it.

And right there, you knew something was off. The Gospel reading spilling out into new liturgical territory.

Or take the Gospel reading itself. The Triumphal entry of Jesus into Jerusalem.

“Hosanna!
Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!
10Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David!
Hosanna in the highest heaven!”

Cue the organ. Start the marching. Raise the palms. Something is different. And we know it.

But I have to be honest – I never know what to do with my leafy branch.

Do I wave it like it’s the Defeat of Jesse James Day Parade and the Rice County Dignitaries have arrived in town? Is this a parade of joy for the King of Kings claiming his throne? It is Holy Week after all – the most important week in our Christian year – let’s get excited folks!

Or do I hoist it up in solidarity with the Resistance, standing with Jesus against the Empire and all the death-dealing powers that be in this world? Is this Jesus’ march for our lives? Is this march into Jerusalem a political protest blocking the highway and mocking the powers that be? There is much happening in the world that should confront us and call our faith into action – let’s straighten our spines and join the march, folks!

Or do I hold it like a candle? A symbol of peace for the pacifist who in just a few days will soon be marching into a war, carrying an old rugged cross as his only weapon. Is this a foreshadowing funeral march for a God who empties himself in love for the people of God?

I never know what to do with my palm branch. Because here it is the start of Holy Week, one of the most important weeks of our Christian year, and yet the sour stench of Good Friday is already spilling out into the air.

You can pour Palms into the frame of worship, but the sweat and tears and nails from the cross start to leak out the edges.

This is no ordinary Sunday and we know it. Things are just askew.

Or take for example, the end of worship today. We will not conclude with a prayer of Thanksgiving for the gifts of God’s grace, given to us at Communion. We will not conclude with a radiant benediction that loosens the muscles around our chest, helping us to breathe in again God’s blessing.

Instead you will get a front row seat, to what is usually done on Saturday mornings and behind closed doors. The set change from one worship service, one scene of the story, to the next. The purple of Lent will be folded up and tucked away, making room for the scarlet red of God’s love and lifeblood that will be put on display in Jesus’ washing of feet on Maundy Thursday, and poured out from the execution chair lifted high for all to see on Friday.

All while the story of Palm Sunday echoes, hauntingly, through the voice of the choir.

And then….silence.

Look, there is no avoiding it. Palm Sunday is crowded. It carries the journey of Lent that came before it and the beauty and horror of Holy Week that comes after. There is no containing it all. It leaks out the skewed edges.

Each year, in some ways, I want the drama throughout this week to be confined. I want Palm Sunday to be just Palm Sunday. I want Maundy Thursday to be Maundy Thursdday. And so on. Just one part of the story left on a cliff hanger – to be continued. As if you are watching a long movie series and you don’t know yet what will happen to the main character.

But let’s be honest. It’s useless. We know what’s gonna happen. Just like with those newlyweds who at the beginning of their life together had the truth of life spilled out right in front of them, we too know what’s gonna happen this week. There will be moments that are beautiful and moments that are unspeakable and hard to bear.

Until Sunday morning.

Until Sunday morning – when our whole congregation of 300+ tightly squeezed people, will let out a sigh of relief and break into laughter of joy. For the truth of life and the truth of death will have punctured the monotonous lie that everything is fine.

But it is into that truth that morning will break and we shall arise. Our marching will become dancing. Our silence will become song. For not only will we know the truth of life, but we will know the hope of life that has broken free from the confines of death. We will defiantly declare that “It is a messy and unpredictable world out there and we walk this journey together.” With God. With each other. For nothing can separate us from the love of God. Not life. Not death.

As I said, we know what’s gonna happen.

Sunday, March 31st, 2019 – Getting Lost in Parabolic Caves, a Sermon on Luke 15

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32
1 Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to him. ² And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.” ³ So he told them this parable: ¹¹ “There was a man who had two sons. ¹² The younger of them said to his father, “Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.’ So he divided his property between them. ¹³ A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and traveled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living. ¹⁴ When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that country, and he began to be in need. ¹⁵ So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. ¹⁶ He would gladly have filled himself with the pods that the pigs were eating; and no one gave him anything. ¹⁷ But when he came to himself he said, “How many of my father’s hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! ¹⁸ I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; ¹⁹ I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.” ²⁰ So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. ²¹ Then the son said to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” ²² But the father said to his slaves, “Quickly, bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. ²³ And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; ²⁴ for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!’ And they began to celebrate. ²⁵ “Now his elder son was in the field; and when he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing.²⁶ He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. ²⁷ He replied, “Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he has got him back safe and sound.’ ²⁸ Then he became angry and refused to go in. His father came out and began to plead with him. ²⁹ But he answered his father, “Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. ³⁰ But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!’ ³¹ Then the father said to him, “Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. ³² But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.’ ” 

One of my heroes in preaching is a guy by the name of Tom Long. I have mentioned his name and told his stories more times than I care to admit from this pulpit. But recently, Tom Long has said that a preacher’s job each week is to go on a discovery mission with a particular text. He says the preacher goes into the cave of text with a flashlight, not knowing what we will find there. And when you get into the cave, you’ll find names written on the cave walls. Names like Barbara Brown Taylor, Fred Craddock, Amy-Jill Levine. Names of preachers and teachers who have wandered in the cave of this text before and left their mark on it. And along the way of your own search, you will see something beautiful… but, no that’s not it. You might see rivers flowing underground… but no, that’s not it either.

But then suddenly, out of nowhere, you see the thing that grabs your attention and captivates your imagination. And you say, “Yes, that’s it.” You climb back to the mouth of the cave and there’s your congregation on Sunday morning. You’ve got dirt on your face and flashlight in your hand, and you say, “Come on in here, I have to show you what I’ve found.”

Well, dear People of God, this morning, I want to invite you into the cave of this parable of the Prodigal Son with me. And I have to show you what I’ve found.

When I went wandering in this cave this past week, the first thing I realized is that I wasn’t standing in one cave. I was standing in three. Some of you might remember that in Luke chapter 14, Jesus tells not one parable but three. Back to back. The parable of the Prodigal Son is the third of three parables of Jesus, but they are meant to be held together and taken as a whole. So, if we want to walk around in the parable of Prodigal Son, we have to first walk around in the other two parables.

All the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to Jesus. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling because Jesus eats with those people. So Jesus tells them a parable. Three parables in fact.

The first cave of a parable we wander into is the one about the lost sheep. There is a shepherd with 100 sheep. He knows his sheep. He counts them every day. He never misses a day. Because they are precious to him.  And one day there are only 99. Desperate, the shepherd leaves the 99 alone to fend for themselves and he goes looking for that one lost sheep. And when he finds it, he throws a party.

The parable ends but Jesus isn’t finished. He tells another parable and so we wander into another cave. This time it is the parable of the lost coin. There is a woman who has 10 coins to her name. She counts them every day. She never misses a day. Because they are precious to her. But one day the stack on the table looks just a little shorter than usual. She’s lost one. Panicked, she turns on all the lights, she gets on her knees and sweeps and sweeps and sweeps the floor, searching until she finds that lost coin. And when she does, she throws a party.

The parable ends. But Jesus isn’t finished. Jesus has one more story.

But we’re getting the hang of this. We wander to the next cave. Jesus says, “There once was a man with two sons…” And we know this story. We just heard this same story told two other times. Something gets lost and someone goes to find it. We know this story. The man has two sons. The younger one gets lost in the sea of life, squandering his inheritance and someone goes to find him….right?

And that’s the moment! With this jagged edge jutting out from the wall of this cave, I suddenly hit my head on something in the parable that I didn’t know was always there. Suddenly the thing that grabs my attention and captures my imagination.

The shepherd looked for the sheep. The woman searched for the missing coin. The younger son took his inheritance and left.

But no one went looking for him.

Have you ever noticed that? The younger son is lost but no one goes searching for him. Why? And here’s the thing: I don’t know. I led you all the way into this cave to show this to you, but I don’t know what to do with it. All I know is that this new detail doesn’t work with my old and sort of bored, but also precious, presumption that the father in the story is God. Because if the father represents God, wouldn’t God search and search for God’s child?

What on earth am I supposed to do with the Parable of the Prodigal Son when I realize that no one actually went looking for him. And that realization sends all my compasses spinning and my flashlight burns out, and suddenly I don’t know where I am in this cave anymore. I thought I knew this boring old story. I’ve heard it a hundred times! But suddenly I’m the lost one and have to feel my way out.

And as I do, I start to notice all sorts of new things I never noticed in this cave of a parable.

Did you notice that there aren’t any names in the story? There are only relationships. Father, son, brother. And it is those relationships, those lines of connection that I think are critical to the story.

Did you notice that the younger son, even though he so rudely asked for his inheritance, he still refers to his father as his father. Seven times in the story he refers to their relationship. How many of my father’shired hand still have bread to share. I should go to my father’shouse. I will say to him, “Father…”

The younger son might be lost to the world and to himself, but it sounds like his relationship to his father was not lost. He knew who he was. He was a son. Maybe the father didn’t need to go looking for him because he was never really lost.

Remember the father has twosons. And it is in the middle of the family reunion, the party for when the younger son returned home, that the father looks up from his plate and notices the empty chair across the table from him and a plate full of food untouched.

He glances at the punch table. No, not there.

He turns to the dance floor. No, not there.

Where’s his older son? He could have sworn he was here just a minute ago. Where is he?

And suddenly that sinking feeling sets in.

No one invited his older son to the party. Not even him. This father forgot to count how many sons came home.

And with that awful feeling, like a piece of you is missing, suddenly the father goes searching for the older son. And when he gets outside, the son has turned his back and dug in his heels. Perhaps rightly so.

And then notice what the older brother says and doesn’t say. He says “Listen to me. For all these years I have been working like a slave for you. And I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yourscame back…you killed the fatted calf for him.”

You, he says. You and this son of yours. But me? I am like a slave.

He never names his relationship to his father or his brother. Zero mentions. He isn’t son. He isn’t a brother. He just feels like a slave.

Who is lost here?

What I realized is that the younger brother lost everything but he knew who he was. A son. Meanwhile, the older brother had everything. But he didn’t know who he was. A son.

We can lose everything we have in life, but if we lose who we are – that is what it means to be lost.

And listen to the father’s opening word to him…

Son.

The father names the thing the son won’t name – the relationship. Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours.  But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours – he names the relationship again – this brother of yours was dead and has come to life. He was lost and has been found.”

And just like last week, the parable just ends. We don’t know what happens. Does the older son go into the party with the father? Do the brothers reconcile? We don’t know.

To be honest, I’m still not sure what to do with these discoveries I’ve found in the cave of this text. I’m not sure that I’ve found a way out for us either.

Each character in this story is flawed and in need of God’s grace. I don’t know who I am in this text or who you are or who God is. And I am not sure if that is even the right question to ask. This old parable that I thought I knew has be flipped me upside down. Which is what a parable is supposed to do. Turn us and our assumptions upside down and inside out, so that we are dizzy with the mysteries of God.

We may each have to find our own way out of this one.

All I really know is that the one who told this story is the one who eats with tax collectors and sinners – those whom society loves to ignore and isolate, cutting off the relationship until they will get lost. But Jesus will have none of it, unwilling to allow us to lose our relationships to each other. So, he sits and eats dinner with tax collectors and sinners so that they know who they areand to make the world whole again.

All I really know is that the one who told this story is also the one who week after week comes to each one of us, inviting us inside to feast at the table of grace. So that we will know who we are. A table where he says, “Beloved, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. Come and eat.”

All I really know is that I am hungry for that grace. Amen.

Sunday, March 24th, 2019 – On the Need for Figs, a sermon on Luke 13:1-9

Audio will be posted soon.

Luke 13:1-9
1 At that very time there were some present who told him about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. ² He asked them, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? ³ No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did. ⁴ Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem?⁵ No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.” ⁶ Then he told this parable: “A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. ⁷ So he said to the gardener, “See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?’ ⁸ He replied, “Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. ⁹ If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.’ ” 

A number of years ago, when I was maybe 6 or 7 years old, I can distinctly remember playing on the kitchen floor while my mom sat at the kitchen counter reading the newspaper and eating some M&Ms. But then having developed a bit of a headache, my mom got two pills of Advil for herself. But she didn’t take them right away. She just placed them on the counter and continued reading. So there I am playing on the floor, and there my mom is, at the counter reading, and occasionally reaching over for some M&Ms, when all of a sudden I hear my mom say, “Yech!” as she spits out two pieces of chewed up Advil. You see, M&Ms and Advil have a similar shape and size, and easy to confuse when you are blindly reaching across the counter. But the sweet, melt-in-your-mouth chocolate of an M&M is nothing like the bitter, sickly taste of raw, uncoated medicine.

I’m reminded of this because there is a similar experience from reading this morning gospel. There is some theological chocolate present – comforting, reassuring, maybe even refreshing words, that are very necessary at times. But there is also some theological medicine. Bitter. Hard to swallow. Yet healing. And also very necessary at times. And just when you think you’re getting the chocolate, you unknowingly get some medicine too.

Now it’s fitting that my mom was reading the newspaper in my little trip down memory lane because this morning gospel is, if you have the ears to hear, also a bit like reading the newspaper. Listen.

At that very time there were some present who told Jesus about the Muslims in New Zealand… who, just like those Galileans from long ago, knelt down in prayer in their place of worship only to have their blood spilled by a man born out of and filled with hate and prejudice and white-supremacy and misguided role-models.² Jesus asked them, “Do you think that because these Muslim brothers and sisters suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other people? ³ No, I tell you…

And there is the theological chocolate. A comforting, reassuring word. A promise, once and for all, that people experiencing tragedy, especially people of other faiths, are not getting what they deserve and being punished by God.

Just 10 short days after his son, Alex, died in a car accident, Pastor William Sloan Coffin preached on a Sunday morning at his church in New York. He said this, “The one thing that should never be said when someone dies is “It is the will of God.” Never do we know enough to say that. My own consolation lies in knowing that it was not the will of God that Alex die; that when the waves closed over the sinking car, God’s heart was the first of all our hearts to break.”

Did those faithful Muslim’s in New Zealand deserve what happened to them? Was it God’s will? No. Or those 157 people who were killed when their plane fell from the sky, just like the Tower of Siloam did so long ago—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Ethiopia?Do you think it was God’s will? God’s punishment? No, I tell you…No, Jesus says. It was not God’s will.  In fact, God’s heart was the first to break. That’s the comforting and reassuring word that we must not forget this morning.

But now here comes the bitter theological medicine.

“No, they didn’t deserve it,” Jesus says, “but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did.”

I don’t know about you, but I would like to spit that line right out of the Bible, just like my mother did with those pieces of Advil.

What a bitter and sour turn this Gospel takes in the face of tragedy.

What could Jesus mean by this? In the face of tragedy, Jesus meets us right where he knows we will be. At the “why” question. My God, my God, why has this happened? Which tells us that it is pretty normal and a long-experienced human need to ask that question.

And so Jesus addresses right from the very beginning. Did these people deserve this? Is God punishing them? No. Does that mean we have been especially blessed by God and spared from suffering? No.

Jesus meets us in the “why” questions of suffering.

But Jesus doesn’t want us to get stuck there.

No, they didn’t deserve their suffering. No, they didn’t bring this suffering upon themselves, but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did.

What does could Jesus mean by this?

Remember repentance is about change. Changing the way you are living. Changing the way you think. Changing the way you see the world.

To repent in the face of tragedy is to ask ourselves, “What needs to change? How now shall we live?” We can and should ask the “why” questions – but we cannot get stuck there. Knowing what we know about how fragile and fleeting life can be, how will we respond with our lives?

To illustrate this idea of repentance, this idea of change, Jesus tells this wonderfully complicated and layered parable about a fig tree that just doesn’t produce any fruit.

A man, a vineyard owner, had a fig tree planted in the vineyard. And for three years, three faithful years, he has come out to the tree looking for figs. But…no figs. For three years, this tree has been sucking up resources from the ground, potentially putting the entire vineyard at risk, but not producing any figs. What is a vineyard owner to do?

Heartbroken, angry, disappointed…the man tells the gardener to cut it down.

And can you blame him? I mean, have you ever tried so hard to make something work, and you just don’t know if you should give up? How long do I keep trying to succeed in my field? How long do I keep applying, and applying for my dream jobs only to find no figs on the tree and face rejection, yet again? How long?

How long do we keep fighting for this marriage, Lord? Therapy session after therapy session, year after year, we keep finding no figs. How long? It hurts too much.

How long do I keep bailing out my child from the problems they get themselves into? How long until tough love is necessary?

Can we blame the vineyard owner for wanting to cut down the fig-less tree?

But then, along comes the gardener. The gardener who pleads for one more year. “Sir, leave it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and care for it. ⁹ If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.’”

Now, readers and commentators of the passage have long debated who is whom in this parable. Is God the Father the vineyard owner, ready to swoop in with an angry axe and Jesus is the gardener, the gracious compassionate one who appeases and calms the anger of God? But I think that reinforces this idea of Jesus as this sort of antidote to an overly angry god-figure.

The deeper truth, I think, is that the vineyard owner and the gardener simply reflect the two halves of God’s very own heart.

On the one side, of course God gets angry. God cares and cares and cares for creation, and when God sees the ways we mistreated each other and mistreat the earth… of course God gets angry and wonders what to do with us! Do we think God doesn’t care when we fail to love each other?

And on the other side, of course God longs to give us one more chance. Anyone who has loved anyone knows the feeling. One more year. Maybe they need just one more year. God’s heart is torn in two, when we as God’s people suck up all the resources of grace and mercy and yet fail to produce the fruits of grace and mercy for the world.

Which I guess makes us the fig tree. We don’t like to see the parable that way but maybe just for today, we should. So often as God’s people, we look at the world and we cry out, “How long, O Lord? How long will things be this way?” Well, do you ever think God asks the same question of us? “How long, O my people? How long must I be patient and gracious towards you until you’ll be the blessing to the world I’m promised you would be? How long?”

Preacher Joanna Adams puts it this way, “I want to challenge you with this thought this morning, that both the mercy of God and the impatience of God are a part of the grace of God. Jesus loved the covenant people, and because he loved them, he wanted them to wake up and realize that something was actually expected of them. To be sure, grace often comes in the form of forgiveness and reassurance, but at other times, grace comes as a radical call to bear fruit while there is still time.”[1]

And so, people of God, we have to ask ourselves – where do we need to repent? Where are our branches bare and where do we need to change our lives and the ways we are living for the sake of the world, while there is still time?

Repent, Jesus says. You have what you need. For God’s sake and the world’s sake, produce some figs already. Are we producing figs? Where is our fruit after being cared for with the love of God? How shall we live now?

Well, I can tell you where I’ve seen figs growing recently.

I’ve seen it in a member of this congregation, after learning about the ongoing need for food in our community, showing up at The Key every week with a crockpot full of soup and an invitation. An invitation to come to our community meal here on Wednesday nights. Letting the youth at The Key know…you are welcome at St. John’s. Those are figs on the branch.

I see it in the thousands of youth across our country who bravely see their call not to learn from adults but rather to teach us adults about the threat of climate change and to demand action. Those are figs on the branch.

I see it in the Prime Minister of New Zealand, who less than a week after the shooting at the Mosque, declared that New Zealand will not respond to this violence by arming themselves, but rather by disarming themselves. Remember last week, we learned that Jesus responds to the foxes of the world, the Herods of the world, not by becoming a fox but by becoming a mother hen. With arms stretch out for shelter. New Zealand looks more like a mother hen these days. It took New Zealand less than a week.

Next month, it will be 20 years since Columbine and since high schoolers (including myself back then) waited terrified for the day their school would go into lockdown, and we are still fighting about guns. Still waiting for figs.

And then did you hear that New Zealand also built a wall this week? Not a wall of steel protecting the most powerful but a wall of people protecting the most vulnerable. A wall of non-Muslims surrounding the Mosque during Friday’s prayers to protect their Muslim brothers and sisters.

Finally, figs on the branch.

Those are the figs I see. Where do you see figs finally growing on the branch in our life together? And where do you see our branches empty and taking for granted God’s patience and grace?

This gospel reading is theological comfort and theological medicine all rolled into one bite. Human tragedy isn’t caused by Divine punishment, Jesus says. But with the very fragility and randomness of life right in front of us, how now shall we live? What will we do with our life while there is still time?

Let’s give them another chance, the gardener says. One more year. Maybe this will be the year for figs.

Let us pray. Gracious and merciful God, whose patience goes far beyond our failures, be with us this day that we might repent and turn around. Give us the power and the grace to return to you. Give us the courage to admit what we have done wrong and what we have failed to do right. In this year, come to us, dig around our hearts, open us to your wisdom, your forgiveness, and your grace. Help us to be the fruitful branches on your life-giving tree, so that the world may shout with joy again.[2]Amen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[1]http://www.fourthchurch.org/sermons/2002/062302.html

[2]Adapted from a prayer by Barbara Lundblad. http://day1.org/638-could_this_be_the_year_for_figs