4/3/22 - Brazen Acts of Beauty - John 12:1-11

Brazen Acts of Beauty

John 12:1-11

April 3, 2022

Emmanuel Baptist Church; Rev. Kathy Donley

Irene Smith went to Hollywood with the hopes of becoming a movie star.  She got a few parts and made some connections,  but along the way, she also become a heavy drug user.  Her career as an actress ended when she got so stoned she couldn’t learn her lines.  Looking for work to support her drug habit, she took a job as one of the first topless dances in Southern California.  Things got even worse for Irene in the next years.  She took a job giving massages that led her directly into prostitution.  She became a heroin user. 

Finally, when her weight had dropped to 88 pounds and it became obvious that she was dying, she ended up at three workshops done by Dr. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, the well-known specialist on death and dying.  In those workshops, she discovered and revived the parts of her self that had been deeply wounded in the past.  She said, “by being truly heard, witnessed and forgiven, I gained the tools I needed to continue living.”  At the end of the third workshop, Irene raised her hand to speak.  She announced to the group, “ I’m a prostitute and I’m going to become a massage therapist.”

I’m sure there were people who doubted her.  Probably not out loud, but in their minds, they thought to themselves that they knew exactly what kind of massages she could offer.  But she was bold and determined.  She volunteered to massage people in hospice care.   In 1983, she contacted San Francisco General Hospital.  She talked with the staff about her experiences with hospice and how people with AIDS were deprived of human touch.  She became the first volunteer to do massage therapy with people with AIDS.  She went on to create and direct an internationally acclaimed non-profit that established massage programs for people with AIDS all over the world.[1]   She died on April 4, 2021, almost a year ago today. 

She was brazen, determining to care for others when her own life was a train-wreck.  What she did was beautiful.

Mary of Bethany is also brazen.  In one reckless act, she breaks her precious jar and dumps out expensive perfume.  She lavishes perfume worth a year’s wages on Jesus’ feet in one grand gesture. Then to make things even more cringe-worthy, she unbinds her hair and bends over Jesus’ feet so that she could wipe off some of the perfume with her hair.  She violates all kinds of rules about appropriate behavior. Everyone in the room is suddenly very uncomfortable.  Some probably wonder what kind of relationship she and Jesus actually had.  Others may think that her brother’s recent death and resuscitation had unhinged her. 

You remember Lazarus. He is present, alive at this dinner party.  In fact, his aliveness is a problem.  The authorities, who want to kill Jesus, also want to kill Lazarus because his being alive is evidence of Jesus’ power. 

Maybe Lazarus’ brush with death and Mary’s experience of grief has changed them.  Maybe Mary is more determined to live boldly, to show love to Jesus while he is still alive.  She is aware, perhaps as never before, about the danger he is in, the closeness of death and the preciousness of life. 

What she does is intimate, not sexual, but intimate. Jesus and Mary and Martha and Lazarus have shared meals and meaningful conversation.  They have wept together, been vulnerable together.  Offering her gratitude and devotion and deep love, she is boldly extravagant. 

But not everyone appreciates it.  Judas the treasurer, thinks it is a waste. That much perfume could have provided a lot of food for the poor, he says.   Jesus defends Mary,

“She’s been keeping the perfume for my burial, which could happen any day now.”

I wonder if Mary remembers Jesus weeping at Lazarus’ tomb. I wonder if she wants Jesus to know that she will weep when Jesus dies. Maybe she wants him to know that she will grieve because he means so much to her.

We often celebrate people at their funerals, but sometimes we celebrate them while they’re alive.  Many of you will remember Ken Graham who was a faithful member here for decades.  His adult children planned a celebration for  his 90th birthday.  At his request, they all came to church with him on that day. They gathered from across the country.  He knew that part. The surprise was that in worship that morning they gave a gift to Emmanuel in his honor.  Their gift enabled us to purchase the projector and screen that we use today.  They celebrated his life while he was alive with them. 

Some version of this story is told in every gospel.  In Matthew and Mark, Jesus says that wherever the gospel is proclaimed in the world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.  This action is so important that while it is happening, Jesus tells them to pay attention and remember, so they can tell the story. 

Paul Tillich was a German theologian of the last century. About Mary he said,  “She has performed an act of holy waste growing out of the abundance of her heart. Judas,” Tillich observed, “has his emotional life under control. . . . Jesus knows that without the abundance of heart nothing great can happen. . . . He knows that calculating love is not love at all.”

“The history of humankind,” Tillich continues, “is the history of men and women who wasted themselves and were not afraid to do so. They did not fear to waste themselves in the service of a new creation. They wasted out of the fullness of their hearts.”[2]

Brazen acts of beauty, of love and abundance are all around us.  Some are acts of resistance, like the Ukrainian grandmother who walked up to a Russian soldier. With a few salty words, she gave him sunflower seeds and told him to put them in his pocket.  She said that she looks forward to seeing sunflowers grow when his dead body lies down on Ukrainian soil.   Props to her for creative non-violent resistance. It isn’t exactly beautiful, but definitely brazen.

There was the time when an artist named JR brought people together at the US/Mexico border.[3]  They installed two tables, end to end at the border fence, just for one day.  All day long, people showed up on each side for a picnic.  They enjoyed the same food, the same water, the same music, as half of the band was on each side.  Technically, this was illegal, but it was not shut down.  He called it “Giant Picnic”  Some might call it a waste.  Others a brazen act of beauty.

For over a decade in Houston, someone kept painting this simple message on a bridge “Be Someone.”  Others would paint over it, but then the original street artist would risk climbing the bridge and getting caught to re-paint it, encouraging more commuters, more pedestrians, more Houstonians to “be someone.   

And then, there was the pair of skaters who arrived at the World Figure Skating Championship two weeks ago, without their coach, without costumes. They barely escaped the shelling in Kharkiv.  Three days before hand they changed their music and redid their choreography. 

It begins with them dancing to a song called 1944, which is about Stalin’s deportation of Crimean Tatars.  The second piece is a Ukrainian folk song.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2csIfrSevUI

The standing ovation went on for several minutes.  One fan said, “Maybe it doesn’t look like the strongest performance, but if you understand how they got there, you would wonder how they were able to perform at all.” 

A waste of resources or a brazen act of beauty.  Judge for yourself.

Paul Tillich wrote “Without the abundance and heart, nothing great can happen. Do not suppress in yourselves the abundant heart, the waste of self-surrender. . . . Keep yourself open for the creative moment. Do not suppress the impulse to do what Mary did at Bethany. You will be reproached as she was. But Jesus was on her side and he is also on yours.” [4]

As we respond to Jesus, may we find within ourselves, Mary’s courage and devotion. May we be surprised with beauty and joy.  Amen.

[1] Sherry Anderson and Patricia Hopkins,  The Feminine Face of God, (New York:  Bantam Books, 1991), pp 82-84.

[2] Paul Tillich, “Holy Waste” in The New Being (New York:  Charles Scribners’ Sons, 1955), p. 47-48

[3] https://time.com/4977283/artist-stages-picnic-on-us-mexico-border/

[4] Paul Tillich, “Holy Waste” in The New Being (New York:  Charles Scribners’ Sons, 1955), p. 47

3/27/22 - The Risk of Grace - Luke 15:11-32

Luke 15:11-32

The Risk of Grace

Emmanuel Baptist Church; Rev. Kathy Donley

March 27, 2022

 Image:  New in Christ by Rev. Lauren Wright Pittman

© a sanctified art | sanctifiedart.org

Note: A recording of the worship service in which this sermon was preached may be found here:  https://youtu.be/axiRiW-micQ

Somewhere in America, there lived a man and a woman who had 8 children, 4 sons and 4 daughters.  They lived through some world wars and some local wars and the Great Depression.  The children had enough to eat and clothes to wear, but mostly they grew up in poverty. Eventually they each made their way out into the world.  Almost all of them became successful in their chosen occupations.  None of them became very wealthy, but most were comfortably middle-class.  Back on the farm, the decades went by.  The adult children went home regularly.  They maintained and modernized the place for their aging parents.  One day, the father died of a heart attack.  The mother continued to live there, but neither she nor her husband had been farming for years.  The farmland was rented out to others. She got older and eventually she went to live in a nursing home.  The farm was put into a trust with its income providing care for her for the rest of her life and with the stipulation that when she died, the farm would be sold and evenly divided among her 8 children. 

One of her daughters, Susie, had not done as well as her siblings.  She had made a series of poor choices and never seemed to land on her feet. One day, she went to visit her mother in the nursing home.  She asked her mother to give her a parcel of land from the farm, maybe 100 acres.  Susie planned to farm it herself.  The mother, who had always felt bad for Susie, agreed and signed the papers that Susie had drawn up. Well, of course, the entire farm was now held in trust and what Susie was attempting to do was illegal.  When she tried to file the papers, her siblings found out.  She did not get the farmland she wanted and none of her brothers and sisters ever spoke to her again. 

This could be a true story.  We all know about serious family fights and a lot of them are about money.

Jesus told a story about a family fight.  This story, which is often called the parable of the prodigal son, may be the most well-known of all of Jesus’ stories.   We have heard it interpreted from the father’s point of view, from the younger brother’s point of view, from the experience of the older brother.  I have even seen a few sermons written from the point of view of a mother, whom Jesus doesn’t even mention.  

This story is found in the Bible and so we think it is a story about God.  And maybe it is.  But first, it is a story about a human family in all its messiness.

The messiness starts when the younger brother asks for his inheritance and the father gives it to him. The son might be considered rude or bold to ask for it, but the father definitely looks foolish for giving it to him. Ben Sirach, an influential rabbi from two hundred years before Jesus, counseled “do not give your property to another, in case you change your mind and must ask for it. . . When the days of your life reach their end, at the time of your death, [then]distribute your property.”   (Sirach 33:20, 23)

About the time that the young son has blown through his wad of cash, famine has come to the land.  He has no money to buy food, but less food is available for everyone, undoubtedly driving up prices. So, how much of this should be laid on the father? If he had just said no,  would the younger son have gotten into that predicament?

Amy-Jill Levine, New Testament professor at Vanderbilt, reports that people from different cultures see this differently.  Readers in the United States, the United Kingdom, Australia and South Africa tend to blame it on a combination of bad parenting and personal irresponsibility.  Russian readers point to the famine – there was no food to distribute.  And one Kenyan graduate student said that the real problem was a lack of generosity, that when the young man was hungry in the far country, no one gave him anything.[1]

That’s kind of what happens in the family stories we know, isn’t it? Some parents blame themselves—  they think “if only I had not been so hard on him” or “I should have practiced tough love and just said no.”  Outsiders mutter about permissive parenting and about kids today who just don’t have any respect.

Sometimes, the person in this kind of predicament recognizes their own error and understands that they kind of  brought the problem on themselves.  Sometimes, they are too ashamed to go home or ask for help.  In other cases, they may continue to blame everything and everyone one else.

“I was doing just fine. It would have all worked out if it hadn’t been for the darn famine.”

Or “If my father had just been better at his job, then he would have been wealthier and I would have had a better inheritance.  This is not my fault.” 

You probably know real-life people who blame themselves too much or too little. Parents who are torn up about decisions their children have made.  Siblings who are furious at or indifferent to or grieving for a sister or brother who isn’t around much any more. 

The story gets even messier when the younger brother decides to go home again.  This is the fulcrum, the hinge point of interpretation in the story.  It says that the son came to himself  -- but that statement is neutral.  It could mean a couple of different things.  It could mean that he takes responsibility for his actions, that he is sincerely sorry and wants to make things right with his father and brother. Or it could mean that he realizes he is out of options, except the option which had worked before, which was manipulating his father.

We can read the story either way.  It is really ambiguous.  I have always chosen to read it as if the younger brother is sincerely sorry.  But there are some clues that that might not be the case. First, it says that while he is desperately hungry, he thinks about his father’s servants who have more than they need to eat. When he talks to himself about the situation, it sounds like he resents the servants for having more than they should rightly have, while he, a son and heir, is starving.  It is only when he plans what to say to his father, that he sounds willing to give up his status.[2]

In his planning, he keeps repeating the term “father”, even though he says he is not worthy to be called “son”, He still think of himself as the son of his father. When the two men are reunited, he begins with the word “Father,” not “Sir” or “Lord”. As soon as he speaks the word, he reinstates himself a son, not a hired worker or slave.[3]

Is he sincerely sorry? Who knows? I’m a first-born child.  Are there any other oldest children in the room? How many remember the rules in your house – rules about how late you could stay out, how old you had to be to go to certain movies or before you could spend the night at a friend’s house?  How many remember seeing your parents change the rules for your younger siblings?  Your parents let them do stuff way before you got to.  That’s a familiar dynamic.

Those of us who are older children may more easily see that the younger son may be a classic manipulator. He was able to convince his father to divide up his estate, after all.  Maybe he knows that his carefully planned speech “I have sinned against heaven and earth.  I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” is the exact right thing to say to get his father to welcome him home. 

The father either thinks that his son is sincere or he doesn’t care whether he is.  The father is willing to look foolish, willing to be taken advantage of, for the joy of having his son home again.   

In all the excitement, no one has thought to inform the older brother. As he finishes his chores for the day, he hears the noise of a party.  He only finds out that his brother is home because he asks a servant.  Then, he absolutely refuses to be under the same roof as his long-lost brother.  He knows from experience how his old man indulges him. His kid brother is probably going to ask for something more, for something that now belongs to him, and his dad will probably hand it over as well.  

It is at this point that the father realizes that he has also lost his older son.  The older son’s resentment, which is somewhat justified, has eaten away at their relationship even though he stayed home and worked dutifully all these years. The story ends with a party going on inside while the father is outside pleading with his older son, assuring him of his love and care.

When someone mentions this parable to me, I think “oh that’s the one where the son runs away and the father welcomes him home and all is forgiven.”  I don’t think to myself “that’s the one where you have to make up your own ending.”  But that’s really closer to the truth.  Jesus leaves so much unsaid. What happens next?  Does the older brother reconcile with his father, with his brother? Does the younger brother become a considerate, contributing member of the household?  Or does he hang around long enough to recover and then take off again on another get-rich scheme?  Does the village speak of a wise and generous father, or of an indulgent, gullible fool?    

I’m left wondering what Jesus really intended with this parable. Luke says that he told it because some religious leaders were judging him for the people he was friendly with.  Maybe they thought Jesus was being taken advantage of, that Jesus was the fool.  Maybe this story was Jesus’ way of saying that everyone is invited to the celebration -the ones whose life mission is to do good and those whose only goal is to party hearty.  Maybe he is saying that he knows some people resent him and other people want to take advantage of him, but that is the risk of grace.  Extending grace, trying to include everyone, often ends up pleasing no one.

Trying to bring the family together, going for the joy of reconciliation, of having everyone at the party under the same roof is really hard.  Some one is going to be resentful.  Someone will need admit they were wrong.  Some one may have to forgive.  Some one may end up being duped.

Grace is risky, it is costly, as Bonhoeffer says. You might look foolish. You might be taken advantage of or stabbed in the back. That’s very real.  “But,” Jesus seems to be saying, “it’s worth the risk.  It’s worth the risk for the possibility of joy.  The joy of being found again, of being welcomed home.  It’s worth it for the possibility of joy.

It's worth the risk of meeting your sibling halfway.  Risking their rejection. Offering an apology.  There is a joy that is possible if you cross the threshold and share the space with the one you want to despise. 

Grace is risky.  Grace is costly. Grace can get you killed. But it just might be worth it for the joy. 

[1] Amy-Jill Levine, Short Stories by Jesus, (New York: HarperCollins, 2014), p. 55

[2] Richard Swanson, A Provocation:  Fourth Sunday in Lent, Year C at https://provokingthegospel.wordpress.com/2022/03/20/a-provocation-4th-sunday-in-lent-march-27-2022-luke-151-3-11-32/

[3] Amy-Jill Levine, p. 64.

3/20/22 - Ask a Better Question[1] - Luke 13:1-9

Luke 13:1-9

Ask a Better Question[1]

March 20, 2022

Emmanuel Baptist Church; Rev. Kathy Donley

Image You Are Worthy

by Rev. Lauren Wright Pittman

© a sanctified art | sanctifiedart.org

Note: A recording of the worship service in which this sermon was preached may be found here: https://youtu.be/nz1RoFryPy8

For one semester in seminary, I worked as a student chaplain in a class called Clinical Pastoral Education.  As part of the class, I had to write down a verbatim conversation with a patient and discuss it with my supervisor and others in the class.  One time, there was a patient who was very bored.  He just talked and talked.  I probably spent an hour in his room.  Afterwards, I wrote down everything that I could remember, but I couldn’t remember everything from this very long conversation.   My supervisor pointed out the places in my verbatim where the conversation skipped from one topic to another with absolutely no logic. In at least one case, I remember, the verbatim made me look extremely clueless about one of the patient’s concerns.

I thought about that experience when I read our text from Luke at the beginning of this week.  The parable that starts in verse 6 seems to have little connection to the preceding conversation. I began to wonder if Luke left out something important between verse 5 and verse 6 or if Jesus was clueless about the people’s concerns.  By the end of the week, I had a different sense about it.  I’m always grateful when that lightbulb glows, however dimly, before Sunday.

Jesus in on his way to Jerusalem.  Luke is reporting on various encounters that he has along the way.  The news of this day includes a story about Pilate, the Roman governor, who killed people while they were engaged in worship. The conversation is about current events, but on another level, it is about why bad things happen to good people. That is a big question that most of us still struggle with. 

One popular answer blames the victims.  If those people died in church, then God must have been angry with them.  They must not have been good people after all, and they got what they deserved. That is not my answer, but you hear it all the time.  A natural disaster wipes out an area and some preacher will blame it on the sinfulness of that city.  Someone is killed by the police and the swift judgment is that if they had just complied, nothing bad would have happened.  The fact that they died becomes evidence that they somehow deserved it.

Jesus anticipates that answer.  He brings up another current event – the collapsing of a tower wall that killed 18 people.  He says that the Galileans who were killed by Pilate were no worse than anyone else and neither were those who died in the tower accident. One was a case of human violence, the other probably human construction error.  Jesus seems to be saying, “stuff happens. It’s random.”

But the people want to know why.  Of all the people who offer sacrifices, why did Pilate kill those particular ones?  Why did the tower fall when it did, when those 18 people were caught under it?

They seem to assume a connection between God and violence or between God and suffering. Jesus rejects that premise. Those who died were not worse sinners than anyone else.  There is no correlation between God and violence. God was not punishing the ones who died. That is not how God works. 

Jesus seems to ignore their very pressing “why” questions and tells a story about a fig tree

Pádraig Ó Tuama is an Irish theologian and poet. One of his books is entitled In the Shelter: Finding Welcome in the Here and Now. In that book, he talks about inappropriate questions and the Japanese word “mu” which can mean “un-ask.”  If someone asks a question that is too small, too simplistic, too flat, Ó Tuama points to this word, which is also used in Buddhist practice, to say ‘un-ask’ that question because there’s a better one, a wiser one, a deeper one. [2]

We might imagine the crowd pressing Jesus with their why’s.  Why did the Galileans die?  Why is there so much pain in the world? Why does God allow suffering?  It is as if to all of those whys, Jesus says “mu -- ask a better question.”

He invites them to find a deeper question by telling the parable.  It’s a short story. There’s a fig tree that has not borne fruit for three years.  The owner is tired of waiting for it to produce.  He tells the gardener to cut it down.  The gardener says “Give it more time. Let me give it some extra care and attention. See what happens next year. If it still doesn’t bear figs, then you can cut it down.”   Notice that the gardener doesn’t say that he will cut it down, but that the owner can.

This strange little story is Jesus’ response to the question about God and violence, about why there is so much suffering.  Before he tells it, he says one other curious thing.  He has said that the people who died were just normal people, no better or worse than anyone else, but then he says, “Unless you repent, you will die just as they did.” 

“Unless you repent, you will die just like they did.” What on earth could that mean?  Everyone is going to die, and Jesus just said that those people didn’t die because of something bad they did.  But we should repent?

This is confusing because of how we understand that word which gets translated as repent. We hear repent and we think “be sorry.”  We hear repent and we think “confess your sins.” 

Metanoia is the Greek word that gets translated “repent” in English.  Metanoia can be broken down into two parts.  Meta is a preposition that can mean with or after or beyond.  Noia is related to the verb to think and to the noun for mind.  When you put them together, the word metanoia refers to a changed mind, a new way of seeing things, being persuaded to adopt a different perspective.[3]  Marcus Borg says that “to repent is to go beyond the mind that you have.”[4]  This is the kind of change of mind that results in a change of behavior.

So, when Jesus calls for repentance, he is not asking people to be sorry.  He is asking them to let their minds be transformed, to go beyond their conventional understanding of what life with God is like. 

A conventional understanding of God – in Jesus’ day and now – is that God is out to punish people, that God inflicts suffering, that people get what they deserve.  If we hear the fig tree story with a conventional understanding, we might think that God is like the vineyard owner who wants to chop down the unproductive tree. 

But Jesus says “ask a better question.  Change your mind.” 

What if God is not like the vineyard owner, looking to maximize production, striking down unfruitful trees?  What if God is like the gardener?  What if God is the one who is willing to wait with care and patience for the tree to bear fruit in its own time?

There is not a straight line between the people’s concerns and Jesus’ story, but I think that Jesus is trying to help them break free of simplistic answers, of quick judgments that burden us and each other. 

Productivity is one of those burdens.  Like the fig tree, we are often measured by how much we do.  Sometimes it is the only standard by which we evaluate ourselves.  Some people, at the beginning of the pandemic lockdown could not stand to be idle.  So, they cleaned house from top to bottom, they painted rooms and fixed things that they had been too busy to do for years. When all the usual outlets for productivity had been taken from them, they created new ones.  Because if they don’t produce, their inherent value, their self-understanding, is called into question.

Other people did not undertake those projects, but now, two years later, they regret it.  “I should have done more” they say.  Never mind that they were coping with a traumatic event felt all over the world – they think should have something to show for it.

 I have a friend who seems to be functioning just fine in terms of outward appearances.  His boss is satisfied with his work.  His relationships with friends and family have endured.  But he has been forcing himself to work, to produce, to keep caring for others, for a long time now. What he needs is rest, what he needs is grace, but he tells himself that he is lazy, that other people are doing more than he is.  He is like the vineyard owner warning himself that if he doesn’t bear fruit, he deserves to be cut down. 

He needs metanoia.  He needs the transformation of mind that says he is worthy of tender care just as he is. 

“Let your mind be transformed,” Jesus says.  “There is not a correlation between God and suffering.  You insist on dividing the world up into good and bad people. You separate yourself from those who are suffering by thinking that you are not like them, and maybe even subconsciously you think that they must deserve it.  And then when you suffer, as everyone does, you think that you must deserve it.  So, you try harder and feel worse. And that way of thinking is diminishing your life.  It is killing you.”   

So, ask a different question.  Ask what kind of tending you need to come back to life.  Ask what you need, how much digging around your roots and piling on of manure you are willing to receive so that you can flourish.

God does not send suffering to punish us.  The Galileans who died were no worse sinners than anyone else.  But sometimes, we do learn from our suffering. God does not cause our suffering in order to teach us, but sometimes we learn from it. Experience changes our minds more powerfully than anything.  It can make us more tender and caring, more open to each other.  It can bring us into solidarity with each other. 

The Rev. Larissa Kwong Abazia is a Presbyterian pastor in New Jersey. She notes that the fig tree is in the midst of a vineyard.  The main focus here is cultivating grapes, not figs.  She says “Many of us [who are people of color] experience the world as a fig tree in the midst of grape vines. We are placed in fields not meant for us and yet expected to thrive. People discount and doubt us, threatening to cut us down if we don’t produce in the ways that have been defined on our behalf. We are afterthoughts demanded to bear fruit or be destroyed.”[5]

The metanoia Jesus invites us to releases us from judgment.  It removes the burden of productivity from our shoulders. And it also changes our perspective on other people.  When we are more gracious with ourselves, we can be more gracious with others.  We can stop rushing to judgment and consider the complexity of individual circumstances. It goes back to something else Jesus said, “love your neighbor as you love yourself” Or learn to love yourself so that you can learn to love your neighbor in the same way.

Allow your mind to be changed, so that everyone has an opportunity to thrive. Ask a wiser question, a deeper question, a truer question.  Learn the art of patient, hope-filled tending. Live life to the brim.

[1] This title and organizational framework of this sermon come from a wonderfully provocative essay by Debi Thomas. https://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/2130-ask-a-better-question

[2]Pádraig Ó Tuama  In the Shelter: Finding a Home in the World (London:  Hodder and Stoughton, 2015) , p. 110

[3] Matt Skinner, Commentary on Luke 13:1-9, Working Preacher,  https://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2789

[4] Marcus Borg, Jesus: Uncovering the Life, Teachings and Relevance of a Religious Revolutionary, (New York:  HarperCollins, 2006), pp. 219-220.

[5] Larissa Kwong Abazia, Full to the Brim Sermon Planning Guide, Full to the Brim Lenten Resource, A Sanctified Art © 2022 https://sanctifiedart.org/full-to-the-brim-lent-bundle-year-c

3/13/22 - Ferocious Love - Luke 13:31-35

Luke 13:31-35

Ferocious Love

March 13, 2022

Emmanuel Baptist Church; Rev. Kathy Donley

Image:  Hen and chicks mosaic  in the Church of Dominus Flevit  on the Mount of Olives overlooking Jerusalem

Note: A recording of the worship service in which this sermon was preached may be found here: https://youtu.be/Tx6OAaCtNrY

How often did Jesus get angry?  There was that one time, when he seemed to blow his stack, turning over the tables in the Temple. I tend to think of that as a one-time kind of thing, but I wonder. 

I shared a meme this week that says “My alone time is for your safety.”  I remember that Jesus was always going off alone to pray.  I mean, if I had to explain the same things over and over again to twelve guys who never seemed to get it, my mood might occasionally rise to a boil.  Maybe Jesus’ alone time was for prayer and for their safety. 

How often did Jesus get angry?  We don’t really know. Maybe we like to think it was just the one time, with the tables in the Temple.  And maybe we like to think that he wasn’t even angry that day, maybe he was calmly carrying out a planned piece of civil disobedience.  That might be true.  But it might be that we don’t like to imagine Jesus as angry, because we think that anger is inappropriate or sinful. 

I’m here to say that I believe Jesus is angry in today’s text.

Some people come to warn him about Herod Antipas. This Herod is the son of Herod the Great.  Herod the Great reigned when Jesus was born. It was for fear of him that Joseph and Mary fled to Egypt with baby Jesus.  Herod Antipas is one of Herod the Great’s younger sons. He wasn’t the first choice as heir, but since Herod the Great executed three of his older sons, Antipas inherited a part of Herod the Great’s kingdom and become the ruler of Galilee.  Israel was a client state, subservient to Rome, which meant that Antipas only held his position as long as he was pleasing to the Roman emperor.

Antipas came from a dysfunctional, violent family.  He may have had an inferiority complex, may have felt a little diminished with a territory much smaller than his father’s. Being under the emperor’s thumb, he might have felt a need to prove himself.  People who have power and a need to prove themselves can be dangerous.

Antipas has already beheaded John the Baptist. This is a credible threat.  So the people say “Jesus, get out of here. Herod Antipas is after you.  He wants you dead.” 

But Jesus says, “No, you get out of here.  And you can tell that fox something for me.”

Jesus is angry.  “Go tell that fox” means “go tell that so-and-so.”  “Go tell that no-good murderer.”

One scholar suggests that in the world of Palestinian metaphors, lions and foxes can be contrasted with each other.  To call a ruler a lion is to suggest that they are great and purposeful and principled, but to call them a fox implies that they are worthless and degenerate.[1]  Especially given Antipas’ background, we might hear Jesus saying, “Go tell that insignificant poser, go tell that pompous pretender, that I don’t have time for him. Not today, Herod, not today!”

Maybe there is a scenario in which Jesus might have said that without anger, but I don’t think so.

Four chapters earlier, Luke reported that Jesus had set his face to go to Jerusalem. He has already told his followers twice that he expects to die there, but they don’t understand. Jesus’ mission, to free people from illness and evil, is urgent and has a time limit.  He is going to Jerusalem, like the ancient prophets before him. He expects to be killed there, as many of them were. 

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote that “the prophet is a person who holds God’s love as well as God’s anger in his soul.” [2] Love and anger.  Isn’t that interesting?  I tend to think of the prophets as angry, always ranting about injustice. Maybe the prophets were loving. I tend to think of Jesus as loving.  Maybe Jesus is angry.  Maybe love and anger go together more often than we usually acknowledge. 

Andrew Lester was a professor of pastoral care at my seminary.  In his book, The Angry Christian, he said that there’s a common notion that anger is always sinful and that spiritually mature people never get angry.  He says the opposite is true, arguing that “in many situations, anger is the most loving and, therefore, the most Christian response. Rather than squelching our anger,” he suggests “the commandment to ‘love your neighbor as yourself’ should often motivate us to be angry.”[3]

Being angry can be holy, but our expression of it can be destructive.  What we do with our anger is often sinful, and that is why, we may prefer to think of Jesus as never angry.

Many psychologists describe anger as a secondary emotion. Some other emotion triggers anger. A teenager stays out past curfew and the parent worries about their safety.  The parent is afraid, but when the teenager comes breezing in, the parent is angry.  They are angry because they were afraid. They were afraid because they love the child.  Their anger is secondary to fear and to love.

What underlies Jesus’ anger here?  It seems to be profound sadness.   He says to Jerusalem, “how often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings and you were not willing.”   Jesus has work to do, work that would gather God’s children closer and closer together in safety and peace, but his time is running out and the children are not cooperating.  His anger comes because he loves Jerusalem and he is unbearably sad.  When he reaches Jerusalem, he will weep loudly over it. He will ugly cry for the city and its people.

Herod Antipas, and others like him, endanger the chicks that Jesus would protect. When a fox gets loose in a henhouse, it is often kills more prey than it can consume, leaving wanton destruction behind.  Herod, that fox, represents the dangerous, predatory evil of empire.

Jesus is angry at that destruction, just as you and I are angry when we see people taking shelter in their basements night after night or children walking across borders with tears running down their faces. Jesus lets his anger show, but he doesn’t let it carry him away.  In fact, his anger seems to become fuel to continue to energize his mission.  “Go tell that fox that I am working here – casting out demons and curing people.”  He is proclaiming the reign of God fully, all the way to the end.   He proclaims it on his own terms, with anger and with love, but never with violence.

Jesus does not approach Jerusalem like a fox, but like a mother hen, whose chicks will not come home to her. 

The mother hen puts her body between her chicks and danger. She will give her life to protect them from destruction.

Jesus the mother hen is determined to go to Jerusalem, where he will take up his cross.  About the cross, preacher Barbara Brown Taylor says, “It may have looked like a minor skirmish to those who were there, but that contest between the chicken and the fox turned out to be the cosmic battle of all time, in which the power of tooth and fang was put up against the power of a mother’s love for her chicks.  And God bet the farm on the hen.”

“Depending on who you believe,” Taylor says, “she won.  It did not look that way at first, with feathers all over the place and chicks running for cover. But as time went on, it became clear what she had done.  She had refused to run from the foxes, and she had refused to become one of them.  Having loved her own who were in the world, she loved them to the end.  She died a mother hen, and afterwards, she came back to them with teeth marks on her body to make sure they got the point:  that the power of foxes could not kill her love for them . . . They might have to go through what she went through in order to get past the foxes, but she would be waiting for them on the other side, with love stronger than death.” [4]

Angry at oppression and evil,  loving of all God’s children, even those who wanted to stone and kill him, Jesus the mother hen gave his own body, his own life. Even from the cross, he would gather us under wing.

Beloved ones, this is the Christ we follow.  May God’s love dwell so deep in our hearts that it makes us angry when the world that God loves is threatened.  May that anger empower us to speak and act to make that love known.  In the name of Jesus, who longs to gather us and all God’s children to himself. Amen.

[1] https://www.jerusalemperspective.com/2667/

[2] Abraham J. Heschel, The Prophets, (New York: HarperCollins, 1962),  p. 400

[3] Andrew D. Lester, The Angry Christian: A Theology for Care and Counseling, (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 2003)  p. 206

[4] Barbara Brown Taylor, “Chickens and Foxes “ in Bread of Angels  (Boston:  Cowley Publications, 1997), p.126.

3/6/22 - Beloved is Where We Begin[1] - Luke 4:1-13

Beloved is Where We Begin[1]

Luke 4:1-13

March 6, 2022

Emmanuel Baptist Church; Rev. Kathy Donley

Image:  Christ in the Wilderness - Ivan Kramskoy, 1872

Note: A recording of the worship service in which this sermon was preached may be found here:   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x778wnuY79U

Sometimes I hang out with other pastors on social media.  We can sustain lengthy conversations on seemingly minor topics. That probably comes as no surprise to you.  Last week, I saw at least three different threads on the question of the words Protestant pastors were going to say while imposing ashes on Ash Wednesday. Sounds riveting, doesn’t it?

The tradition of Ash Wednesday is only about 1000 years old.  Many Protestant churches abandoned it altogether believing it to belong too much to the Roman Catholic Church. However, in the conversations I was seeing this week, for some Protestant pastors, if you are leading an Ash Wednesday service, you had better well stick with the traditional language. The traditional words “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return” are a reminder of our mortality. Being reminded that we have just one precious life to live on earth is a way of encouraging us to live well every day of that life. That is a good reminder and I often use those words.

The minor kerfuffle I saw on social media happened because people wanted to keep the tradition of Ash Wednesday, with its focus on sin and mortality, and they also wanted to speak about the love and grace of God. A number of folks found other words to say, but some could not bring themselves to offer anything other than “you are dust and to dust you shall return.” 

If you were present on Ash Wednesday at Emmanuel, you heard “Remember that you are beloved and to love you shall return.”   I started saying that the year that Ash Wednesday fell on Valentine’s Day. Sometimes I say something else, but when I speak about being loved, it is not to shy away from thinking about our mortality. I offer them because of a Biblical precedent.

Every year, on the first Sunday in Lent, the gospel reading assigned by the lectionary is the story of Jesus’ 40 days in the wilderness. Matthew, Mark, and Luke are the gospel writers that tell us about this time in the wilderness. They also tell us about the event that came right before, which was Jesus’ baptism. And you remember that when Jesus was baptized, there was a voice from heaven which said, “You are my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.” 

Those words are ringing in Jesus’ ears, settling into his soul, as the Spirit leads him into the wilderness. If Lent is in some sense, our own wilderness journey, then it seems appropriate to me that we are launched with a similar affirmation. “Know that you are Beloved and to love you shall return.”

In the wilderness, Jesus prays and fasts for 40 days. Then, hungry, and alone, in the glare of the sun by day and the desert cold at night, he considers his options: how will he accomplish the most good in his one precious life.   He could turn stones into bread and feed scores of hungry people. He could accumulate political influence and rule with justice. He could demonstrate his super-spirituality, his intimate connection with God by throwing himself from the top of the Temple, because he and God are so tight that God will save him. Any or all of those things could be good, because they would bring more people to God. 

And so, the voice in his ear says “Since you are the Son of God, why not? That voice from heaven just said it. You are the Son of God. Why not act like it?”

Jesus is tempted to do good things, but at a cost. The cost is taking the shortcut, the easy path, aligning himself with the devil or with conventional power.

Jesus is tempted to do good on his own terms. So are we. There is so much goodness and beauty in life. The world is full to the brim, as our theme says, with possibilities. We want to experience all that life has to offer. We don’t intentionally choose the most difficult path, but we know that the best, most abundant life often results when we make the harder choice.  Reaching for the shortcut, the quick fix often requires us to abandon a more profound, deeper value.

The deepest temptation that Jesus faces is to compromise his baptismal identity, to be who he was not called to be, to be something less than, other than, God’s Beloved Child.

This is our temptation as well. Genesis tells us that it has been so from the beginning. Adam and Eve were made in God’s image, but the serpent told them they could be like God if they ate the forbidden fruit. So they reached for the shortcut, the easy fix, instead of trusting God and tending the garden as they were created to.   To be like God is tempting only when we forget that we already bear God’s image.

Sometimes we sin by thinking too highly of ourselves, making it all about ourselves, our wants and needs and goals. But when we don’t think highly enough of ourselves, that is also sin.  If we devalue ourselves and let others define our roles, then we are not trusting the God who created us in God’s own image.

Jesus is already like God. God has claimed him as Beloved.

The temptation is to be something other than that, something less than that. The temptation is to prove it. Jesus refuses. Matt Fitzgerald, a pastor in Chicago, says that “by refusing to practice human power, Jesus made himself vulnerable to human power.”[2]  Jesus’ vulnerability is paradoxically his strength.

Jesus refuses to practice human power. He won’t turn stones into bread.  He won’t form an alliance that puts him at the top of a political ladder.  He won’t market himself with sensationalism by throwing himself off tall buildings. He refuses to practice human power, refuses to be cowed or silenced by human power, and in the process makes himself vulnerable to human power.

If that isn’t clear, let me offer a very contemporary example.  Elena Kovalskaya was the director of a State Theatre and Cultural Center in Moscow. She resigned her position in protest against the invasion of Ukraine.  She did this after the governmental Department of Culture warned that any negative comments would be considered treason. She did not go quietly. On international social media, she said that she would not work for Putin, whom she called a murderer and be on his payroll.[3]  If she were playing by the rules of human power, she would have kept her mouth shut and kept her job security. She would have betrayed her principles in order to save her own life.  By quitting her job and broadcasting the reasons for it, she refused to be controlled and left herself very vulnerable to severe punishment or even death. You have probably heard stories of many others exercising the same choice in Russia or Ukraine just now.  Elena is far from the only one. She was just one of the first I heard about. Jesus’ temptations are very human temptations, and his ultimate choice is one available to all of us.

Jesus rejects the short-cuts, the quick fixes offered in the desert, but those opportunities to do good come to him again in due time. He refuses to turn stones into bread, but he does feed many, many hungry people. He refuses political power on the Tester’s terms, but he will speak truth to power proclaiming God’s reign of justice and peace over and over again. He refuses to jump off the temple to demonstrate faith, but he will go to the cross confident in God. [4]

After forty days, the Tester departs, to return again at an opportune time.   Jesus refuses to practice human power. It is an exercise of radical freedom, but it leaves him vulnerable to human power. We know this story leads to a cross. And there, when Jesus is most diminished, most depleted, most vulnerable, the temptation comes again.

As he is being executed between two men, one of them says “Since you are the Son of God, save yourself and us.” (Throw yourself down from here, Jesus. What good is it to be the Son of God if you don’t use the power?)

The man on the other side says, essentially, “do not put God to the test.”

The second one also says “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”  While he is most diminished, most depleted, most vulnerable, Jesus refuses to grasp for human power, but confidently replies “Today you will be with me in Paradise.”

It begins with Beloved. The journey to the cross begins with Jesus’ baptism, with the pronouncement “This is my Beloved.”  The overflowing love of God, the knowledge deep within him that he is profoundly loved, that nothing, not scorn, not rejection, not violence, not even death, nothing can separate him from that love, sustains him and enlivens him with courage and power that will endure forever.

Beloved ones, do you hear it? We are created in the image of God and claimed in baptism as God’s very own. We are profoundly loved and empowered to live life to the brim, full of freedom, courage, and power. May it be so for you and for me. Amen.

[1] The sermon title was taken from a blessing of the same name by Jan Richardson, which was used as the benediction at the end of worship. https://paintedprayerbook.com/2016/02/11/lent-1-beloved-is-where-we-begin/

[2] Matt Fitzgerald in Feasting on the Gospels, Luke, Volume1, Cynthia Jarvis and E. Elizabeth Johnson, editors, (Louisville:  Westminster/John Knox Press, 2014), p. 97.

[3] https://northeastbylines.co.uk/russian-theatre-says-no-to-war/

[4] Sharon Ringe, in Feasting on the Word, Year C, Volume 2 David Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, general editors, (Louisville:  Westminster/John Knox Press, 2009), p. 49.

2/27/22 - Courage and Humility - Luke 6:39-45

Courage and Humility

Luke 6:39-45

February 27, 2022

Emmanuel Baptist Church; Rev. Kathy Donley

Note: A recording of the worship service in which this sermon was preached may be found here:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhcJwFOfX7A

A mother went to a famous spiritual teacher for help with her son. "My son has horrible eating habits," she said. "He will listen to you if you tell him to stop eating foods with so much sugar."  The Teacher listened sympathetically. "I ask that you come back next week and ask me again."

The mother agreed and returned seven days later. "My son’s problem continues," she said. "I am concerned about his health. He rarely eats any fruit or vegetables.

 Please, won’t you talk to him about the danger of eating too much sugar?"

"Please, come back and see me in a week," the Teacher said simply. Though the mother was disappointed, she left and returned one week later. Once again she made her plea. This time the Teacher agreed to talk with her son.

When the conversation was done, the mother thanked the Teacher. " I am grateful that you took the time to talk to my son, but I don’t understand why it took three requests for you to do so."

The Teacher looked at the woman and said, "I didn’t realize how hard it would be for me to give up sugar."

We are at the end of our reading of the Sermon on the Plain. Today’s reading begins with a concern for  teaching and learning, with the responsibilities and pitfalls of each.  Those who would teach others are encouraged to maintain humility

You cannot teach what you do not know, and no one knows everything, so the wise teacher may take three weeks (or more)  to learn something themselves before attempting to instruct others. 

The sermon is sort of a tag-team effort by Jesus and Luke.  Jesus taught the principles of this sermon over and over again as he roamed through Galilee.  Luke gathered together what he thought were the most important pieces and compiled them into one sermon here at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry.  We can surmise that because Mark and Matthew also include some of the same teachings, but they describe them in other contexts in Jesus’ ministry. In this sermon, Jesus is speaking to the crowds in general, but also specifically to those who will carry on his ministry.  Luke writes his gospel about 50 years after Jesus’s lifetime and he is careful to preserve Jesus’ teachings especially for those who will convey them to the next generation.  

That well-known saying about taking the log out of your own eye so that you can see to remove the speck from someone else’s eye is true, but also supposed to be funny. Many of us have a tendency to exaggerate the faults of other people and minimize our own.  Jesus turns that around and invites us to laugh at our selves, so that we don’t fall into the trap of thinking we have it all together. 

Jesus warns that the blind should not lead the blind. It’s an unfortunate metaphor from a time that was less aware of ableism. What he means is that an uninformed teacher can easily lead astray an uninformed student. People who would lead others have a responsibility to attend to themselves, to intentionally examine and know themselves, because we are teaching matters of truth and spirit. 

Larry and John are both well-respected, mature teachers in their church. One time, they led a church retreat together. Larry happens to be physically blind. He lost his sight before he was 10. One evening he and John went for a walk, just the two of them. As they moved away from the lights of the retreat center, it got darker and darker until John could not see a thing. Larry asked if John would trust him to guide them. John agreed.

Larry upped the ante and asked if they could start with a trust fall. Would John fall backwards and trust Larry to catch him? John did fall and Larry did catch him. Then they continued on the walk with Larry in the lead, and contrary to Jesus’ prediction, they did not fall into a pit. [1] Larry was used to navigating safely without the use of his sight.

This story illustrates the dangers of taking things too literally. It also manages to illustrate Jesus’ point. You want your leader to be someone who knows the terrain, someone who has been down the path that you’re on now. And in John’s case, when he needed to get home safely in the dark, Larry knew things John didn’t. John had the humility to recognize that Larry was his best guide and the courage to trust him.

Jesus says that trees are known by their fruit. What is on the inside of a person (their thoughts and goals and motivations) will likely be revealed by their speech and actions. This is a standard for everyone – the quality of our discipleship is measured by integrity between what is internal and what is external. It is also a warning to be careful about the teachers we follow. If someone claims to be following Jesus, claims to be teaching others how to love like Jesus loved, but the outcome of their beliefs is shame and anger and division, then we are wise to question those beliefs.

If we would truly follow Jesus, then just listening is not enough. He ends the sermon with the stress that those who follow him faithfully will hear his words and act on them.

We build our lives on the foundation of his teachings. We remember from the last few weeks that those teachings include God’s complete disregard for human categories of worthiness and Jesus’ dismantling of social hierarchies to bring everyone to a level place. We might remember his hard teachings about loving enemies and facing persecution.

Spiritual formation occurs when we know those things and we practice them. We have the humility to recognize our inadequacies, the log in our eye, and the courage to act anyway.

The parable at the end of the sermon uses the metaphor of a storm. The storm reveals the strength of the foundation. It is one thing to talk about loving enemies during peace-time; another thing altogether when war breaks out.  It is one thing to speak of blessings when all is going well; the real test comes in crisis or calamity.

Like you, I have watched the news from Ukraine this week with deep concern but also with admiration for the courage of the Ukrainian people. I have learned some things about Baptists in Ukraine. Protestants make up about 2% of the population and Baptists fall within that 2%, but Ukraine has the largest concentration of Baptists in Europe.

In 2014, when Russia occupied some western areas of Ukraine, Baptist churches in those areas were officially declared terrorist organizations as was the Baptist Union of Ukraine. The Baptist Hymnal was outlawed as extremist material. More than 40 churches were forced to shut down or go into hiding. 

In spite of that persecution, over the last 5 years, Baptists poured $2 million dollars into aid relief and community development in those disputed territories.  While being labelled terrorists, they planted 25 new churches in those areas.

In the last few weeks, Baptist churches across the country have stocked up on food and supplies and gasoline. They have prepared to be centers of refuge in the chaos and confusion of war. Pastors are not fleeing, but are determined to care for those in need around them.[2]   Blessed are those who hear Jesus’ words and act on them.  God grant them wisdom and courage for the living of these days.

Anthony Ray Hinton was in Albany this week and several of us got to hear him speak. When he was 29 years old, Mr. Hinton was convicted for crimes he did not commit. The structural racism that sent him to death row was evident at every level, from the arresting officers to the negligence of his attorney to the judges who refused to hear the merits of his case. It was not subtle. It was blatant. He spent 30 years on death row until the US Supreme Court finally overturned his conviction.

I cannot think of a person who demonstrates more faithful courage and humility than Mr. Hinton. After he had been in prison for many years, a lawyer offered to try to get a plea deal. In this deal, the state of Alabama would reduce his sentence to life without parole in exchange for a guilty plea. Facing execution, Mr. Hinton said that he could never say that he did something he did not do. He would not lie, would not be false to himself, even to save his life. That’s courage.

He has a story to tell and he tells it over and over again.  It is a story of unmitigated, intentional injustice and abuse of power. And yet, he does not tell the story with the arrogance of one who has been there and knows it all. He tells it courageously and openly.

He describes the victory of having finally won his release, but also the trauma that he carries from 30 years in captivity. After his release, he couldn’t sleep in a regular bed. He spent the first two nights on a bathroom floor, sleeping on a bath mat because the bathroom was more like the size of his cell.  In a recent interview, he said that he now has a king-sized bed, but he still sleeps with his knees up in a fetal position. He still wakes at 2:45 every morning because for 30 years, breakfast was at 3:00 a.m.[3] He says that people think he is fine, but he is not. That’s humility.

While he was in prison, he formed relationships with others on Death Row – on 54 occasions, someone was marched past his cell to the execution chamber. One of them was Henry. Henry was a lifelong racist, a card-carrying member of the Klan. He was the last person executed in Alabama for lynching a black man. He committed that crime at age 19, following orders from his father.

Mr. Hinton became friends with Henry. The man locked up simply because of the color of skin chose to be friends with someone who would have killed him for being black. He said that to survive there, he had to become family with those in prison around him and they had to become family with him. It didn’t matter who you were or what you had done when you all lived a few feet away from an electric chair.  Can you imagine? I cannot.

On the day of his death, it was Mr. Hinton that Henry wanted to accompany him, to bear witness. Of course, that was not allowed. Before his execution, Henry made a statement. His last words were “All of my life, my father, my mother, my community, taught me to hate. The very people that they taught me to hate are the very people that taught me how to love. And tonight, as I leave this world, I leave knowing what love feels like.”[4] 

One of the things that Mr. Hinton says about that is “God allowed me to go to prison . . . God allowed me to go to prison, so that I could teach Henry how to love.” 

In solidarity with Jesus, may we be found in such good company as those in Ukraine, as Anthony Ray Hinton. May God grant to us wisdom and trust, courage, and humility for the living of our days. Amen.

[1] https://liturgy.slu.edu/8OrdC022722/reflections_foley.html

[2] https://christiancitizen.us/what-does-the-russian-invasion-of-ukraine-mean-for-religious-minorities/?fbclid=IwAR1OOie7xaBVk5VonU2K_MHF9gK0snACUv7QsIOyv15xyMVOQxa7DJSPFCY

[3] https://youtu.be/0XqdJrmLnog

[4] https://youtu.be/NaTpwqPrS0s

2/20/22 - To You That Listen - Luke 6:27-38

To You That Listen

Luke 6:27-38

February 20, 2022

Emmanuel Baptist Church; Rev. Kathy Donley

Note: A recording of the worship service in which this sermon was preached may be found here: https://youtu.be/ZaxD8Z57G7A

Last week, we heard the first part of this extended teaching called the Sermon on the Plain. We heard Jesus bless the poor and warn the rich and single out for a special blessing those who would suffer persecution for following him.  Today, the teaching continues, but now Jesus addresses “you who will listen.” 

To those who will listen, Jesus says “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.”  This is one of Jesus’ hardest teachings. No doubt about it. 

To you that listen today, I offer two stories.

The first one comes from the Rev. Fred Craddock. Dr. Craddock was a world-renowned preacher.  He was a professor of preaching from 1979-1994 at Chandler School of Theology in Atlanta.  I had the good fortune of hearing him lecture when he came to my seminary shortly before his retirement.  When he retired from being a professor, he planted a church in an area of great poverty in northern Georgia.

Cherry Log Christian Church was formed on Easter Sunday, 1997.  Everyone seemed to have a good time that day, Craddock said, except one man.  That man had an objection to register. Craddock asked him what it was and he said, “The Scripture you read.  That was a bad choice.”

Craddock said, “Well, those were the words of Jesus.” 

And the man said, “Well, there are a lot of words in the Bible that are out of keeping with the spirit of our time. It’s just out of touch. What people expect of the church now-a-days is not a lot of talk about cross-bearing and loving enemies, they want to come to church to feel better, be part of a group that will help them be successful. In a case or two, maybe some therapy, but otherwise, we get together to mutually enjoy each other, so knock off the ‘ought’ and ‘must’ and ‘should.”

Craddock said, “Why?’

The man said, “It sets the bar too high. If you keep doing it, you’ll never have a church. . .. Don’t be out of touch with the spirit of the time.”[1]  

“Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you.”

This is incredibly hard work. Those of us who read Stride Toward Freedom last month were reminded of the enormous, sustained discipline it took for the black residents of Montgomery to continue to love their enemies.  That love was evidenced in the way they framed the issue.  The goal was never to humiliate or defeat white people (their identified enemy), but to defeat the unjust practices in the bus system. It was demonstrated when there was no retaliation for the bombings of several leader’s homes, and again, when the Supreme Court ruled that Alabama’s segregation on buses was unconstitutional. When they had won, they did not gloat.  Instead, they lovingly prepared to resume riding the buses with care to extend courtesy to white passengers and drivers, the courtesy that had never been extended to them.

“Love your enemies” is probably Jesus’ hardest teaching.  It is important that we understand what Jesus is actually saying.  He is not suggesting that people should overlook the harm done by our enemies and pretend that it doesn’t matter in the name of just loving them.  His examples of turning the other cheek and walking the second mile – these are actions which highlight the insult and injury, the lack of human dignity being inflicted upon the oppressed person.  If you treat someone who is your enemy like that, if you hold up a mirror to them, they might not like what they see and they may take it out on you even more.  This is a risky, radical kind of love. 

It is not the kind of love that can be exercised by someone who is being abused and cannot escape. Turning the other cheek has been used to justify putting up with violence in the name of love.  That is absolutely not what Jesus means here.  If that is something you question, please, please talk with me about it. 

We have one word for love in English. We might love pizza or a pet or a spouse or a child or a best friend.  The same word ‘love’ is used to describe the bond with chocolate cake and a life partner.  Greek, on the other hand, has at least three words for love. One is eros, which has come to mean erotic or romantic love. When Jesus says, “love your enemies”, he does not say “seduce your enemies; start up a romantic relationship with them”.

Another love is philia, like the city Philadelphia. It means affection between personal friends.  It is a love that is reciprocated.   Jesus does not say “become friends with your enemies.”   What he says is “agape your enemies”.  Agape is sometimes called unconditional love.  Agape is the overwhelming love of God in John 3:16, the love which compels God to send the Beloved One into the world.

Martin Luther King said this about agape, “Agape . . .is an overflowing love which is purely spontaneous, unmotivated, groundless, and creative. It is not set in motion by any quality or function of its object. It is the love of God operating in the human heart.  Agape is disinterested love. It is a love in which individuals seek not their own good, but the good of their neighbors Agape does not begin by discriminating between worthy and unworthy people, or any qualities people possess. It begins by loving others for their sakes.”[2]

You do not love your enemies in order to get them to stop hurting you. You do not love them to convert them into being your friends.  You love them while they are hostile.  You love them, Jesus says, because you are children of the Most High and God is kind to the ungrateful and the wicked.  “Love your enemies and do good to them because that’s the way God treats enemies. God loves and does good to those who hate and curse and abuse God.”[3]

That is a high bar.  Probably out of touch with the spirit of our time.

To you who will listen today, I offer a second story.

When the Nazis invaded Holland in 1940, Gerrit tenZythoff was 17 years old and leading the sort of life that was common for teenage boys even then — a life filled with schoolwork and sports and good friends. And then his life began to change.

First the authorities confiscated the textbooks written by Jews. Then his Jewish teachers and classmates disappeared, the family doctor — also a Jew — died by suicide, and the local butcher who had served the family for so many years — another Jew — was beaten to death.

Gerrit’s parents had been active in the underground movement to transport Jewish people out of danger.  After the occupation, his father gave specific instructions to Gerrit and his five siblings. He said, “One day you will see people whose presence you will deny.  You will see faces that you shall not remember. And you will never ask a name.” 

So, the tenZthoff children heard movements in the night that were never explained to them, and their parents harbored mysterious people until they could make the next leg of their journey. Some mornings they had breakfast with people who were “never there.”

Gerrit found his own ways to protest.  He was a good student, but once he came home with a report card with an F in German.  He was proud of himself for deliberately flunking the class.  His father, a school principal, said “Son, it was not always like this in Germany, not will it always be.  A day will come when you have to know the language.  After the Germans have lost the war, we will have to talk to them, and you will have to know the language if you want to be part of the solution.” So, he compromised and agreed to pass the class.  

In 1943, when he was a university student, Gerrit refused to sign a loyalty oath to the German regime.  He was arrested by the Gestapo and imprisoned in a forced labor camp in Berlin.  At twenty-years old, he was tortured in an attempt to get the names of people in his village who were sheltering Jewish people. Gerrit adamantly refused. The injuries he sustained to his bones, spinal cord, and nervous system would plague him for life.

Then, in 1945, an Allied bombing raid scored a direct hit on the factory where he was imprisoned. Gerrit and another Dutch student escaped, but they had to make their way 500 miles to home.  They were dressed in shabby clothes, had no real shoes, no identification papers and no ration coupons. Because of his father’s long-ago insistence, Gerrit spoke fluent German.  That probably saved his life when a soldier engaged him in conversation on a train. 

When he crossed the border into Holland, his home country was still occupied and dangerous.  In fact, the Nazis knew of his disappearance from Berlin and had already been to his family home looking for him. He spent the next two years in hiding on a farm owned by a family friend.

When the war was over, Gerrit finally returned home. He had endured torture, deprivation, confinement and taken great risks.  This was in part because of the example set by his parents. But his suffering had been at the hands of the Nazi’s. They had more than earned the label of enemy.

When he finally made it to his parent’s house, he found two children he did not know.  Names of guests were no longer a secret, so he asked who they were. When he heard the names, he said “What! These are Nazis!”  His parents said that yes, their parents had been Nazis.  Gerrit said “Then I don’t want to be under the same roof with them.”  He stormed out, slamming the back door as he went.   

It was his mother who followed him and said, “Gerrit, I love you very much but you’re wrong.  They are children of Nazis.  But, we are Christians and we will stand with those who suffer.” 

Years later, Gerrit became a pastor and then a professor.  He taught in the United States at Reformed Church seminaries, including New Brunswick in New Jersey.  He said, “My father’s and mother’s actions really, literally saved me from a life of bitterness, resentment and hatred.”[4]

To those who will listen, Jesus says “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. . .  

Because you are children of the Most High who is kind to the ungrateful and the wicked.

[1] Fred B. Craddock, “On Being Gracious” The Collected Sermons of Fred B. Craddock, (Louisville:  Westminster/John Knox Press, 2011), p. 155-156.

[2] Martin Luther King, Jr. Stride Toward Freedom: The Montgomery Story, New York:  Harper and Row, 1958) p. 93

[3] The Rev. Nathan Nettleton in his sermon “Becoming Children of the Most High” https://southyarrabaptist.church/sermons/children-of-the-most-high/

[4] Most of this information comes from Southwest Missouri State University, where Gerrit tenZthoff founded the Department of Religious Studies in 1969 https://www.missouristate.edu/assets/relst/The_Tablet_Summer_2001_GerrittenZythoff.pdf

2/13/22 - In Good Company - Luke 6;17-26

In Good Company

Luke 6:17-26

February 13, 2022

Emmanuel Baptist Church; Rev. Kathy Doley

Note: A recording of the worship service in which this sermon was preached may be found here:  https://youtu.be/yj42PSc15Kc

I asked Maria to read from the Message translation today because for many of us, this is one of those too familiar Bible passages, the kind that we may not really listen to because we have heard it so often before. 

Eugene Peterson, who paraphrased the Bible into this updated the language and used some other expressions in many places, but there’s one word that he didn’t change and that’s the word “Blessed”.  I kind of wish he had, because that’s a word that might trip us up.  It’s a word that Jesus used, a word that Biblical people used, and a word that we use – but we don’t necessarily all mean the same things by it. 

“The Greek word for blessed is makarios.  In ancient Greek times, makarios referred to the gods. The blessed ones were the gods, beings who lived way up there in some other world. To be blessed, you had to be a god.”

“Makarios took on a second meaning. It referred to the ‘dead’. The blessed ones were humans who were now beyond the cares of earthly life. To be blessed, you had to be dead.”

“Finally, in Greek usage, the word came to refer to the elite, the upper crust of society, the wealthy people. It referred to people whose riches and power put them above the normal cares and worries of the lesser folk.  To be blessed, you had to be very rich and powerful.” [1]

If we use that sense of the word blessed,

then we might read verses 20 like this:

You who are poor are like gods,

Or verse 21 like this:
How elite, how powerful are you who are hungry

To my ear, that sounds a bit different, from “blessed are you poor. . . .  blessed are you who hunger”

Jesus uses the word within a honor-shame culture. In an honor-shame culture, your honor is everything.  Your personal honor is your reputation, your social standing and the public recognition of it.   The more honor you have, the more privileges you are entitled to.  The opposite of honor is shame. The more shame that is attached to your social standing, the fewer privileges you are entitled to. 

Some scholars suggest that this passage should be translated

“How honorable are the poor.  How honorable are the hungry.  How honorable are those who weep” and “How shameful are the rich, How shameful are the full. How shameful are those who everyone speaks well of.” [2]

We do not live in an honor-shame culture, so we do not have a concept that directly corresponds.  The concept of privilege is perhaps the closest that we can come, keeping in mind that it is not quite the same thing. But if we think about honor as privilege, then we understand that some people enjoy certain perks, certain benefits without question because of their social position. That privilege may come with being male or having white skin or with education or with citizenship in a certain country.

And so, one more time, let’s try a new translation -- “how privileged are the poor.  How privileged are the hungry.  How privileged are those who weep.”  And “how underprivileged are the rich, how underprivileged are the full, how underprivileged are the popular.” 

It does not make much sense to say that the poor are privileged.  Or to suggest that the popular people, the ones who everyone listens to, are somehow under-privileged. To make these claims is to call into question the meaning of the word privilege.   By now you may be scratching your head.  You may be saying to yourself, “I do not think that word means what you think it means.”

And that, is exactly how it was for Jesus’ first listeners.  Jesus turned established categories on their heads. He completely rejected the established social hierarchy.

There is a large crowd around Jesus here. Within that large crowd, we can identify at least three audiences.  The poor are present.  The rich are present.  And also present are those who would be Jesus’ most faithful followers, those who will suffer for the gospel.  If we made a Venn diagram, the three audiences would overlap. The rich are in one circle, the poor in another, but those who will suffer for Jesus’s sake may come from either the poor or the rich.

Jesus manages to talk to everyone at the same time. He heaps honor on those usually considered to be without honor.  He heaps shame on those considered to be without shame.  Luke includes the detail that Jesus is speaking on a level place. Theologically, this sermon is one of leveling, Jesus upends the systems of privilege and power.  He rejects what everyone else accepts as just the way things are.

He says that God understands reality differently. God sees that the poor know their needs, their emptiness and they have room to receive from God.  That is their blessing. But the rich tend to be comfortable trusting their own resources and so their wealth isolates them from others, sometimes even from God. And so, as Eugene Peterson says “there’s trouble ahead” for them. 

Here, in this room and in this Zoom space, there are probably also three audiences, the poor, the rich and those who want to be Jesus’ most faithful disciples.  Most of us are wealthier; some of us are poorer.  Or to put it another way, some of us carry more privilege, more honor, in our culture than others. And so, we each need to listen and receive the blessing or warning that Jesus offers us. 

But all of us here are part of the third audience. All of us are in that overlapping section in the Venn diagram.  I trust that we want to follow Jesus faithfully.  To that audience, Jesus directs verses 22-23.  In the New Revised Standard translation it reads:

‘Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile you, and defame you on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice on that day and leap for joy, for surely your reward is great in heaven; for that is what their ancestors did to the prophets.’

As we heard it in The Message version:

“Count yourself blessed every time someone cuts you down or throws you out, every time someone smears or blackens your name to discredit me. What it means is that the truth is too close for comfort and that that person is uncomfortable. You can be glad when that happens—skip like a lamb, if you like!—for even though they don’t like it, I do . . . and all heaven applauds. And know that you are in good company; my preachers and witnesses have always been treated like this.

“Know that you are in good company”, Peterson puts it. This is where it gets problematic.  We want to be in good company with Jesus.  

We know that there are places in the world where it is illegal to be a Christian, where you face serious consequences like being disowned by family or having your business blacklisted, effectively depriving you of a living.  We know that some are actually killed for following Jesus, for putting his teachings into practice.  That’s persecution. 

When retail workers wish you happy holidays and not specifically Merry Christmas, that is not persecution. 

When American Christians are encouraged to follow public health practices, to wear masks even when they gather for worship, that is not persecution.  When public schools are forbidden from leading students in prayer, to avoid state-sponsored religion, that is not persecution.

We want to be in good company.  We want to suffer for the gospel, not too much, mind you, but enough for it to count.  And so, there are some who hold up the slightest insult or inconvenience and claim that they are persecuted just as the prophets were.  The more that others suggest that isn’t actual persecution, the more put-upon they feel, and that just reinforces the idea that they are truly suffering for Jesus.

American Christians are deeply divided around this kind of question. It comes out, sometimes, in the conversation around persecution, but it really boils down to what it means to stand with Jesus. 

Jesus said that the last shall be first.  Jesus said to care for the last and the least. Jesus included the outcast, the disabled, the ill, the marginalized, women, children and foreigners. Jesus upended the systems of privilege and power.  He subverted the hierarchical categories that everyone accepts as just the way things are. 

So, here’s a way to evaluate persecution -- if we are facing pushback for upholding the status quo, then we probably aren’t suffering for the gospel.  If we are defamed or rejected because we are clinging to practices that perpetuate the last remaining last and the least remaining the least, then that does not put us in the good company Jesus described.  If, however, someone seeks to discredit us because we are standing up against the way things are, against the systems which continue to disempower people of color and women and immigrants, against practices which diminish the self-worth of queer and trans people, against structures which perpetuate injustice generation after generation, then we are in fact in good company with Jesus.

Dom Helder Camara, a Brazilian archbishop famously said “When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why they are poor, they call me a communist.”

Another South American priest, Segundo Galilea, said, “If you make an option for the poor, if you call in question the wealth of the rich and the power of the mighty, . . if you are on fire for the justice of the kingdom, sooner or later you will pay the price. And the price is persecution.” [3]

A few years ago, there was an episode of This American Life which was focused on children’s logic.  One of the stories went like this: A man said that, when his daughter was four, Christmas came along, and she suddenly had lots of questions about Jesus. The dad answered her questions, but his daughter wanted to know more. So they read a children’s Bible together.  He summed up Jesus’ message on her level by saying: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Love others the way you want to be loved, and treat others the way you want to be treated.

One day, a large crucifix outside of a church caught the girl’s attention.  He realized that he had avoided telling her the Easter story, so the dad told his little girl that some people found Jesus’ message too troublesome. They decided that he must stop, so they killed him.

Some weeks later his daughter was out of school for Martin Luther King Day. They went out to lunch and there was a picture of Dr. King at their table. She asked, “Who’s that?” The dad wasn’t sure how to explain the Civil Rights Movement to a four-year-old, so he decided to simply say that Dr. King was a preacher. “Oh, for Jesus?!”, she said. He replied, “Yes.”

He told his daughter that the reason she didn’t have school that day was because it was a day to remember Dr. King. He had an important message: That we should treat everyone the same no matter what they look like. The four year-old said, “That’s the same thing Jesus said. Did people kill Dr. King too?” [4]

Beloved ones, if we are on fire for the justice of the kingdom, sooner or later we will pay the price.  That is our high calling and Jesus says ‘Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile you, and defame you on account of the Son of Man.

Rejoice on that day and leap for joy . . .”

May we be found in that good company. Amen.

[1] http://www.crossmarks.com/brian/luke6x17.htm

[2] Bruce J. Malina and Richard L. Rohrbaugh, Social-Science Commentary on the Synoptic Gospels (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1992), p. 250

[3] Megan McKenna,  Blessings and Woes:  The Beatitudes and the Sermon on the Plain in the Gospel of Luke, (Maryknoll, NY:  Orbis Books, 1999),  p. 94.

[4] https://www.thisamericanlife.org/605/transcript

1/30/2022 - Rage - Luke 4:21-30

Rage

Luke 4:21-30

January 30, 2022

Emmanuel Baptist Church; Rev. Kathy Donley

Note: A recording of the worship service in which this sermon was preached may be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KakfcQ05hbs

“Has anyone ever been filled with rage at you because of something Jesus said or did?”  That was the opening question in my clergy Bible study this week.[1]

The question was asked because of the rage in this text. The Nazarenes who heard Jesus’ sermon were so angry that they tried to throw him off a cliff. Has anyone ever been filled with rage at you because of something Jesus said or did?

I have witnessed religious rage a few times. I’ve probably told you about the one and only time I attended a meeting of the Southern Baptist Convention.  It was held in the Super Dome in New Orleans. It was the end of a decade-long fight for control of the denomination and there were 38,000 battling Baptists in the space. Two things stand out in my memory. One is that when the people in charge didn’t like what someone had to say, they simply shut off their microphone.  In that huge space, if you didn’t have a working microphone, you could not be heard.  Shutting off microphones was rage expressed as power.

The other event happened when a certain prominent pastor stood to speak. He identified himself, “This is so and so, of the First Baptist Church of a well-known city” and the response was thunderous applause. Applause not for the truth of his convictions or the power of his compassion, but just because the crowd recognized his name and knew that he was one of them. He was on their side in the denominational fight. The applause might have sounded like appreciation or affirmation to some, but to me, it sounded like rage expressed as glee.

Sometimes, American Baptists enjoy holding up Southern Baptists as examples of everything we are not. So, imagine my dismay, when after my ordination as an American Baptist pastor, I started attending American Baptist Biennial meetings and saw very similar rage on display in the conversations regarding various resolutions about the inclusion and exclusion of LGBTQ persons. 

Right now, religious rage sometimes flies under the banner of Christian nationalism. A well-stoked fear that the majority are going to lose power and prestige gets cloaked in religious language about God’s will, and those who are afraid project it onto God and make claims about God’s wrath. We might also see it with those who are incredibly angry about being asked to wear a face mask in a building, including inside church buildings, or to be vaccinated.

We know some of the things that currently trigger religious rage, but how did Jesus do it?

Remember that Jesus’ sermon began with a reading from the prophet Isaiah which said, “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.” 

That last phrase might be part of the trigger. That last phrase – “the year of the Lord’s favor” is a reference to the Jubilee. The Jubilee was a cycle of renewal and restoration that was supposed to happen every 50 years in Israel. In the Jubilee year, debts were forgiven, slaves were freed, and property ownership went back to people who had fallen on hard times and had to sell it to survive.  Two weeks ago, we read the first part of this sermon and you might remember that after Jesus quoted Isaiah, he said, “Today this has been fulfilled.”

So, what the people might be thinking is that Jesus is declaring this a Jubilee year, starting now. And that might be good news for many of them. The working folks are wondering if their mortgages are going to be considered paid in full. The landless poor may be thinking about what it would be like just to have a garden of their own.

Jubilee was God’s original vision for the country, and it is a good one. Jesus is reaching way back to the memories of when the people first entered the land, the story about themselves that they have carefully nurtured for centuries. Imagine a speech that calls Americans to remember our ancestors who left their homelands to fight for freedom here. Imagine a crowd-pleaser built around the poem on the Statue of Liberty. The Nazarenes might have thought they were getting a first-century Palestine feel-good speech about the Jubilee.

Walter Brueggemann says that the principle of divestment in the Jubilee is “the most difficult, most demanding, most outrageous requirement of biblical faith.”  You see, it is not just a kind thought or religious idea. It is a concrete practice where money and property change hands.   Brueggemann says, “every fifty years, you must give back to the people the land and property that is inalienably theirs that they have lost in the rough and tumble of the economy. You must give it back, even if you own it legally and it is properly yours. . . Imagine, when the Jubilee signal is given, everybody returns property, everybody cancels debts, everybody breaks off the mad scramble of accumulation and acquisition . . . because life in the community of faith does not consist of getting more but in sharing well.”[2]

As difficult and unlikely as all of that sounds, maybe, at first, the people of Nazareth are just thinking about what it would be like to live in a place where everyone’s needs are met, about what more they could have than they have now.  OK maybe those who are a little bit better off might have a twinge of worry about having to give up what is rightfully theirs.  But they have probably heard preachers dance around that before, just like you and I have heard great speeches praising our immigrant ancestors without even mentioning the more controversial issue of people attempting to come here today.

They are settling in to enjoy a great sermon offered by a rising star from their own village -- a sermon about who they were in the good old days and who they still are and who God is and how God has chosen to care for them … And then Jesus goes and ruins it. He reminds them about some other old stories -- the one about the Gentile widow that God provided for during a great famine, and the one about the enemy combatant General Naaman whom God healed of leprosy. It is as if Jesus holds up a sign that says Gentile Lives Matter. The people know this. It is not new information. The covenant with Abraham was intended to bless all the people of the world. Isaiah said that Israel was called to be a light to all the nations. It has been part of who they are and who God is from the beginning of their relationship. The people know that Gentile Lives Matter, but it seems to enrage them anyway.

Jesus says that there were lots of widows in Israel during that long-ago famine, but God did not send the prophet to any of them except the Gentile in Zarephath. And there were lots of lepers in Israel, but God sent Elisha only to Naaman the Syrian. And so, one commentator suggests that maybe the Nazarenes are not angry that they are being asked to share God’s favor, but because they are being bypassed.[3] 

This is one of Jesus’s first sermons. He is new at it. So maybe he has over-stated the case, over-emphasized the people’s seeming exclusion from God’s loving action.  Or maybe this story conveys what it feels like to insiders when the legitimate needs of the outsiders get addressed.  When you’re accustomed to privilege, equality may feel like oppression.

Jesus tells them a truth about God that they already know. Jesus tells them that God wants the same kind of communal life, the same sharing and mutual care for everyone, including the people they consider inferior, including their enemies. It was one thing to believe that Jubilee might just happen, that their lot in life might improve even at some cost to the rich. But to think that God might want them to do that for everyone? To provide for their enemies in concrete, material ways? To cancel the debts of foreigners? There were a lot of Gentiles living in Galilee, many who had done so for multiple generations. If Jesus came into an American church and started advocating for reparations for descendants of enslaved people or if he pointed out that native peoples do not benefit from the American narrative that we have carefully nurtured in the same way as the dominant majority, if Jesus said that God wanted our wealth, that we have earned by our own efforts, to be distributed to everyone, then we might begin to understand what the Nazarenes were feeling.

The idea that God wanted the same shalom, the same peace and well-being for those people – well young Jesus has just gone too far. Who does he think he is? They are so enraged, Luke says, that they become a mob and try to throw him off a cliff. Fred Craddock writes that “anger and violence are the last defense of those who are made to face the truth embedded in their own tradition.”[4]

“Has anyone ever been filled with rage at you because of something Jesus said or did?”  That was the opening question in my Bible study this week.

In a different Bible study, the question was “Who told the truth so clearly that you wanted to kill them for it?” [5]

I’m beginning to think that if no one ever gets angry at us because of what Jesus said or did, maybe we’re not doing it right.

There is so much rage, so much anger and violence swirling around us. Religious rage takes many forms. Sometimes it looks like a well-known well-dressed preacher defending the status quo. That veneer of respectability is a thin cover for violence. We see the true ugliness of religious rage in events like school board meetings where parents cannot even speak civilly as they protest children learning about racism. We see it in the distorted faces of those who terrorize others by the light of tiki torches. We see it in place after place as extremists kill people in the name of their God. And we often see it, hopefully not to such a degree, in conversations with other Christians.

We are not far from the rage of this text.  And that might seem like a cause for despair. Have we really learned so little in the last two millennia?

But I want to suggest that there’s some good news here. If Fred Craddock is correct that anger is the last defense of those who have to face the truth, then perhaps what we are witnessing is a harsh confrontation with truth.  The truth that God is bigger than we can imagine, the truth the God’s love is powerful and comprehensive and intended for all, all, all of creation. The truth that brings good news for the poor and release to the captives and binds up the broken-hearted. The truth that God is love is love is love.

Beloved ones, let us seek to know that truth, to embrace it, to allow it to confront us and transform us over and over again. Because that truth is marching on. Amen.

[1] This wonderfully provocative question was posed by the Rev. Rahel Hahn, pastor at the Lutheran Church of the Holy Spirit, Albany, NY.

[2] Walter Brueggemann, “On Signal: Breaking the Vicious Cycles” in The Collected Sermons of Walter Brueggemann, Vol 1, (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2011) pp. 140-141.

[3] Warren Carter in Connections: A Lectionary Commentary for Preaching and Worship, Year C, Volume 1 Joel Green, Thomas Long, Luke Powery, Cynthia Rigby, Editors, (Louisville:  Westminster/John Knox Press, 2018), p. 221.

[4] Fred Craddock in Craddock, et al Preaching Through the Christian Year:  Year C (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1994), p. 92.

[5] Barbara Brown Taylor “The Company of Strangers” in Home By Another Way (Boston:  Cowley Publications, 1997) p.43.

1/16/22 - In the Power of the Spirit - Luke 4:14-21

In the Power of the Spirit                                                                                                                                             

Luke 4:14-21

January 16, 2022

Emmanuel Baptist Church; Rev. Kathy Donley

Note: A recording of the worship service in which this sermon was preached may be found here: https://youtu.be/1f4bhG74Uz0

Several of us are currently reading the book Stride Toward Freedom, which is Dr. King’s account of the Montgomery Bus Boycott.  Reading along a couple of weeks ago, I got to the part where he described being arrested for the first time and it took me off-guard.  He was arrested on a false charge of driving 30 in a 25 mph zone – not given a ticket, but arrested and taken to jail. [1] Well, I wasn’t surprised about the trumped-up charges, but I realized that I was surprised that it was his first time in jail.  Because everybody knows that Dr. King was arrested many times.  But there is always a first time. 

And, as Luke tells the story, this is a kind of first time for Jesus.  It is his first public action since his baptism.  In John’s gospel, his first action is to turn water into wine for a wedding.  In Matthew and Mark, it is to call disciples to follow him.  But for Luke, this is it.  Well, technically, maybe this wasn’t his first either.  Verses 14-15 say that word was getting around about him because he was teaching in the synagogues.  But this time is the first time we overhear what he is saying. 

He reads scripture and offers commentary on it.  We usually call that preaching. So this is Jesus’ inaugural sermon.  It sets the stage for the rest of his ministry.  These words are very familiar to many of us.  We hear them and we think “Oh yeah, that sounds like Jesus”  Just like when I read about Dr. King’s arrest and thought, “Oh yeah, that sounds like him.”

Except that when Jesus says these words here, it is the first time.  He is identifying his mission publicly.  He is owning up to a certain claim of God on his life, in front of his family and friends, his neighbors and the people who watched him grow up.  What he chooses to say on this occasion is very significant.

Synagogues used a lectionary by the time of Jesus.  Most of the specifics about synagogue worship in the first century are unclear, but scholars believe that there was a regular rotation of readings from the Torah every Sabbath.  What we don’t know is whether the other readings, from the Psalms and the Prophets, had an assigned schedule or not.[2]  So, when Jesus opened the scroll to Isaiah, he may have chosen it or it may have been selected for him.

Either way, what he says next are words that he chooses.  Luke builds the suspense, by including the details about unrolling the scroll and standing to read, then rolling up the scroll again and handing it back and sitting down.  He sits down because teaching and preaching were done by a person who was seated, not standing. After the drama has built, Jesus says, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” 

It is an electrifying moment.  The crowd recognizes that something unusual, something memorable, has just happened.  At this moment, he has them in the palm of his hand.  Now, many of us remember that the situation changes rapidly as Jesus goes on preaching.  We will get to that in two weeks.  For today, we’re sticking with this part of the story. 

In the discussion of Stride Toward Freedom, the point has been made several times that every hero of social change in history did not know the future.  They did not know what difference their actions would make in the short- or long-term.  When Dred Scott sued for his freedom, when Rosa Parks sat on the bus and refused to move, when Ruby Bridges’ parents accompanied her to an all-white school, none of them knew what would happen next. None of us knows the future. Neither did they. But they found the courage to act anyway.

Jesus displays that same kind of courage in this sermon.  He publicly identifies himself with a God-given mission. From this point on, he stands by this proclamation over and over again at great cost.  You may be thinking “wait a minute.  It’s different for Jesus.  Jesus is God and God knows everything.  So, unlike other people who took action for change, Jesus knew what would happen.  He did know the future.”

I suggest that if we suppose Jesus knew the future, then we diminish his humanity.  If Jesus is the one human being in history who knows everything even before it happens, then he’s not subject to the same limitations as the rest of us mere mortals.  We might remember that time when his disciples asked him about the end of time and Jesus replied that he did not know when that would be, because only God knows.  Or we might remember his prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane “let this cup pass from me” which implies that the events that night and the coming days were not fixedly determined in advance. 

Jesus does not know the future, but he does know that his words and actions will provoke a response. In the power of the Spirit, he boldly proclaims his agenda.  It might be the first time, but it won’t be the last. 

Jesus is God, living in human form, with all the limitations of human beings. Through Jesus, God lives as a poor tradesman and experiences the occupation of Rome.  Through Jesus, God lives in solidarity with those who are suffering, because Jesus is one of them.  

And through Jesus, we see the revelation of God.  “Jesus [says] the gospel is for the poor and oppressed . . .  Jesus [announces] that he came to liberate from real oppressive structures the marginalized – the impoverished, the war captives, the poor in health, the political prisoners.  Jesus [comes] to turn the economic structures upside down, instituting the year when crushing debts [are] forgiven and slaves [are] freed.”[3]

This is God’s intention, God’s desire, God’s agenda even – the power of God’s Spirit poured out on and through Jesus for the benefit of those who have been victimized by misused social power.  

This is challenging for us who have not been so oppressed. Those of us who have mostly benefitted from the exercise of social power, those of us who are not wounded or threatened on a regular basis by poverty or hatred or violence. For us, the danger is that we will water-down or overly spiritualize or just fail to understand the deep significance of what Jesus is saying. 

This week, some of us heard Nell Stokes speak. Some of you know her.  Nell Stokes has been very active in our community since the 1960’s, but she grew up in Alabama.  At age 16, she was a volunteer in the Montgomery Bus Boycott.  She participated in a study of Stride Toward Freedom last year, and during that study, she offered some thoughts on the book.  She said reading the book reminded her of the everyday humiliations that black people had to endure in the Jim Crow South and even now.  She said, “I am 82 years old and still we’re being treated like nothing.  It bothers me and makes me very angry that other people think that we are less-than.” 

Jesus was someone that other people sometimes thought was less-than. He was poor.  He was not a Roman citizen.  He was not the son of a priest. He didn’t have religious credentials or standing in high society.  He was someone that other people thought was less-than. And in this sermon, he has the audacity to say that God is also fundamentally on the side of those who are considered less-than.

Howard Thurman was an African American pastor, theologian, philosopher, and civil rights leader who lived from 1899 to 1981. He wrote many books.  He was a friend of Martin Luther King, Sr and it is often said that Martin Luther King Jr regularly carried his book Jesus and the Disinherited with him.

Howard Thurman wrote this book to talk about what Jesus had to offer those who are considered less-than. Thurman described them as those whose backs are up against a wall -- people trapped in systems of oppressions, made to feel that they don’t matter, that they will not be protected, that they are less than other children of God, and even that they are not children of God. 

Thurman says that the message of Jesus was about an urgent radical change in the inner attitude of the people.  He recognizes that no external force, no matter how powerful it is, can destroy a people without first winning a “victory of the spirit against them”[4].   The enemy that can crush the spirit will win, but Jesus offers real spiritual strength, a technique for survival for oppressed people.  It is the power of the Spirit of God.  Thurman says that the deep awareness that a person is a child of God, the God of life, “creates a profound faith in life that nothing can destroy.”  “To the degree that people know this, he says, “they are unconquerable from within and without.”[5]

Writing about parents who were able to embody this for their children, he says, “In communities that were completely barren, with no apparent growing edge, without any point to provide for the disadvantaged, I have seen children grow up without fear, with quiet dignity and such high purpose that the mark which they set for themselves has even been transcended.”[6]

This is the agenda of God, liberation, transformation, and wholeness for all, but especially for those with their backs against the wall.  If we do not recognize the power and the challenge in Jesus’ inaugural sermon, it may be that we are not trying or our privilege insulates us.   Perhaps we do recognize it, and we are trusting the Spirit to anoint us and embolden us just like Jesus.  To quote Thurman one more time, he wrote, “The disinherited will know for themselves that there is a Spirit at work in life and in [human] hearts  . . . which is committed to overcoming the world.”[7]

May the Spirit of the Lord be upon you and me with power and courage and love.  Amen.

[1] Martin Luther King, Jr. Stride Toward Freedom: The Montgomery Story, New York:  Harper and Row, 1958)  p. 128

[2] Alan Culpepper, The New Interpreter’s Bible, Vol. IX, (Nashville:  Abingdon Press, 1995),p. 105

[3] Robert Parham, The Agenda:8 Lessons from Luke 4: Students Guide (Nashville: Baptist Center for Ethics, 2007) p.3-4.

[4] Howard Thurman, Jesus and the Disinherited, ©1976 Howard Thurman, (Boston:  Beacon Press, 1996), p 11.)

[5] Thurman, p. 45-46

[6] Thurman, p. 45

[7] Thurman, p. 98

1/9/22 - Off by Nine Miles - Matthew 2:1-12

Off By Nine Miles

Matthew 2:1-12

January 9, 2022

Emmanuel Baptist Church; Rev. Kathy Donley

Image:  The Wise Men's Dream by Rev. Lauren Wright Pittman; © a sanctified art | sanctifiedart.org

 Note: A recording of the worship service in which this sermon was preached may be found here: https://youtu.be/xdBFHMt_5VY

This story about the magi comes around every year. Every time it does, I find, in my files, an article written by Walter Brueggemann more than twenty years ago now.  The article is entitled Off By Nine Miles, and yes, I stole the sermon title from him.

The magi went to Jerusalem, to Herod’s palace, which is where a person might understandably expect to find a royal baby.  But, as Matthew and Luke have told us, Jesus was born in Bethlehem, which is nine miles south of Jerusalem.    Not a lot of difference geographically, but worlds apart in most other ways.  Brueggemann notes, “The narrative of Epiphany is the story of these two human communities: Jerusalem, with its great pretensions, and Bethlehem, with its modest promises.”[1] 

The magi did not undertake this trip on a whim. They were not flippant or unconcerned about the outcome.  They planned carefully and gathered provisions.  They packed the camel bags and repacked them to balance and lighten the loads.  They consulted maps and ancient texts and the stars and even remembered to bring gifts.  They did not go straight to Bethlehem, but it wasn’t for lack of good intentions and careful efforts. 

They were off by nine miles, on a journey of 500-600 miles without the benefit of GPS or an interstate highway system. That seems within a reasonable margin of error.  Perhaps it would be better to say they were off by only nine miles.  They just needed a slight course correction. 

I’ve read Dr. Brueggemann’s article many times, but this is the year when it really resonated with me.  It struck a nerve because you and I have recent and repeated experience in course correction. For the last 21 months – which you know is 5 ½ years in Covid time – we have repeatedly been changing course.  We’ve been told it’s safest to stay home, then it’s safe to gather outdoors, then wear a mask.  Come to church with your mask and sing. Oh no, change that. Don’t sing. And you know what? – let’s go back to just staying home again now. 

As far as we know, the magi only needed one course correction.  So good for them.  And maybe, all of the pivoting we’ve done is going to also be good for us.  Maybe it is getting us in shape for something yet to come, a new and better direction.

It’s that time of year when some people make New Year’s Resolutions.  Actually, we are nine days into the New Year -- that time when many have already abandoned any resolutions they made.  But it’s only my first Sunday to preach in 2022, and I’m thinking about course corrections. I’m thinking about how it is possible to plan carefully and do your best and still be off by nine miles. 

It’s the kind of thing that sometimes happens to me with gift-giving. I feel the pressure of making a decision about what to get and then purchasing and wrapping it festively and getting it there on time.  I get caught up in those details, in making sure that I have something for everyone I need to. And then, in that moment when we exchange gifts, I sometimes remember that my goal wasn’t simply checking a list. It wasn’t just having a package to unwrap.  My goal was the moment of fun or surprise or delight or laughter that brings joy.  Sometimes, despite my best intentions and careful efforts, I miss the joy by nine miles.

It happens in my church life too. Planning worship matters to me.  I spend probably too much time word-smithing the call to worship and deciding on art for the PowerPoint and choosing hymns.  I do that because I want to enhance our sense of God’s presence, to enable us to draw us close as we can.  Some services are more frenetic than others.  Christmas Eve was one of those.  I had thought about a lot of things ahead of time – coordinating music with Michael and the choir, planning tech stuff with the tech team, figuring out the best way to do the candle-lighting while attending to Covid protocols.  All of those things were appropriate and necessary – like the magi’s loading the camel bags before their trip. Worship was almost over when I finally connected.  It was at the moment on the third verse of Silent Night when the piano dropped out and we stood together in the darkness, singing a capella. I heard it, I recognized it for what it was, I took a deep breath and it was over.  Caught up in my tasks and details, I almost missed it altogether. 

I expect you have some experiences like that too.  Times when you realize that the worries and responsibilities required in getting through the day have pulled you off course. 

Maybe some of the events of the last 2 years, as difficult and unrelenting as they have been,  have helped us realize our need for change.  Some of us have recognized in a new way the importance of sustaining our primary relationships, and the urgency of tending to what really matters whether that is self-care or spiritual exploration or a change in vocation.

Collectively, we are seeing more clearly the brokenness of our institutions. From health care to policing to schools to our cherished values of freedom and justice for all – almost everywhere, we find evidence that while we might still be pointed in the right direction, we need a course correction. And sometimes, we are pointed in the wrong direction and our only hope is metanoia, repentance.

It will be fascinating to see the history of this time when it is written in the future. Churches, like everyone else, have coped in different ways.  Some have succumbed to internal pathologies and stressors present before the pandemic.  Many will close permanently before it is over. 

Some have been caught up in Christian nationalism, the perversion of the gospel that merges Christian and American identities, resulting in a profound distortion of both.   This is a political-theological worldview that co-opts Christian faith and symbols to support a kind of patriotism which is often a cover for white supremacy and violence of many kinds. 

Many of those involved in the insurrection at the Capitol on January 6 2021 were Christian nationalists. On the church calendar, January 6 is the day of Epiphany, the day which remembers the choice the magi had to make between the king in Jerusalem and the one in Bethlehem.  That irony is probably lost on the insurrectionists.   At least one sign in the angry mob claimed “Jesus saves”.   Many prayed in Jesus’ name in what they called the “sacred space” of the Senate chamber, giving thanks for the God-given opportunity to do what they were doing.  I hesitate to call that church, because it is so antithetical to what Jesus taught, but some churches are supporting it.  It is imperative that we, who seek to follow Jesus, denounce that as demonic, an utter distortion of his good news.

On a local level, inside the history we are living through, it seems that churches like ours are learning how much we value the personal relationships, the sense of community developed over years of shared faith and life.  Our definition of success has never been about how many programs we ran or how many people attended an event, but about our mutual celebrations of joy and sharing of support in crisis.  Which is a good thing to discover.

But I’m still wondering what we might be missing.  What brings us joy?  What connects us to the very center of Christ’s reign?  How are we so intent on our tasks and to-do lists and good intentions and careful efforts that we miss the goal by nine miles?

One of the messages of this Bible story is that it sometimes takes an outsider’s perspective to nudge us in the right direction.  The magi got very close on their own. And they then asked questions of the insiders.

The magi seem to know a little bit of Bible.  They know Isaiah 60 which speaks of Jerusalem as a place of productivity and prosperity.  They seem to have read what Isaiah says about camels bringing gold and frankincense. But Herod’s scholars, those who are inside the tradition, know more. They know about Isaiah 60, but they also know Micah 5.  So, they quote it to the king “But you, O Bethlehem of Ephrathah, who are one of the little clans of Judah, from you shall come forth for me one who is to rule in Israel, whose origin is from of old, from ancient days.”

Brueggemann says “This is the voice of a peasant hope for the future, a voice that is not impressed with high towers and great arenas, banks and urban achievements. It anticipates a different future, as yet unaccomplished, that will organize the peasant land in resistance to imperial threat. Micah anticipates a leader who will bring well-being to his people, not by great political ambition, but by attentiveness to the folks on the ground.”[2]

The magi got very close on their own. Many of those outside our church walls know something about Jesus.  Many of them know a lot. And sometimes their questions can remind us what really matters, if we can let our defenses down long enough.  Sometimes, we already have the answer.  We need to shift our focus to the right text for guidance.  Sometimes, the course correction requires us to stop and see the bigger picture, to cut through the layers of tradition and history and get back to the heart of our faith.

Epiphany means revelation. It is the season when we focus on God as revealed in Jesus who arrived as a baby in Bethlehem.  One way to open ourselves to a course correction may be to listen particularly well to Jesus’ own words.  As we worship together for the next two months, we will revisit Jesus’ first sermon and his primary teachings as Luke gathered them together in the Sermon on the Plain. 

We don’t know what the year ahead holds exactly, but I am hopeful. I am hopeful because we are resilient and we are staying connected to each other and continuing to care for strangers through this difficult time.  I am hopeful about our new governance structure, which is a kind of grand experiment in course correction.  As we began to live into this together, I hope that we will seek to be at the center of Christ’s reign, a place of vulnerability and joy. 

As the poet adrienne maree brown wrote, “Things are not getting worse. They are getting uncovered. We must hold each other tight and continue to pull back the veil.”[3]

May it be so for you and for me. Amen.

[1] Walter Brueggemann, “Off by Nine Miles: Isaiah 60:1-7, Matthew 2:1-12,”  The Christian Century, December 19, 2001 https://www.christiancentury.org/article/2001-12/nine-miles

[2] Walter Brueggemann, “Off by Nine Miles: Isaiah 60:1-7, Matthew 2:1-12,”  The Christian Century, December 19, 2001 https://www.christiancentury.org/article/2001-12/nine-miles

[3] http://adriennemareebrown.net/2017/02/03/living-through-the-unveiling/

1/2/22 - God Believes We Are Worth the Trouble - Jeremiah 31:7-14; John 1:1-18

God Believes We are Worth the Trouble

January 2, 2022

Jeremiah 31:7-14; John 1:1-18

Emmanuel Baptist Church; Guest Preacher - Rev. Dr. Jim Kelsey

A recording of this worship service may be found here: https://youtu.be/R3rjBMYWJJE

12/24/21 - Close to Home: Invited Home - Luke 2: 1-20

Close to Home:  Invited Home

Luke 2: 1-20

December 24, 2021

Emmanuel Baptist Church; Rev. Kathy Donley

Image Ordinary Glory by Rev. Lauren Wright Pittman © a sanctified art | sanctifiedart.org

Note: A recording of the worship service in which this sermon was preached may be found here: https://youtu.be/0gMud0SyFTk

My cheeky brother Roger sent me a  picture of a kitchen several months ago.  He asked “What do you think about a counter like that?’

I looked at it and said, “It reminds me of our old house.”

I meant the house where we lived from the time I was in fourth grade until I left for college. The house where Roger lived from first grade until sometime in high school when my parents moved to Saudi Arabia and he went to boarding school in Greece.  It was a house where we did a lot of our growing up and the kitchen table was distinctive.  Like the one in this picture, it was attached to the wall.  Not at barstool height like many are today, but at normal kitchen table level.  This picture reminded of that house, but our kitchen had a fake brick wall and oak cabinets. 

So I asked him whose house this was and he kept sending me pictures of other rooms, until finally he sent me the front of the house, which I recognized as our old one.   It’s been a few decades since we lived there. Some remodeling has happened.  If I have a dream in which I am at home, it doesn’t matter how old I am in the dream, I am most often in this house. 

Our Advent theme was Close to Home. Over the last month, we have talked about spiritual homesickness, that enduring yearning for God.  We have talked about faith nurtured in homes and communities which creates peacemakers and justice-seekers. We have described sanctuary, the kind of welcome and belonging and safety that we hope everyone would experience in their own homes, but which some must unfortunately seek elsewhere.

All of that has led us to this night, to the center of the story.  We know the story very well, but even so, like millions of others around the world today, we are here to hear it again, to feel it in the music, to wonder at it by candlelight, to once more find ourselves in the story of God coming to be at home among us. 

Wanting to be home for Christmas or to be with people who accept and love you -- that’s a common theme in Christmas music and made-for-TV movies.  Most of us felt it especially keenly last year when the pandemic kept us confined to our homes, but not necessarily in the home where we usually spend the holidays.  And many of us are still feeling that this year. Family is still too far away. Or maybe we are at home, but home doesn’t feel like it used to. Maybe there’s an empty chair or an empty room, and a hole in your heart.

Home for the holidays is an interesting twist on the original story.  It doesn’t really seem like anyone was at home on the first Christmas. The angels were talking with some shepherds, not in heaven where they apparently live.  The shepherds are not at home – they’re in the fields with sheep.  The magi, who will arrive in a sermon in a couple of weeks, are definitely not at home.  They’re somewhere on the road from the East, probably on camelback.  And of course, Mary and Joseph are not in their hometown, not even, it seems, in a decent motel.

None of that stopped God from being present then, or now. Christmas has always happened in the hearts of many in places far from home. It is happening even tonight in prison cells and hospital rooms, on battlefields, in emergency shelters, and in refugee camps.  Maybe even at fast-food places. Here is one pastor’s description of one Christmas Eve at a McDonald’s.

 . . .A family with three toddlers, jazzy with excitement,
are traveling to Maine in the drizzle of the holy evening. the littlest boy in red and green plaid Oshkosh runs in circles, strangling French fries in his hand. Tired of the car and already eager for presents and bed, his little sneakers tramp
like angel feet.

An older couple in a corner talk quietly about their daughter who’s been dead four Christmases now. They could have gone to their son-in-law’s house. His kind new wife invited them with her family, but it didn’t seem right. And this was the very brightest place – it looked like a star when they drove down the highway, and they knew there would be children here.

A divorced Dad with Budweiser on a black T-shirt jokes with his six year old daughter over milk shakes. A clumsily wrapped present perches on the molded plastic seat. He is trying to make the very best treat he can of their Christmas hour before bringing her back to her Mom’s house. Brown eyes shine at him and he thinks she is excited for later – for Santa and all – but she’s looking at him all over memorizing the gift.

The preacher is on her way to church to remember Bethlehem out loud for the folks who come to break bread and light little candles with paper circles on them that keep the wax from dripping on their hands as they sing “silent night.” Most of them have heard the story about the child before, and so has she. She has come here first, just to sit for a while and watch the christmas eve communion.”[1]

Christmas has always happened in the hearts of many in places far from home. Bidden or unbidden, Christ is present.

We know, from generations of Christmas pageants, that there must have been an innkeeper who pointed to the no vacancy sign and sent Mary and Joseph away. We know this because of that one verse which says that Mary laid Jesus in a manger because there was no room for them in the inn. 

The word that gets translated “inn” is the Greek word kataluma. At the risk of messing up all those pageants, I have to tell you that the best translation of kataluma is not “inn.” The best translation of kataluma is “guest room.”  The one other time that kataluma occurs in Luke’s gospel is when Jesus sends his disciples to find a place to celebrate the Passover.   Preparing for what we now call the Last Supper, Jesus told them to ask the homeowner for the use of the kataluma, the guest room or upper room.   The kataluma was an extra room, added to a house for the purpose of providing space for guests.  

When Luke says that there is no room in the kataluma, it means that the guest room is already full. Many people are traveling – it’s Christmas, I mean the census, after all, and providing hospitality for family members who had come home was just basic good manners in that culture.  As is happening in many places tonight, some people will be sleeping on the sofa or an air mattress or in their childhood bunkbeds. So it was with Mary and Joseph, they were bunked down in whatever space was available.

Palestinian homes usually had two main areas – one large room used for cooking, eating and sleeping, and a second area, usually down a few steps, used for everything else. Into this lower level, the family cow, donkey and a few sheep were brought each night.  In the morning, the animals were taken out into a courtyard, the area was cleaned and the house was ready for the day.  Where there are animals, there are feeding troughs.  Mary is simply being resourceful by putting Jesus in the manger, where he wouldn’t get stepped on in this very full house. 

So, Jesus was not born in the stable of some cold, impersonal one star hotel, but rather in the back room of a home where aging aunts, cousins, and other random relatives may have doted on the new baby.  God came into the world, into a family, with rituals and holiday traditions, and all of the quirks and characters that our families have. 

That is what we celebrate tonight, that God came to share our humanness, our pain, our fear, our hopes and joys, and our love.  God arrived as vulnerable and weak as any of us. He lived and dwelt among us.  Of all the characters in the first Christmas story, perhaps it was God who was homeless; The One who left the divine realm to take on human flesh, was the furthest from home. 

Let me close with The House of Christmas by G. K. Chesterton. Chesterton doesn’t seem to know about the idea of a guest room, but the poem is still true. 

There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting sand,
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay on their heads in a foreign land Whenever the day is done.
Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
And chance and honour and high surprise,
But our homes are under miraculous skies
Where the yule tale was begun.

A Child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam;
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads that know,
But our hearts we lost - how long ago!
In a place no chart nor ship can show
Under the sky's dome.

This world is wild as an old wives' tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening
Home shall [we]come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And [we all] are at home.

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

[1] Maren C. Tirabassi Christmas Eve at the Epsom Circle McDonald’s and Other Poems, ©2020 by Maren C. Tirabassi

12/19/21 - Close to Home: Seeking Sanctuary - Luke 1:39-55

Close to Home:  Seeking Sanctuary

Luke 1:39-55

December 19, 2021

Emmanuel Baptist Church; Rev. Kathy Donley

Photo by Jaimie Trueblood/newline.wireimage.com

Note: A recording of the worship service in which this sermon was preached may be found here:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=31MlM6HEcJY

What happens after the angel leaves? The Bible rarely gives the kinds of details I want. So, the angel appears out of nowhere and says “do not be afraid,” as they always do.  And then they say whatever it was they came to say. You’re terrified, but trying not to show it, because they said not to be.  Then they leave. What happens right then?  Right after they leave?  Do you have a panic attack?  Do you lean against the wall to keep from falling down or maybe go throw up?  Maybe you crawl in bed, pull the covers over your head and pretend it was a dream. 

We do not know what Mary did immediately after the angel left her, but we do know that within a very short time she made her way to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth is married to a priest. Her male ancestors were priests.  Luke describes her as righteous and blameless before God.  So, maybe when you’ve been visited by an angel, one of the first things you might do is to go and see a religious person, someone who is close to God and may understand the mysteries of angels.

If we didn’t already know this story, we might expect a different reaction.  We might anticipate that the righteous religious Elizabeth would speak harshly to her young unwed relative.[1]

I wonder if Mary is afraid of that too.  She has made a journey of 80 or 90 miles, climbing the Hebron mountains perhaps while coping with morning sickness.  That might be evidence of how desperate she is to find someone who will receive her kindly.  She takes a risk and goes to Elizabeth. 

Elizabeth does not cluck her tongue about young people these days.  She does not scold Mary.  She welcomes her with open arms.  She blesses her, she recognizes the bond that they share.  They have each believed a promise delivered by an angel. How wild is that?  What an inexpressible relief that must have been for Mary, she could let down her guard.  She was safe with Elizabeth.

Perhaps you know that feeling. Perhaps at a time when you greatly needed it, someone defied expectations. They didn’t get mad.  They didn’t judge.  They just offered you space to pull yourself together. 

The afternoon was hot, and the two boys were looking for a cool place to hang out.  They jimmied the lock on the back door of the church, walked through the sanctuary and down a staircase. Once in the cool basement of the church, they began shooting pool.  They had done this several times before. But one day, something moved in the shadow of the room and then the pastor stepped forward.  The boys were caught, and they were afraid.

But then, the pastor smiled, "Of all the people in this neighborhood, you guys are trying the hardest to get into this church," he said. He reached into his pocket, then pulled out a key.  "Here," he said, "come any time you want."

That episode changed the lives of the two brothers and their parents. Their family became active in the church.  A multi-generational history of alcoholism was interrupted.   The youngest of the boys, Roger Swanson, grew up to become a pastor and denominational executive.

Sanctuary is the gift of welcome and acceptance and belonging and safety. It can be powerful, life changing. Elizabeth provides sanctuary for Mary which enables Mary to become sanctuary for God.  

Mary becomes Jesus’ safe person. She is the one who gives birth to him when she is far from home. She is the one who flees to Egypt with him and Joseph when Herod threatens his life.  She worries over her teenage son when they are separated on that trip to the Temple.  She coaxes him to save the party at Cana, and she stands by broken-hearted, angry and helpless when he dies.  Other people may be intimidated or threatened or in awe of the amazing adult Jesus, but Mary knows him to well, she is his safe person. 

Sanctuary is an expansive word. We use it to talk about this room where worship takes place.  It is also used about places that rescue hurt and endangered animals. People are finding sanctuary in motel rooms and Red Cross shelters in the aftermath of deadly tornadoes last week.  Some churches have provided sanctuary for months on end to people at risk for deportation. 

Sanctuary is the gift of welcome and acceptance and belonging and safety.  It is not just a place.  It is also the people who create safe places for others. 

Pastor Stan is one of those people.  He is a pastor who provides sanctuary for queer and trans people.  That safe space often happens in person as he travels and speaks in churches around the country.  It also happens on-line.   People who are afraid to be themselves, afraid of the reaction of their families and their churches find him.  They find him through social media, or by referral by someone else who was recently in a similar situation.  He is also often contacted by the parents of LGBTQ people, parents who want to respond with love, but who are conflicted by what they think the Bible says. 

About a year ago, Pastor Stan was contacted by one of those moms. She said that her daughter (I’ll call her Sue) had asked her parents to follow Pastor Stan on Facebook.  He often shares messages of abundant welcome, especially to LGBTQ persons.  Sue told her parents that Stan was an Evangelical pastor who had shifted his position on the issue of sexual orientation and inclusion. She wanted her parents to consider making that shift for themselves.

So, the parents did what Sue asked, and they were surprised by what they found. You see, Pastor Stan has a life beyond his ministry. He has adult children. He has parents. And when Sue’s parents started following him, his posts were about his mother and his family’s journey with her dementia. Well, at that time, Sue’s paternal grandmother had recently died of Alzheimer’s and her parents were actively caring for her maternal grandmother who also had it. Sue’s parents were incredibly touched by the connection between Pastor Stan’s experiences with his mother and their own journey. His sharing of that difficult and tender time ministered to them in a powerful way.

They felt that connection so strongly that they were hesitant to hear his position on inclusion. They didn’t want it to diminish the ministry they had already received.  But, because of that ministry, they wrote to him and said, “We have reluctantly opened our hearts and minds to consider that, just maybe, we have been wrong. We both know, if we are ever where your mom and mine are now, of our four children, our gay child will be the one to sing hymns with us and soothe us through the long and lost days and nights. We are grateful to have found you when we did. We have a sense that God is speaking to us through you in ways we could have never heard were it not for your mom. Thank you.”[2] 

Almost a year later, they wrote to Pastor Stan again saying that they had become fully affirming of their gay daughter.

I thought about Pastor Stan’s experience with that family, and I thought about Mary and Elizabeth. Sue’s parents were more ready to hear him because they made a connection over a shared vulnerability, a shared sense of gradual, impending loss.  And I realized that maybe Elizabeth is more ready to receive Mary because of her own vulnerability.  She is after all, also experiencing an unexpected pregnancy and wondering how she will be judged for it. So, I’m wondering about the connection between the ways that we extend sanctuary, the ways that we make it safe for other people, and the ways that we share our own journeys, especially the hard parts. 

I want to affirm you as a congregation. You have truly been sanctuary for many people. It has happened in people’s homes and private conversations that I’ve never heard, I’m sure.  But it has also happened on the first day that someone came to worship and then I was the one they told how grateful they were to have found this safe place.

I can identify three major groups of people who have found sanctuary here. One was people fleeing persecution and danger in another country. As they sought asylum, which is another word for sanctuary, their journey brought them to Albany and then to us. Some are part of us today, some have moved on. A second group are LGBTQ persons, whom we have officially welcomed since the 1990’s. It is unfortunate, but true, that they still seek sanctuary because many places are not safe. And the third folks I might identify, are those who lost their spiritual homes or felt unwelcome in them as their understanding of God and the Bible, and the nature of faith made a big shift. When they realized that their theology was no longer represented in the communities which had once been sanctuary to them, it was like a foundation was pulled out from under them and they were in a kind of free-fall. But, in some cases, they found a place to stand again among us. I affirm this congregation for providing sanctuary to all those folks. I trust that we will continue to do so.

Those efforts have not been without cost already, I know. But I suspect that if we are to continue reaching out with the gift of welcome and acceptance and belonging and safety, if we are to connect with those who desperately need sanctuary, it will probably require from us even more willingness to be vulnerable, to be our authentic, messy, broken and brave selves. 

Scholars sometimes see this scene between Mary and Elizabeth as the first gathering of the community of Jesus. Paul Simpson Duke says, “It invites us to recall how much we need each other, to draw fresh courage from each other and to celebrate all that we share as bearers of the promise together. If these two women are a prototype of church, they certainly embody [both] how improbable and how subversive the church can be.”[3]

So beloved ones, may we like Mary, go to each other and risk. May we like Elizabeth, receive each other and bless.

May we find welcome, belonging, complete acceptance, safety as we recognize the deep, deep love of Christ present among us. Amen.

[1] Justo Gonzalez, Luke in the Belief Commentary Series, (Louisville:  Westminster/John Knox Press, 2010), p. 22.

[2] The Rev. Stan Mitchell on his Facebook page, October 13, 2021, https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=4366624183406008&set=a.117771208291348

[3] Paul Simpson in Connections: A Lectionary Commentary for Preaching and Worship, Year C, Volume 1 Joel Green, Thomas Long, Luke Powery, Cynthia Rigby, Editors, (Louisville:  Westminster/John Knox Press, 2018), p. 61.

12/12/21 - Close to Home: A Home for All - Luke 3:1-18; Zephaniah 3:14-20

Close to Home:  A Home For All     

Luke 3:1-18

Zephaniah 3: 14-20

Emmanuel Baptist Church

December 12, 2021

Note: A recording of the worship service in which this sermon was preached may be found here:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y_OBXepJyMk

Isaiah was describing a highway in the wilderness.  He was talking about a literal road on which people would come home from exile.  This road was going to require a lot of levelling. Without dynamite, somehow hilltops were going to be flattened and valleys filled in. Without bulldozers, the path was going to be straightened and smoothed.  It was all for the cause of giving access to everyone who needed a way to get from there to here.  

Building a road today involves different technology, but it is still a huge undertaking.  There are planners and surveyors, excavators, pavers, and don’t forget the stripers.  Building a road is a multi-layered complicated process.  I don’t have to tell you this. You have traveled on highways that have been under construction for what seems like years.  You are aware.

John came along some 700 years after Isaiah.  When Luke quoted Isaiah the prophet to speak about John, he didn’t have a literal road in mind.  John was out in the wilderness, preparing the way for Jesus, but Jesus didn’t need a road made smooth and level. What John did for Jesus was to prepare hearts and minds to receive him.  That’s another kind of multi-layered process. 

John lived in a time when the religious authorities and the political authorities colluded with each other in their grasping for power, a time when the rich exploited the poor, a time when greed and corruption and violence were accepted as normal and to be expected. As far as I can tell, John lived in a time that was similar to most of the other Biblical prophets, even though he was separated from them by hundreds of years, and he lived in a time like ours. In short, John lived in a sinful time, which is the only kind of time the world has known.

John is trying to make a difference in that world. John is trying to lead a movement, a reformation. He is preaching metanoia, which is usually translated repentance.  That translation often brings to mind regret or guilt or shame. But metanoia really is about a significant turn, a change of direction and behavior. Repentance is not about feeling sorry for what went wrong in the past as much as it is making change for a different future. 

John is successful in launching this movement.  I say that because great crowds of people are leaving their homes and making their way out to the wilderness to hear him.  Yale Theologian Willie James Jennings notes that we often tend to think that those with power and wealth need to hear God’s directives most urgently.  Surely if God would speak to them, the world might change for the better. But God prefers to speak through prophets, who most often lived among the common people or at the edge of society. [1]

The emperor and other rulers whom Luke names at the beginning of this chapter represent the military, economic, social and religious powers fully intact and functioning. Jennings says “they collectively imagine that they already embody the will of God and that they have the word of God in hand. They need to hear no new word because they conceive that they are enacting such a word.” [2]

And so, John speaks to the ordinary people, to the ones who are keenly aware that things are not right, that change is urgently needed.   Large-scale reform is like building a road in the wilderness.  It is a multi-step process which can seem overwhelming.  John offers concrete and practical steps that these people can take.

The people ask “what should we do?”  John says “if you have two tunics, give one to someone who has none.  If you have food and someone else is hungry, then share.” 

The tax collectors ask “what about us? What should we do?”

John says “Don’t collect more taxes than required. Don’t be greedy.  Don’t take advantage.” 

Then the soldiers also ask “And us? What should we do?”  John tells them “Do your job without extortion or threats of violence.  Don’t use fear as a tool.” 

John offers specific things that each person can do – sharing resources, enacting fairness, making peace. Each set of actions is a layer in the process of transformation.  No one needs to be daunted by the size of the project, because acting within their own daily sphere of influence, everyone can do something.

But even if everyone does their part, it is likely to be bumpy.  Luke’s first readers would likely have been offended that tax collectors were being included.  They had a reputation for being crooked and deceitful. They were collaborators, working for enemy Rome to exploit their own people. 

Luke’s audience would have also been offended by the inclusion of the soldiers.  Roman soldiers were the literal enemy and for the first 300 years of its existence, the early church did not allow its members to serve in the military. 

Did John really think that people like tax collectors and soldiers should get to participate?  Surely they aren’t capable of metanoia, are they?

But building the highway is about providing access for everyone, it is about extending justice and mercy to all.

As Isaiah said, “All flesh shall see the salvation of God.” All means all. All flesh means regular folks and tax collectors and soldiers, all flesh means the identified bad guys, all flesh means even those the church might have been excluded before, all flesh means even those whom we don’t expect to be capable of change.

This is how John prepares the way for Jesus, by calling for change, in our daily interactions, in our political and economic systems, even our religious rituals. He calls for a focus on what gives life and restores dignity and in the words his father Zechariah said, “guides our feet in the path of peace.”  This is hard, often tedious work, like building a highway by hand.

A colleague named Nathan shared the story of a memorable Christmas Eve service.  He said that a young woman came to worship that night, someone who had a friend in the congregation. As the service went on, he noticed her and he thought that she was shrinking back from it, almost physically withdrawing into herself to avoid engaging with what was happening. 

His first thought was that the style of worship offended her, but when he spoke to her afterwards, she said she thought it was really amazing.  But she also said that she had never been in a service before where it felt like the words really mattered and that if you said them you had to be prepared to change your life and live them. And she wasn’t. She wasn’t willing to make those kind of changes, so she had to withdraw, to distance herself from the claim on her life. She got it.  Nathan thought that John the Baptizer would have been pleased.[3]

We also heard a reading from Zephaniah today. The book of Zephaniah is only 3 chapters long, but it contains 9 oracles, and 8 of the 9 are oracles of judgment.  It ends with our reading, an oracle of salvation and joy. Before we jumped in, the unrelenting word from Zephaniah was about God’s anger.  It was about the impending destruction of Judah because of violence and fraud, because of corrupt leadership and idolatry and complacency – he lived in a time like John’s and a time like ours. But suddenly, the word from God which Zephaniah brings is a word of restoration and joy. 

This oracle proclaims the end of the shame and ridicule they endured by being the pawns of other world powers. It speaks of gathering in the outcast and the lame, because God will liberate them from oppression, illness and social ostracism. 

Those who are vulnerable, those who have been shamed will be gathered back in to the community. And the joy will be enormous.

There is no evidence in the book of Zephaniah that the people changed. The warnings of judgement do not seem to have changed their behavior.  The gathering of community and the joy are possible because God forgives.

The people of Zion are encouraged to rejoice and sing, but if they do, they will be joining God who is already belting out the festival songs.  The Hebrew words used here are found elsewhere in the Bible describing great jubilation.  As David danced in front of the Ark of the Covenant, in exultation, so God rejoices over God’s people. As the morning stars sang at the creation of the world, so God sings with elation over God’s beloved.[4]

It is not just God’s people who rejoice in their forgiveness and restoration.  God sings.  God shouts with joy.  God, who is deeply invested in the life of the world, is overjoyed at the restoration of relationship.

John calls us to participate in that relationship, to make necessary changes in our lives and in our systems, to protect and empower the vulnerable, to speak truth to power, to share, to each do what we can.

But please hear the good news – it is not all on us.  We can sing Joy to the World because God is powerfully present. Present to heal and build, to care and mend, to challenge and stir. God is among us, and we who are wondrously and inexplicably God’s beloved, join in celebration. 

Joy to the world, the Lord is come . . . Beyond the pain and injustice and heartache of the world in which he lived, Zephaniah heard God singing. He saw a glimpse of God’s future, of justice and peace, a glimpse of a future in which all are well and all are gathered home. Zephaniah saw God in their midst, and God was singing.[5]

[1] Willie James Jennings in Connections: A Lectionary Commentary for Preaching and Worship, Year C, Volume 1 Joel Green, Thomas Long, Luke Powery, Cynthia Rigby, Editors, ,  (Louisville:  Westminster/John Knox Press, 2018), p. 30.

[2] Jennings, p. 30

[3] The Rev. Nathan Nettleton in his sermon Christmas Joys and Fair-Weather Supporters  http://southyarrabaptist.church/sermons/christmas-joys-and-fair-weather-supporters/

[4] https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/third-sunday-of-advent-3/commentary-on-zephaniah-314-20-2

[5] This beautiful paragraph comes from the Rev. Patrick Johnson, in his sermon Songs for a Weary World https://patrickwtjohnson.com/2015/12/15/songs-for-a-weary-world/

12/5/21 - Close to Home: Into the Ways of Peace - Luke 1:57-80; Philippians 1:3-11

Close to Home:  Into the Ways of Peace

Luke 1:57-80, Philippians 1:3-11

Emmanuel Baptist Church; Rev. Kathy Donley

December 5, 2021

Image:  Berakah by Hannah Garrity © a sanctified art | sanctifiedart.org

Note: A recording of the worship service in which this sermon was preached may be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sMrJCLdJFDU

John the Baptist shows up every Advent. You might not know that because your current pastor doesn’t always follow the lectionary, but it’s true.  If it’s the second Sunday in Advent, John is going to be preaching in the wilderness.  In Lectionary Year C, which is this year, we get even more. This is the year of Luke’s gospel, so this year, as well as hearing about John the adult, we also hear the story of Elizabeth and Zechariah and the baby John. That’s a story only told by Luke.

We picked up the story at the point of John’s birth.  You will remember that John’s father, Zechariah, was a priest.  It was his turn in rotation to serve in the Temple about 9 months before John was born. You will remember that when he went into the Holy of Holies, he was surprised by the presence of the angel Gabriel.  By the end of their encounter, Zechariah could not speak, an apparent consequence of failing to believe what the angel said.  He was speechless for months until the day when baby John was to be named.

Zechariah often gets judged pretty hard for asking the kind of question that any of us might have.  I mean, when Gabriel went to Mary, Mary’s first response also was “How can this be?” Gabriel treated her question with respect.  But I’m jumping ahead.  Mary’s story is not the one we’re focused on today. 

Gabriel told Zechariah that he and Elizabeth were going to have a baby, and that their son would do incredible things. That was when Zechariah said, “How will I know that this is so? For I am an old man and my wife is getting in years.” 

Now, when I read this story, what I usually hear is Zechariah saying “I am too old to have a baby.”  This week a colleague helped me hear it slightly differently. 

The Rev. Joanna Harader is a pastor in Kansas.  She is Mennonite, but she comes from American Baptist stock. Joanna says “Maybe Zechariah is not asking such a stupid question. Maybe Zechariah is questioning another part of Gabriel’s proclamation. Maybe he is questioning the parts about the great works John will do. Maybe when he says, “I am an old man” it is not to say that he doubts that Elizabeth will be pregnant, but to say that he will not live to see the great deeds of his son. How will he know that his son will turn people to the Lord?  . . . It is reasonable to assume that Zechariah will be dead by the time his son reaches puberty. How will he know the great works to come?”[1]

I appreciate Joanna’s framing of the situation. It is kinder to Zechariah, for one thing.  It is also a question that resonates with me especially now.  How do we exercise trust for the future?  Where do we find hope?

By the time John is born, Zechariah has had a lot of silence in which to reflect on those questions, to dig down into his faith and reach into the stories from his ancestors.  His answer, which comes out in song, is that he trusts God for the future because he believes that God was faithful in the past. 

His song ends with this beautiful line

“By the tender mercy of our God,
the dawn from on high will break upon us,
to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.”

He has just been talking about his son John as a prophet who will go before the Lord and then he ends with the words “to guide our feet into the way of peace.”  Now, I have a lot of associations with John the Baptist, but peacemaker is not high on the list.  Agitator, disturber of the peace, someone who wears strange clothes and leads a movement – yes to all of the above, but peacemaker doesn’t readily spring to mind.

But as I think about it, that’s true for many others who were tried to change hearts and minds for the cause of peace and justice.  I think about John Lewis and his tag-line, “make good trouble.”  I think about Dorothy Day whose 124th birthday was last week. She said that she loved reading about the ways that saints in the past had cared for others through acts of mercy, but it raised a bigger question which was “where were the saints [trying to] change the social order, not just to minister to the slaves, but to do away with slavery?” [2]

People who resist the way things are, people who try to change systems of oppression are more often seen as trouble-makers than peacemakers. It is often only after their life is over that their work is truly respected.

I wonder about John the Baptist.  There is so much we’re not told.  I wonder about being born to parents who had longed for him and about the love that they surely showered on him.  I wonder about being born into a family of priests on both his mother’s and father’s sides.  He’s a pastor’s kid,  a double PK – the chances are slim to none that he’ll turn out normal.

I wonder what combination of nature and nurture produce someone like John.  We can guess that his parents died before he reached adulthood and we might wonder what effect that had on him.  He did not go into the family business and become a priest. Instead he wound up as a prophet, someone seeking to reform the religious institution of his parents, and I wonder if that’s not another side of the same coin. 

In his letter to the church at Philippi, the apostle Paul said, “I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ.”

It is helpful to remember that Paul is speaking to a group of people.  His claim is that God will complete the work begun in that community, not necessarily that every individual will see it, but that their labors with God will bear fruit.

I go back to the questions underlying Zechariah’s response to Gabriel.  How do we exercise trust for the future?  Where do we find hope?

Bryan Stevenson is a name known to many of us.  Bryan is a lawyer and social justice activist.  Representing people on death row, he began to challenge biases against the poor and minorities in the criminal justice system.  Many of us have read his book Just Mercy or we’ve seen the movie version.  He initiated the National Memorial for Peace and Justice in Montgomery, Alabama which honors the names of more than 4,000 African Americans who were lynched in this country and the Legacy Museum which documents the white supremacy which undergirds the high rates of incarceration and execution of people of color. His goal is to help people recognize the injustices in our system so that there can be restoration and redemption, so that we can live in peace. He has won many awards for his work, but of course, he has also been seen as a troublemaker.

In an interview about a year ago, he talked about the arc of his life.  His great-grandfather was an enslaved person in Virginia who learned to read when that was illegal.  Bryan marveled at “the kind of hope, the kind of vision it took to believe that one day, you’re going to be free, even when nothing around you indicates that freedom is likely for enslaved people in Virginia in the 1850’s.” [3]

After Emancipation, other formerly enslaved people would come to Bryan’s great-grandfather’s house, and he would read the newspaper to them.  Bryan’s grandmother shared her memories about sitting next to her father on those occasions because she loved the power that he had to engage people, to help them feel more informed and calmer. 

Bryan started elementary school during segregation.  His first school was a colored school.  He experienced racism in all its ugliness, but he also came from a family that instilled in him love and faith.  He speaks from that foundation when he says, “I think hope is our superpower. I mean, hope is the thing that gets you to stand up when others say, Sit down. It’s the thing that gets you to speak when others say, Be quiet.”

I think about Bryan’s great-grandfather.  Like Zechariah, he would not live to see all that God did for his people.  But also like Zechariah, he remained faithful in spite of the circumstances.  That faithfulness was part of the legacy inherited by his great-grandson, part of the guiding of Bryan’s feet in the ways of peace.

Bryan talks about being nurtured by his family, but also by a community of women who had fought for justice.  One time, Rosa Parks came to town and Bryan was invited to be there.  He was invited by Ms Johnnie Carr, a child-hood friend of Rosa Parks and one of the primary organizers of the Montgomery bus boycott.  So, of course he went.  He sat on the porch with Rosa Parks and Johnnie Carr and they talked and talked.  He remembered that they weren’t talking about any of the extraordinary things they had done in the past.  They were talking about the things they still wanted to do.  He said there was a hopefulness in their conversation and he just sat there, soaking it in.

And then Rosa Parks turned and asked Bryan about his work.  Bryan gave her his pitch, “Well, we’re trying to end the death penalty. We’re trying to help people on death row. We’re trying to challenge conditions of confinement. We’re trying to help the mentally ill. We’re trying to help children. We’re trying to help the poor.”

He said that Rosa Parks leaned back smiling. 'Ooooh, honey, all that's going to make you tired, tired, tired.'  Everyone laughed.  Bryan looked down a little embarrassed and then Ms. Carr leaned forward and put her finger in his face and talked to him just like his grandmother used to.  She said, “That's why you've got to be brave, brave, brave.” [4]

Bryan said he’ll never forget that. Those women taught him about the necessity of courage in the work of justice and peace.

So beloved ones, be courageous.  Hold on to your hope, because hope just might be our superpower.  I am confident that God who began a good work in us will be faithful to complete it and to guide our feet in the way of peace.  Thanks be to God.  Amen.

[1] https://spaciousfaith.com/new-testament-texts/luke-15-25/

[2] Shane Claibourne, Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove, Enumo Okoro,   Common Prayer:  A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals (Grand Rapids, Zondervan, 2010).

[3] https://onbeing.org/programs/bryan-stevenson-finding-the-courage-for-whats-redemptive/

[4] https://onbeing.org/programs/bryan-stevenson-finding-the-courage-for-whats-redemptive/

11/28/21 - Close to Home: Yearning - Luke 21:25-36; 1 Thessalonians 3:9-13

Close to Home:  Yearning

Luke 21:25-36

I Thessalonians 3:9-13

Emmanuel Baptist Church; Rev. Kathy Donley

November 28, 2021

Note: A recording of the worship service in which this sermon was preached may be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ntjwM40FNnA

There’s a Welsh word that does not translate well into English.  The word is hiraeth.  It means a spiritual longing for a home which maybe never was, a kind of nostalgia for ancient places to which we cannot return.  Welsh writer Val Bethell says hiraeth is “the link with the long-forgotten past, the language of the soul, the call from the inner self. . . . it speaks from the rocks, from the earth, from the trees and in the waves. It is always there.” [1]

Some consider Wales to be the first colony of Great Britain.  It became a subject state in 1282.   By the mid 1800’s, Wales had been an integral part of the empire for centuries, but poverty and unrest led to riots in Wales and fear of sedition on the part of British officials.  The result was a dismantling of Welsh identity by the British and a steady flow of emigrants out of Wales.  They went to the Americas, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa, among other places. And they took their longing for home with them.  Some point to hiraeth as an explanation for the fact that 40% of the Welsh emigrants returned between 1870 and 1914.[2]

Pamela Petro, an American writer, says that hiraeth is a protest.  It is homesickness brought on because home isn’t the place it should have been. . . . To feel hiraeth is to feel a deep incompleteness and recognize it as familiar.” [3]

I suspect that even if we are not of Welsh descent, even if we never heard this word hiraeth until a few minutes ago, most of us still have a sense of this yearning.  We long for things to be other than they are, for an end to violence, for a dismantling of racism and sexism and many other ‘isms.  As our young people said, “we hope for a world where all are fed, a world with contagious laughter, a world with tall trees and clean flowing water, a world where all people feel at home.”[4]   We yearn for things to be right and just and good.  Advent begins again, which makes us think of Christmas and we long for the peace on earth proclaimed by the angels.

Perhaps hiraeth is like the God-shaped hole in every person described by Blaise Pascal.  Or the yearning that Saint Augustine summed up "You have made us for yourself O Lord & our heart is restless until it rests in you."

Advent begins, as it usually does with a scripture passage of such frightening images and impending doom that it can only be describing the end of the world as we know it.   The bad news is so horrible, in Luke 21, that it cannot be sustained.  Something must be dying or falling or ending.  In part of this chapter, Jesus describes the fall of Jerusalem and the destruction of the Temple which was very much the end of life as it had been in first century Palestine. 

Baptist scholar Alan Culpepper says that Biblical forecasts of destruction, suffering, and the loss of human life have only one purpose: to call God’s people to repentance.[5]  Repentance, we remember, does not mean just feeling sorry about things we’ve done.  It means changing our behavior. 

In the midst of the cataclysm that Jesus describes, he says “when these things happen, your redemption is drawing near.”  Isn’t that a strange thing? 

Jesus tells his followers to keep their heads up in the midst of the pandemonium and upheaval which is coming, to watch for the signs that the kingdom of God is near. Many of us are just trying to survive the recent upheaval in our lives.  We may tell ourselves that we’ll figure out a better way to do life later. Once everything is stable and routine again, then we’ll take stock and make necessary changes.  But that’s probably not true.  Repentance, or change, is more likely to happen when we are in a place of less stability.   When things are unpredictable and fluid, that is probably the moment when we are most motivated to make lasting change.

Stanford historian Walter Scheidel claims that the most dramatic and violent ruptures in recorded history were also the times of great levelling of social and economic inequality.  He says that things like war and the plague undermined confidence in religious and secular authorities which encouraged common people to question existing hierarchies and explore alternatives.  It often happened that, for a while, the rich became less rich and the poor less poor.  Those changes came at great cost to be sure – one third of the people in Europe and the Middle East lost their lives to the Black Death of bubonic plague.[6]   

I want to be careful not to minimize the suffering that accompanies such change. And yet, I wonder if we can hear Jesus’ parable about the fig tree.  When it sprouts leaves, the summer is coming.  And so, we are to keep alert to what is happening, to watch for signs of hope.  I wonder if we can find it hopeful that so many people are quitting their jobs or that the world-wide supply chain has slowed down. Can we see the potential for good change there? What if we applauded people who refuse to work for not-enough pay or those who need to change to a more meaningful vocation.  What if we appreciated that a wait for material goods might reduce our need for instant gratification?  What if we saw the stresses and strains in our schools and hospitals as a sign that those systems are on the verge of real change?

Almost a quarter century ago, the Biblical scholar Walter Brueggemann wrote this “Our society is marked by a deep dislocation that touches every aspect of our lives. The old certitudes seem less certain; the old privileges are under powerful challenge; the old dominations are increasingly ineffective and fragile; the established governmental, educational, judicial and medical institutions seem less and less able to deliver what we need and have come to expect; the old social fabrics are fraying under the assault of selfishness, fear, anger and greed.  There seems no going back to our former world, since the circumstances making that world sustainable have changed.  Because the church has been intimately connected with the old patterns of certitude, privilege and domination, it shares a common jeopardy with other old institutions. Church members are confused about authority, bewildered about mission, worried about finances, contentious about norms and ethics, and anxious about the church’s survival. Our numbed and bewildered society lacks ways of thinking and speaking that can help us find remedies—that can enable us to go deep into the crisis and so avoid denial, and to imagine a better future and so avoid despair.” 

Well, that seems to be even more true now as when he wrote it, but there’s a more important part.  Brueggemann goes on “when the church is faithful to its own past life with God, it has ways of speaking, knowing and imagining that can successfully address our cultural malaise. When it remembers its ancient miracles, has the courage to speak in its own cadences, and re-engages old seasons of hurt, the church possesses the rhetorical and testimonial antidotes to denial and despair.”[7]

And so, we are here, on the first Sunday of Advent, the church’s new year, invited to begin again, to light the Advent candles, to play the familiar music, to remember again our story, to know and to proclaim that God has come very near in the person of Jesus of Nazareth, to imagine that God is still speaking, still moving, still loving us. 

Kate DiCamillo writes award-winning books.  They’re sold for children, but really they speak to people of any age. Two of best-known books are Because of Winn-Dixie and The Tale of Desperaux.  A few weeks ago she shared a memory. She said,

This morning I woke up thinking about a fifth-grade boy who came through a signing line at a bookstore in North Carolina. I signed his copy of Despereaux and he said,

“My teacher said fifth grade is the year of asking questions.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. He took out a notebook.

“Every day we’re supposed to ask someone different a good question and listen really good and then write down the answer when they’re done talking.”

“Oh,” I said, “I get it. I’m someone different. Okay, what’s your question?”

“My question is how do you get all that hope into your stories?”

“That’s not a good question,” I said. “That’s a great question. Let me think. Um. I guess that writing the story is an act of hope, and so even when I don’t feel hopeful, writing the story can lead me to hope. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” he said. He looked me in the eye. “It’s kind of a long answer. But I can write it all out. Thanks.”

He picked up his copy of Despereaux, and walked away—writing in his notebook.

“This was years ago.” Kate said.

“Why did I wake up this morning and think of this child?

Maybe because this is a time to start asking good questions, a time to write down the answers, a time to listen to each other really well.

I’m going to get myself a little spiral bound notebook.

I’m going to listen and hope.”[8]

In her answer to that fifth-grade boy, Kate DiCamillo said, “Writing the story is an act of hope.  Even when I don’t feel hopeful, writing the story can lead me to hope.” 

So beloved ones, I suggest that telling our story, the story that God is writing with us, is an act of hope.  Beginning the year again, entering into Advent with faith and courage, is an act that may lead us to hope even when we don’t feel hopeful.  Maybe this is a time to watch for the signs around us, to ask good questions, to listen to each other really well.  May we listen and hope.

[1] https://innerwoven.me/2015/06/07/hiraeth-making-peace-with-longing/

[2] https://www.bbc.com/travel/article/20210214-the-welsh-word-you-cant-translate

[3] https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2012/09/18/dreaming-in-welsh/

[4] These words are from a litany for Advent 1 by Rev. Sarah (Are) Speed | A Sanctified Art LLC | sanctifiedart.org.”

[5] Alan Culpepper, The New Interpreter’s Bible, Vol. IX, (Nashville:  Abingdon Press, 1995), pp 405.

[6] https://news.stanford.edu/2020/04/30/pandemics-catalyze-social-economic-change/

[7] https://www.religion-online.org/article/conversations-among-exiles/

[8] https://www.facebook.com/139485862734035/photos/a.156440727705215/4039256512756931/

11/21/21 - Hooray for the Pumpkin Pie! - Joel 2:21-26; Matthew 6:26-33

Hooray for the Pumpkin Pie!

Joel 2:21-26 Matthew 6:26-33

November 21, 2021

Emmanuel Baptist Church; Rev. Kathy Donley

Note: A recording of the worship service in which this sermon was preached may be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vd54X87VznY

“The locust invasion started seven days ago and covered the sky. Today it took the locust clouds two hours to pass over the city. God protect us from the three plagues: war, locusts, and disease, for they are spreading through the country. Pity the poor.”[1]  That was recorded in the diary of a soldier stationed in Jerusalem in 1915. 

He was describing the worst infestation of locusts in recent history.  As the locusts approached, the sun was darkened. The locusts were so numerous that they were killed by the ton without any appreciable effect. In April of that year, the government issued a proclamation requiring every man between 15 and 60 years of age to gather 11 pounds of locust eggs every single day and deliver them to government officials for destruction. One eyewitness of this plague said “nothing we did prevented the locusts from coming down and devouring everything green, even the bark of trees, in a matter of minutes.”  That widespread devastation, with the destruction of crops and the blockades of WWI led to three years of famine and the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people.

We might imagine that the prophet Joel is describing something similar when he alludes to the years that the locust has eaten. It is difficult to determine whether Joel is talking about a literal insect infestation or if he using locusts as a metaphor for an invading army.  Given the historical experience I just described in 1915, he could be talking about both.  In any case, the context of this passage is severe destruction and loss, something widespread, something that lasted for quite some time, because verse 21 says “years” in the plural.

“Do not fear. . . Rejoice, be glad.”  That’s the prophet’s message from God.  “The rain is coming.  The threshing-floors shall be full of grain, the vats shall overflow with wine and oil.”

“I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten. . .”  Many years ago, there was time when my friend quoted that last verse several times a year.  When I read it in preparation for this sermon, I thought to myself, “That’s Mary’s verse.”  I called to ask her what it meant to her, why she used to quote it so much. She couldn’t tell me.  She didn’t remember.   I suspect that different passages resonate with us at different times. I wonder if at that time she was going through something difficult and she was clinging to the assurance that there would be healing, that God would restore her joy.  But now, decades later, her need for that assurance is not so urgent. 

That is just speculation on my part.  But I’m thinking about it because the prophet says “do not fear.”  That’s easier to say when the fearful thing is over, than when we’re in the midst of it. 

Jesus did a similar thing.  When he sat down and taught in Matthew 6, his audience was mostly the poor.  People who earned enough to eat today, but who might not work tomorrow and therefore, might not eat tomorrow.  And people who might not eat today.  And yet, Jesus told them not to worry about food and clothing. 

Most of us do not worry about food or clothing.  Some of us have more than others, but almost all of us get enough to eat.  If hunger is an actual concern for you, please, please be in touch with me.  That is something we can address.  Most of us do not worry about food.  But we do worry.  Most of us carry around a bundle of worry – worry about the coronavirus or cancer, about the widening gap between rich and poor in our country, about democracy, about the planet.  Some of our bundles includes concern for a struggling marriage, or a loved one with addiction or our own loneliness.  We carry this bundle of worry around all the time and it starts to feel like something we cannot escape, something we cannot put down.  It becomes chronic.

I was very fortunate that Wayne Oates was one of my teachers.  He was professor of psychiatry at the University of Louisville School of Medicine and also taught at my seminary.  His work was foundational to the field which is now known as pastoral care.  He is the person who coined the term “workaholic.” 

One particular lecture has stuck with me.  It’s one in which he talked about how to manage chronic pain.  He said that if you live with chronic pain or if you care for someone who does, you have to create coping strategies.  One strategy is distraction or interruption.  In this strategy, you take breaks, to give yourself opportunities to shift your focus from your pain and from whatever you have to do to manage your condition. In some way, you change your routine, your location or whatever is receiving your primary attention.  The second strategy I remember is sharing it.  Do not bear it alone, but tell someone about it.  Even if you are not the one in pain, but the primary caregiver for someone who is, share the load.  Just talk to someone who will listen. Ask for help as necessary.

And so, today I’m thinking about worry as a kind of chronic pain. Pain grabs our attention and holds it in a certain place. So does worry.  Chronic pain is something that does not go away, that cannot be resolved entirely, but must be managed.  So it is with the bundles of worry that we carry around.

I’m thinking that when Jesus says “do not worry”, we may want to obey him, but we don’t know how.  Some of us cannot turn off the worry response any more than we can turn off a pain response.   So, with gratitude to Dr. Oates, I think about the strategy of interruption.

Jesus says “do not worry” and I wonder if we can hear that as “give yourself an hour off”.  I know, I know, you don’t think you can quit worrying cold turkey.  But what if you just set down your worry bundle for an hour? It will still be there when you need to pick it up again.  And maybe you can practice setting it down for two hours next time and work yourself up to more hours of life spent not worrying than worrying.

But begin with interruption.  Begin by setting down your worry bundle and forcing your thoughts to focus on something else. This is where gratitude and wonder come in.  Imagine putting down your worry bundle and picking up your wonder bundle.

Like many of you, I went apple-picking this fall.  I did not grow up in this area. The abundance and beauty of the orchards is still new and astounding to me every single time. I am intrigued and delighted by the range of colors apples come in. I marvel at the load of fruit that each small tree can hold.  Every year, I have to decide where to pick and then which varieties to choose.  

The people who write the descriptions of apples must be related to those who review wine. For example, the Fortune variety is “A spritely apple with a slightly spicy flavor.”

 “Honey & pear flavors mixed with a dash of lemon, almond, and a smooth hint of fine-grained cane sugar,”  – that was Golden Russet, of course.  The experts agree that it pairs well with walnuts and cheese.

So, I went to the orchard. In the center of a row with trees picked bare on each end, I found the treasure of Ruby Frost.  This apple looks so enticing that I think it must have been the kind that the queen gave to Snow White.

Three rows over, I discovered a delicious and beautiful red, orange and yellow apple.  It is called Cordera. Looking it up, I learned that it is the Spanish word for lamb and it was named for the Lamb family.  Robert Lamb, who died in 1997, worked with apples at Cornell for 40 years. His wife Susan is an Ag professor there and their daughter Betsy works in integrated pest management.  I have never met them, but I am grateful, for the literal fruit of their labors.

And you know what? While I was wandering through the orchards and deciding which kinds of apples to pick and how many I had room to store at home, I was not worrying.  I was engaged in wonder and gratitude.  And now, every time I eat one of those apples I picked that day, I remember and am grateful.

The two scripture passages we read today, from Joel 2 and Matthew 6 are assigned to Thanksgiving, and yet, neither of them mentions gratitude.   They do say not to worry, not to be afraid, and to rejoice.  Other preachers might see other connections, but the one that I see is that gratitude is an antidote to worry and fear.  Focusing our attention on what we are grateful for is one good way to distract ourselves from an endless focus on worry.  Set down your worry bundle for a while and pick up the wonder bundle.  It’s much lighter.  The worry bundle will still be there if you need to pick it up later.

“Over the river and through the wood to Grandfather’s house we go”

You know that line.  It’s the beginning of a poem written by Lydia Maria Child in the nineteenth century.[2] She wrote it about Thanksgiving, although sometimes it gets associated with Christmas.  It is from a child’s point of view, about the fun of riding in the horse-drawn sleigh and being welcomed home by grandparents. Even in the celebration, the child recognizes that everything might not go well, that life is bumpy even on holidays.  The fifth stanza says

Over the river, and through the wood —
No matter for winds that blow;
Or if we get
The sleigh upset,
Into a bank of snow . . .

But ultimately, the poem ends this way

Hooray for the fun! Is the pudding done?
Hooray for the pumpkin pie!

“O taste and see that the Lord is good,” the psalmist wrote.  “It is good to give thanks to the Lord.” 

It is good to give thanks for pumpkin pie, and any other kind of pie, and 100 varieties of apples and shady trees and starry skies and faithful friends and a good night’s sleep.

Friends, let gratitude be your spiritual practice this week.  Put down your worry bundle and pick up wonder as often as possible. If you need it, then reach for the mantra from Joel “I will restore to you the years that the locust has eaten.” 

Or reach for the other one, which is also theologically sound,  “Hooray for the pumpkin pie.”

Thanks be to God. Amen.

[1] https://www.palestine-studies.org/sites/default/files/jq-articles/JQ_56-57_The_1915_Locust_0.pdf

[2] https://womenyoushouldknow.net/traveling-over-river-through-wood-thanksgiving-lydia-maria-child/

11/14/21 - Provoking Love - Hebrews 10:23-25

Provoking Love

Hebrews 10:23-25

November 14, 2021

Emmanuel Baptist Church; Rev. Kathy Donley

Note: A recording of the worship service in which this sermon was preached may be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FlH_HWJ-C-U

They are a discouraged group.  They are “tired of serving the world, tired of worship, tired of Christian education, tired of the spiritual struggle, tired of trying to keep their prayer life going, tired even of Jesus… The threat to this congregation is not that they are charging off in the wrong direction; they do not have enough energy to charge off anywhere. The threat here is that worn down and worn out, they will drop their end of the rope and drift away.  Tired of walking the walk, many of them are considering taking a walk, leaving the community and falling away from the faith.” [1]

That’s how Presbyterian pastor and scholar Tom Long describes the community to whom the Letter to the Hebrews was written I don’t know how much that might describe anyone you know or any congregation you know.  If Dr. Long has accurately described your temptation – to drop your end of the rope and drift away – apparently you haven’t given in to it yet, because you are here today. Thank you for that. 

We don’t know exactly to whom this letter was written. Probably a group of second- or third-generation Christians who have been waiting for Jesus to return.  They expected their wait to be over long ago. They are tired of waiting and beginning to wonder “What is the point? What good is our faith? Do we even need to be gathering together anymore?”

The writer of this letter, whose identity is unknown, takes 13 chapters to respond, but offers one very concise answer in the verses Sam read for us, especially vs 24-25 “let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another . . .”

Today is Stewardship Sunday. Most years we call this Pledge Sunday.  It is the point in the year where we make individual pledges, pledges about the portion of our income that we intend to give to God in the coming year.  Many of us have done that already on the Emmanuel church website. If you haven’t done so yet, please consider your own spiritual journey and your commitment to this congregation and take that step.  Your pledge will be gratefully received.    But instead of focusing narrowly on pledges today, I want to think about stewardship more broadly. 

Stewardship has to do with organizing and managing.  Stewardship means taking care of something like a large household, the arrangements for a group or the resources of a community.  Financial gifts are essential to our communal life. They are one of the most tangible resources we share and they need to be cared for wisely.  That’s good stewardship. 

It is important for us to have honest conversations about money.  It is important for us to be clear with ourselves about the claim that God has on our money if we are seeking to live in right relationship with God. But sometimes we can get focused on the money that we have or that we don’t have, so caught up in how much the budget needs or why some lines were over-spent, that we start to forget what is it we are actually stewarding.  I’d like to suggest that what we are caring for, what we are managing is, in the words of this letter, “the confession of our hope” in Jesus the Christ.

Allow me to share a story about another congregation.  Fred Shaw was a young student pastor in 1969, appointed to the Mt. Olivet United Methodist Church in Tatman’s Gap, Ohio when he was just 19 years old.  He was so excited on his first Sunday.  He had gone over his sermon several times, even practiced grand sweeping gestures for the congregation to see from the back of the sanctuary. 

On that day, he walked into the whiteboard church and found three old people waiting.  They were circled around a pot-bellied stove in the middle of the room.  It was summer and the stove was lit.  (I’m guessing that is a clue that maybe he didn’t need the heat, but they did.) The three church members were siblings, close together in age with the oldest pushing 90.  He said “Did I mention that these were OLD people?  Especially to a 19-year-old.”

These folks were well acquainted with the ways of church.  The brother took up the offering from the two sisters.  Then one of the sisters counted it while the other sister dutifully witnessed it. 

Somehow the gestures he had planned for the sermon shrunk. The ringing words he had prepared came limply from his tongue. They sang a song, but the piano-playing sister had cataracts so he was never certain what notes she was hitting.

He offered a perfunctory benediction and walked across the gravel parking lot to his car.  The brother caught up with him, put his hand on his shoulder and said, “Well, son, you see what we have here.  Millie has rheumatism so bad she can’t get out much anymore.  John has a heart problem.  Wilber is just plain old.  We’re about all that’s left, and I suppose the church will die when we do.”  Fred thought the man was right and he chafed about wasting his time there.

He drove home, fuming about the stupidity of bishops who waste a person’s talents appointing them to a dying church.  By the time he got home, he needed to vent.  So, he called his grandfather, the one who had been a minister for 54 years.  He listened patiently while Fred whined about his morning. 

When Fred finally stopped for breath, Grandad said, “Fred, do you believe in the Communion of the Saints?” 

Fred promptly answered that he did. In fact, he had just written a paper about it.  Granddad said, “I didn’t ask if you knew about it.  I asked if you believed it.” 

Granddad went on, “If you believe in the communion of the saints, you didn’t have three old people in worship this morning.  You had millions!  The Communion of the Saints means that when we gather to worship, everyone who has ever worshipped God is present before the throne of grace.  The people in the congregation are the physical link between those millions and the millions who will follow in the future.  You just spoke to three of the most important people on earth.”

Well, Fred went back the next Sunday and told those three people who they were. He shared about the Communion of the Saints, and he had real, not practiced, gestures. They even sang with gusto and forgot about whether the notes matched or not.

This time when Fred walked onto the parking lot, the brother again caught up with him. He looked Fred in the eye, and said, “Pastor…, I’m darned if we’ll be the link that broke!”

Those three old people, who had been waiting to die with their church, went into the community over the next few weeks and brought 24 young people into the church.  Fred said he didn’t do anything.  Those three old people did it by knowing who they were and to Whom they always would be connected. They held fast to the confession of their hope.  

In a few years, Fred finished seminary and moved on to other churches.  Decades later, when Fred was close to retirement, he got an email from a pastor who was organizing a homecoming for the Mt. Olivet Church.  Fred wrote back saying he was sorry that he had a prior commitment and couldn’t attend.  But he had a story about when he served that church and he wanted to tell it to the pastor so that she could share it for him at the homecoming.  The pastor responded immediately.  She said, “Oh, I know that story well. I’m one of the twenty-four people they went out and got.” [2]

I share that story because it is a reminder to me of what we are stewarding, what we are managing, what we are caring for. We are stewarding an identity, a hope that threads its way from generation to generation.  We are nurturing a faith that provokes us to love and good deeds, even when, maybe especially when, we are tired of the struggle. 

Putting money in the offering plate, like we did in the old days, or sending a check in the mail or electronically on the website, like we do now, is just the surface of stewardship. That money goes to pay the electric bill so that those of in the room can be warm. It goes to pay for high-speed internet so that our signal reaches everyone on Zoom.  It pays the salaries of those who serve and lead this congregation as well as our missionaries in other places.  It buys music for the choir and sends children to camp and supports the work of FOCUS and many more things large and small.  The money we give is vital to our ministry, which is after all, God’s ministry. 

In other years, this box was where we put pledge cards. Pledge cards which had written promises with numbers and dollar signs that represented our shared ministry.  Today this box offers just a few objects, a few reminders of what we have shared together this year despite our physical separation and our discouragement.  Standing in for pledge cards, we find popcorn and sea glass, devotional journals, Christmas Eve candles, and fabric prayer strips. There are so many things that can’t be put in the box which were part of our stewardship this year – like the behind-the-scenes efforts of the choir on Soundtrap,  the creative ingenuity of our tech team, and the ways that you continued to show up for each other, offering encouragement with your presence in worship, in phone calls, in prayer, and in welcoming newcomers.

We make our pledges. We give the money and we manage the money, but most importantly, we steward our identity as Jesus-followers. We safeguard the hope that comes through provoking love.  We curate the stories of when we were provoked to forgive, provoked to endure, provoked to compassion, provoked to love and action.  This is our faithful stewardship. Thanks be to God.

[1] Thomas Long, Hebrews: Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Louisville:  Westminster/JohnKnox Press, 2011), p. 3

[2] Rev. Fred Shaw posted on November 1, 2021 - https://www.facebook.com/fred.shaw.56

11/7/21 - All Saints Communion Meditation - Psalm 24

All Saints Communion Meditation

Psalm 24

November 7, 2021

Emmanuel Baptist Church; Rev. Kathy Donley

Note: A recording of the worship service in which this sermon was preached may be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ab22oeZYNsk

“The earth is the Lord’s.”  So says the psalmist.   But not only the psalmist.  It is a consistent Biblical theme. It’s found in Exodus and Deuteronomy.  Hannah prayed it as she dedicated her son Samuel.  And in the law about property, God declares “The land shall not be sold in perpetuity, for the land is mine;” The earth is the Lord’s. It all starts there.

God has an intimate relationship with every aspect of creation.  I hope you got a sense of that from James Weldon Johnson’s poem.  There is an energy, a force, a invisible power that holds creation together. While God is unseen, what we can see is interdependence.  What we can see are ecosystems which thrive and flourish when things are in balance, a cycle of seasons, of springtime and harvest, a water cycle in which rain falls and waters the earth, then gathers in streams and pools and then evaporates to the clouds only to return as rain or snow again.  What we can see, with a microscope, are cells which form organisms and organisms which support larger ones which support even larger ones.  The largest things we can observe – blue whales or sequoias – are sustained by things so tiny that we can barely grasp their existence.

“The earth is the Lord’s” means that God pervades every bit of creation with purpose and beauty. The order and rhythm and inter-connectedness surely tell us something about who God is and about who we are.  

I have followed some of the stories from the climate conference in Glasgow this week, as I know many of you have.  I’ve heard about droughts and floods which destroy farms, raise food prices and leave the most vulnerable even more hungry. I’ve heard about the women in  Colombia where erratic rain falls are forcing them to walk longer and longer distances in more dangerous places simply to bring water to their families; and about the ones in rural Indonesia, which has lost almost 40% of its tropical rainforest in recent decades.  Women are the strongest defenders of the forest and bear the worst impacts of deforestation, but must function within a culture that silences them in the public sphere. [1]  Environmental degradation is a major factor in civil conflict and cross-border migration, including our own borders. 

Creation’s interdependence is its strength, but also a point of vulnerability. Everything is connected to everything else and it all flourishes together or withers together. If the last 20 months have taught us anything, it is surely that we are truly all in this together.  If, as the poet John Donne said, any person’s death diminishes me, how much more are we diminished by the loss of 5 million people to Covid, by the extinction of unique species, by the death of corals in the Great Barrier Reef.

On this All Saints Sunday, we pause to remember our connections, particularly our connections to those of every time and place who understand that they belong to Christ and Christ belongs to God.  We use the word saints as it is used in the New Testament.  Not Saints with a capital S, not super-hero Christians recognized for their piety or the strength of their faith under persecution or for their martyrdom, but saints with a small S, the people who live their ordinary lives in everyday obedience to the teachings of Jesus. 

Richard Rohr is an American Franciscan priest and writer.  Many of you have shared with me your appreciation for his thoughts on spirituality.   On the subject of saints and connections, he says this, “Saints see things in their connectedness and wholeness. They don’t see things as separate. It’s all one, and yet like the Trinity, it is also different. What you do to the other, you do to yourself; how you love yourself is how you love your neighbor; how you love God is how you love yourself; how you love yourself is how you love God. How you do anything is how you do everything.”

He continues “Faith is not simply seeing things at their visible, surface level, but recognizing their deepest meaning. To be a person of faith means you see things—people, animals, plants, the earth—as inherently connected to God, connected to you, and therefore, most worthy of love and dignity.” [2]

Many of us here today may need that steadying, that reminder that we are connected and sustained by the Body of Christ.  In the words of Elizabeth Johnson, we are “one community of memory and hope, a holy people touched with the fire of the Spirit.” And we “are summoned to go forth as companions bringing the face of divine compassion into everyday life and the great struggles of history.” [3]

Beloved ones, we are not alone. We are held securely in the mystical web of the faithful.   Our lives are guided by those who came before us, just as we are shaping the lives of those who live alongside us or on the other side of the world or are coming in the future. 

We are not alone because the earth is the Lord’s. The power that sustains creation also sustains us.  

Richard Rohr concludes, “You don’t go to heaven; you learn how to live in heaven now. And no one lives in heaven alone. Either you learn how to live in communion with the human race and with all that God has created, or, quite simply, you’re not ready for heaven. If you want to live an isolated life, trying to prove that you’re better than everybody else or believing you’re worse than everybody else, you are already in hell. You have been invited—even now, even today, even this moment—to live in the Communion of Saints, in the Presence, in the Body, in the Life of the eternal and eternally Risen Christ.” [4]

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

[1] Kathy Galloway in her blog on COP26 https://iona.org.uk/2021/11/02/from-the-dear-green-place-a-daily-blog-from-kathy-galloway-during-cop26-day-two-monday-1st-november-2021/

[2] https://cac.org/the-communion-of-saints-2016-12-14/

[3] Elizabeth A. Johnson, Friends of God and Prophets: A Feminist Theological Reading of the Communion of Saints (Continuum: 1998), p 240, 243.

[4] https://cac.org/the-communion-of-saints-2016-12-14/