The Audio Link and Manuscript for my Sermon From Sunday, March 28, 2010 (Palm Sunday)

Here's the link to the audio file for my sermon preached on Sunday, March 28th, 2010--Palm Sunday.  You can listen to the sermon by clicking on the link and downloading the audio file (it's in windows media format). 

http://www.box.net/shared/0bjt30zzm7


The manuscript appears below. 



Palm/Passion Sunday; March 28, 2010
Park Avenue Presbyterian Church; Des Moines, Iowa
Texts: Palm: Psalm 118: 1-2, 19-29; Luke 19: 28-40 [41-44]
Passion: Isaiah 50: 4-9a  Psalm 31: 9-16  Philippians 2: 5-11  Luke 22:14 – 23:56 or Luke 23: 1-49

“What’s Not to Like about Palm Sunday”

--} I like Jesus. I like parades. I like joyous celebrations. I like the 4th of July, apple pie, and fireworks. But I don’t always like Palm Sunday.

I don’t like Palm Sunday—because we often get our proverbial Palm Sunday “cart” before our Palm Sunday “donkey.” Like we do at Advent for Christmas, Christians get eager to celebrate Jesus’ “victory,” so we import our certainty of the resurrection into the parade—ahead of time! Some churches even treat Palm Sunday as if Easter has already happened; believing the parade is simply about welcoming Jesus’ victory over sin and death. So eager are they, they simply dismiss the parts of the gospel story where the crowd that lauds and hails Jesus’ coming into Jerusalem turns out to be the same crowd shouting, “crucify him!” before it’s over.

I don’t like Palm Sunday because sometimes eager Christians can cover up the fact that at the end of the parade there’s a cross—forgetting that the entry into Jerusalem is the prelude to Jesus dying and the theological importance of such a death. In our rush, we quickly re-write the details of the gospels in our head, lauding Jesus as “King of Kings” and “Lord of Lords,” as if there were no other; failing to recognize that first-century believers knew the Roman prefects insisted on the same titles for themselves! That the faithful claim such an “equal” or even “greater” title for Jesus only serves to put the “faith” in danger.

I don’t like Palm Sunday—because the Bible isn’t the only history book, and sometimes we read it as if it were. We use it to confirm the stories we like, but writing off the rest. We imagine a large parade for Jesus coming into town, mainly to support how WE see Jesus; but historically speaking, first-century Jerusalem might best be described as a powder keg, with someone always threatening to light the fuse. Rome, the preeminent world power rules Palestine, and is well known for its bringing peace through the power of the sword. It was Herod the Great who helped the Israelites rebuild Solomon’s Temple that had been destroyed by the Babylonians. Herod had become a Jewish convert, but he rebuilds the Temple to gain the peoples favor, making it easier to govern them—to dominate. But by the time of Jesus’ processional entry, history’s pages had turned. Herod the Great was dead, the regional Roman prefect was Pilate, and the Romans were notoriously nervous about Judaism’s celebration of the Passover—which brought thousands of pilgrims to Jerusalem to celebrate the Israelite’s escape from Egypt, when without an army, the Israelites defeated Egypt’s military might and drowned it in the sea.

So by the first “Palm Sunday” (whichever day it was) the Romans had developed a unique way of dealing with Judaism’s religious observances. “Keeping the peace by the power of the sword,” Rome moved scores of troops up to Jerusalem in a huge show of force. This added thousands of soldiers on top of the thousands of pilgrims streaming into the city. Think about the images of the last presidential inauguration! The big Roman capital in Palestine was actually Ceasarea Maritima, an elaborate city built by Herod the Great on the Mediterranean coast with huge palaces and all the great Roman comforts. By many accounts, it was actually a “downgrade” to have to go up to Jerusalem, where things were not as nice and the quarters far more cramped and the company not so desirable. The Romans were already grumpy, they didn’t ever take kindly to any actual or perceived “threats” to their worldly power; and so if the parade Jesus leads into Jerusalem is more than a few dozen rag-tag unarmed followers, the Romans are likely to have waltzed over and squashed the procession before it ever got to the city walls! And there would have been no crucifixion for the world’s stage.

I think that may partly be why Luke tells us in his version of events that the Pharisees wanted Jesus to “shush” his followers—because they didn’t need to be attracting the ire of the nervous Roman authorities. It’s why some scholars today—including Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan—suggest that while the Roman parade is making its way up the eastern side of Jerusalem from the Mediterranean, with chariots, cavalry, infantry, in a powerful show of worldly force; that Jesus and a very small band of followers is coming down the Mount of Olives on the western side of the city being led by a donkey with little fanfare. Everyone in town, or nearly everyone would have been captivated by the Romans and their expected arrival. No one knew Jesus was even coming; and even if they had, he was only one of thousands of pilgrims coming to celebrate in Jerusalem.

I don’t like Palm Sunday, because in the face of all this history, it almost makes Jesus’ entry out to be something it never could have been!

I don’t like Palm Sunday, because most of the time, the way we read the gospel stories it obscures what may be God’s greatest act and what I believe the gospel writers were really trying to tell us or show us—that in the face of worldly domination, violence, and oppression, Jesus dies. It’s not a huge victory lap for the Son of God because of his resurrection, but the very death of God’s beloved Son.

I don’t like Palm Sunday because I don’t believe it’s a victory march; Jesus goes into Jerusalem and doesn’t come out alive. In order to demonstrate the power of the Kingdom of God, Jesus goes into Jerusalem to take on all the power of Rome, all the power of Judaism’s religious authorities, maybe even all the world’s power. And in the face of that power, Jesus’ followers are scattered, the “Jesus movement”—if we can call it that—is effectively squashed. And all the powers of the world look very much like they’ve won—unless….


I don’t like Palm Sunday; but the truth is, I don’t have to. And you don’t have to “unlike Palm Sunday” or agree with me about Palm Sunday at all. But what we should notice together, is that the gospels tell us that Jesus decisively enters Jerusalem as seriously as God entered the world in Jesus. That Jesus goes into Jerusalem in the face of worldly domination, violence, and oppression—to demonstrate the values of the Kingdom of God. He doesn’t take up arms or threatening gestures, he doesn’t “dominate” or demand adherence to his way as the right way, but visibly “shows” the whole world—it’s powers, it’s dominators, it’s religious fanatics—that the ways of the Kingdom of God are unconquerable.

In the face of worldly domination, violence, and oppression, Jesus does the unthinkable—for those looking for a victory—he dies. The world kills him, and he doesn’t even lift a finger against it. That’s God’s response. To demonstrate not the power of the world, but to demonstrate the love and power and freedom of the Kingdom of God—a different way, a new call, the kind of life that yields life. The great victory of Jesus is to deny the powers of the world by demonstrating the very different power of God.

Worldly power is forceful power—violent power—peace by way of the sword. And Luke reminds us of what happens to Jerusalem in the years following Jesus’ death. Almost certainly reflecting the Roman siege and destruction of Jerusalem, including the Temple, Luke’s Jesus wept over these foreboding words:

“your enemies will set up ramparts around you and surround you, and hem you in on every side. They will crush you to the ground, you and your children within you, and they will not leave within you one stone upon another because you did not recognize the time of your visitation from God.”

Violence may have its way in the world, but it cannot conquer the Kingdom of God and its ways. But stand the world’s ways against God’s ways, like Jesus does in Jerusalem, and we’re often surprised by what happens—or doesn’t!

Palm Sunday is the announcement, really, of what’s coming—but not just that Jesus is riding triumphantly into town! What we “expect” may not be what actually happened. It’s true, Jesus rides into town, one way or another, for a showdown. But it’s to “show” people the demonstration of the Kingdom’s ways. In the face of domination, violence, and oppression—by the world’s standards, Jesus’ loses. But that’s not the end of the story! Not just because Jesus is raised, but because of what we see and know of him in the gospel stories.

In the Holy Land I met Elias Chacour, Bishop of Galilee in the Melkite branch of the Catholic Church. He wrote an inscription for me in one of his books that I’d purchased: God does not kill. It’s a hard point. Bishop Chacour has faced a dominant, violent, oppressive government nearly every day of his life—much like Jesus did. It’s always tempting to believe that by way of power, we can stop violence; “Peace through strength”—or something like that. It just doesn’t square with a God who doesn’t view violence and killing the same way human beings do. God does not kill. Which is why, I think, Jesus doesn’t lift a finger to save himself in the face of human violence. It’s not a matter of choosing some human beings over other human beings, but of human beings being called to live out God’s vision.

God’s vision—the ways of the Kingdom of God—are often antithetical to the ways of the world. Where earthly rule often gives in to violence, domination, and oppression, God’s kingdom is unconquerable by such things. How might our world be different if we gave witness to this path of Jesus? If we recognized God’s vision and allowed it to intercept our own? Where we live by the threat of violence and worldly power—what if we could choose Jesus’ way instead?

Sometimes, rather than joining the parade on Palm Sunday, I just want to be an observer. I see who Jesus is in the gospel stories. I too, know and see the world’s powers of domination, violence, and oppression at work. So I want to see and know what happens to Jesus—not because I believe it happened one way or another, but so I can see the values of the Kingdom of God at work and apply them to my own life. If the Palm Sunday parade is to mean anything, it means learning to give witness to the ways Jesus exhibits the Kingdom of God. It means for me to emulate him—by proclaiming loudly not only his kingship and lordship for my life, but proclaiming even more loudly the values of the Kingdom of God that Jesus demonstrated in those days for the sake of the whole world!

--+ AMEN.

The Audio Link, Pictures, and Manuscript from my Sermon on Sunday, March 21st

Here's the link to the audio file for my sermon, recorded on Sunday, March 21st, 2010.  You can listen to the sermon by clicking and downloading the file (it's in windows media format). 

http://www.box.net/shared/cyf9usv77v


This was the 5th Sunday in Lent, and I began the sermon with a story from my pilgrimage to the Holy Land last fall.  I had printed a page with 5 pictures on it for the morning bulletin, and have posted the pictures below. 

If you continue scrolling down, you'll find the manuscript--always the "plan" going into Sunday morning. 



HERE ARE THE PICTURES:

[above] The Old City of Jerusalem, and the Dome of the Rock from the Mt. of Olives.

[above]  Looking at the Mt. of Olives across the Kidron Valley, seeing the oldest Jewish Cemetery in the world. 

[Above] The sign going into the Garden of Gethsemane

[Above]  Looking up and out of Gethsemane toward the Old City of Jerusalem

[Above]  Inside the private, worship and prayer area at Gethsemane

HERE IS THE SERMON MANUSCRIPT:

The Fifth Sunday in Lent; March 21, 2010

Park Avenue Presbyterian Church; Des Moines, Iowa

Texts: Isaiah 43: 16-21
Psalm 126
Philippians 3: 4b-14
John 12: 1-8 *

“A More Determined Jesus to Save the Lost”

--} I’m beginning this morning with a story about one of my experiences in the Holy Land—related to the pictures on your insert.

Our first morning in Jerusalem, after breakfast we took a short bus ride from our hotel to the Mount of Olives, to walk down the Mount of Olives, through the Kidron Valley and into the Old City of Jerusalem—the same kind of route Jesus would have taken into the city any number of times, but especially in our Palm Sunday story.

In the valley between the Mount of Olives and the Old City is Gethsemane. In one garden area is the Church of All Nations, that houses the rock on which Jesus is said to have knelt and prayed while his disciples were sleeping. And across a small street was another garden where small groups could gather to worship, or pray, or talk about the significance of these places, etc. Our group got to spend time in both places, eventually having a sizeable garden in which to spend some personal time and reflect.

The garden is surrounded by high brick walls that help to muffle the hustle and bustle of the city and the many tour busses nearby; it’s somewhat quiet, but by no means removed from the city’s chaotic pace. And I found myself thinking about the night Jesus may have been near this place, waiting—as it were—for the inevitable. His years of ministry had forcefully set in motion what was coming next, and while his disciples might have been sleeping, surely he was anxious.

But then I took pause. I wondered about the soldiers who were coming—not really soldiers but the religious police. John’s gospel tells us they had weapons with them and Jesus seems surprised! I found myself snickering—really, what good are weapons when you’re facing down the one who just brought Lazarus back from the dead? Surely these so-called policemen and their mob had heard of that! And then Peter, when he draws his sword and cuts of the ear of the high priest’s slave—and Jesus puts it back on! I could imagine these guys quaking in their sandals, holding shakey swords up to Jesus and asking rather politely if Jesus would help them out by coming along, that they didn’t want any trouble.

And suddenly, it was a very different kind of transaction for me. It wasn’t the High Priest or even Pilate who was going to be “in control”, not the soldiers who would eventually harm Jesus, not the disciples or even Judas who betrayed him. No! The one in control was Jesus—who would go willingly with them. The guards, having to move him along like soldiers guarding enemy prisoners with no bullets in their rifles. I now saw the captian of the guard assessing Jesus—deciding for himself in the face of the ear getting put back on, that Jesus didn’t need to be put in the cuffs!

It was almost as if Jesus wanted to die—wasn’t just willing to die, but wanted to die. To accomplish the purpose for which he’d been dispatched. Almost with a sigh of relief that the hour had finally arrived, smirking slightly as if saying to the men who’d come to possess him, “take me to your leader”—even though this so-called “leader” wouldn’t have any of the real power and authority on this night!

Jesus, having been sent to seek out and save the lost, was finally getting down to business. And he wasn’t the victim. Jesus, in his death, was the victor.

I begin with that story because sometimes (maybe even often) I think we read the gospel stories the wrong way. We read them as if we were already the experts who don’t have to pay attention to the details. It’s easy to forget that John’s Jesus isn’t an innocent victim in Jerusalem. Sometimes, his acts are intentional, intended, and pointed. John’s story points us squarely at the reality that Jesus is going to die in Jerusalem—not because he gets betrayed in the last hours of his work, but because Jesus intends to die. Mary anoints him long BEFORE Judas intervenes. And I believe that changes the nature of the story and invites us to consider some different kinds of questions for John’s story.

John’s gospel, in particular, reveals a Jesus who is intentioned. Most everything Jesus does is related to signs and symbols. Surely, when Jesus comes to Jerusalem toward the end of his life and ministry the signs and symbols surrounding and including his death and resurrection are more than just a promise of everlasting life. What about redemption; and the lost being forever found?

Theologian George Stroup observes about this morning’s gospel reading from John that,

“those who accompany Jesus on his journey to the cross include not only Mary, a faithful disciple, ..but also Judas, the unfaithful disciple who steals from the common purse and who will betray Jesus. BOTH are included in John’s story of Jesus’ death, …and their inclusion tells us a great deal about the meaning of the cross and the inclusive nature of God’s grace.”

As I read that quote this week, I had an immediate flashback to the story we read last week about the man who had two sons, the one faithful and the other seemingly not. And Stroup suggests that “within the bright, transforming light of the cross” we have to see both kinds of characters.

That raises a serious question for us, doesn’t it? What’s the deal with Judas? And does that offer us a view to what Jesus’ death really means?

We are often quick to presume that Mary is accepted by God because of her precious gift of faith, demonstrating her love for Jesus by anointing his body with the costly gift of nard. But Judas, for his part, is rejected by God because of his rejection of Jesus—betraying him and stealing the purse. Somehow, we even got the idea that we’re entitled to choose the winners and losers in the great divide between heaven and hell—eternal life and eternal damnation—too frequently believing that we control for our very selves, by our assent to faith or our rejection of it, whether we are to be heaven-bound or taken in by hell. As if OUR faith, or OUR confession were all that were required to make the difference—all that were necessary for salvation. But John’s gospel seems to argue clearly that it isn’t.

I don’t mean to suggest that we have no part in faith at all, but I want to be sure we recognize that it’s Jesus’ death that becomes the ultimate act of redemption, isn’t it? Karl Barth observes that “until he dies, Jesus has not yet loved His own unto the end.” So, not prematurely, not selfishly, not of his own accord—does Judas get Jesus killed. Not for greed, not for fame or glory, not for power or prestige—because Jesus is walking a path that is already God-determined. Jesus is not the victim in his death; he is the victor. Jesus goes to Jerusalem to accomplish this death; which seems to explain why his friends and closest followers are gathered at a funeral dinner.

So John’s story puts faithful, truth-filled Mary and unfaithful, treacherous Judas in the same scene. Yet despite what we are told of him, Judas is no less a witness of Jesus and his ministry, no less of a follower, no less of a believer. He does end up with the unfortunate position of the “betrayer,” but he is not the only one. Peter will deny Jesus three times, the disciples all scatter; but when Jesus rebukes Judas, it’s not nearly as severe as what he reserves for Peter. And unlike Peter, Judas appears to “get it,” that Jesus and his ministry are all about saving the lost and the least, the poor and hungry. As John tells the story, Judas, in his own way, “no less than any of the other disciples, serves God’s great purpose of saving the lost”—by handing Jesus over to his death. Can that still be, even if unknowingly, faith-filled?

As Christians, we believe that Jesus “came to save the lost;” and yet, we’re often found suggesting that there are some people who are more “lost” than others. Some, so “unsavory” that surely there are “limits” to God’s ability to love and save them to the end; that in fact, some people “escape” the saving work of Christ by somehow “rejecting him.” We even comfort ourselves with the idea that there surely are some people who are “too bad” to be saved; and Judas, most of the time, looks like one of those. But what if it’s true, that in his death, Jesus intends to “save the lost”? Does that include Judas and others like him?

There’s quite a tension if you hold Judas and Mary together with Jesus. We can’t pick and choose, based on our fancy, those who are heaven-bound and those to be taken in by hell. We witness Jesus willfully walking toward death to save the lost—all the lost, rejectful or not. It’s how we know there’s a place to turn around, no matter who we are or what we’ve done. It’s the goodness of God that ultimately prevails—not just when Jesus is raised, but more certainly when he dies. In a manner of speaking, only Judas can make that happen. And in an awkward way, that also makes him a hero of the story. Doesn’t it?

John’s gospel presses the point harder and farther that death isn’t always what we think it is. The worst thing in life is not having to die or pay taxes; the worst thing might be not recognizing the goodness of God and following that goodness. Judas may not have the anointing perfume for Jesus before he dies, but he does carry with him the means of Jesus’ death. While Mary prepares Jesus for death, Judas will help Jesus die. One can argue without either one, Jesus can’t complete his intended mission.

Jesus demonstrates that they can “kill him,” but it’s not the ending they think it is. This is the faith that comes from knowing that we come from God and we return from God. This is the faith that comes from learning and believing that death is not the final word. Cancer or disease, unintended consequences, bullets fired in anger, earthquakes and storms, fires, floods, winds and hail—may be the agents of death sometimes, but they are not the final judgment. Judas, for whatever accusations are thrown at him or attached to his memory, was someone who recognized God’s goodness in Jesus and followed him. And in the end, Judas had the task of becoming the one who would help make Jesus’ salvific death possible—a death Jesus was determined to accomplish in order to save the lost.

--+ AMEN.

The Audio Link and Manuscript for my Sermon from Sunday, March 14, 2010

Here's the Link to the Audio File for the live recording of my sermon, as delivered, on Sunday, March 14th. This was the 4th Sunday in the season of Lent.  Again this week, the audio link will be followed by the manuscript I used in preparing and delivering the sermon. 

http://www.box.net/shared/cylkhkk1dq



The Fourth Sunday in Lent; March 14, 2010

Park Avenue Presbyterian Church; Des Moines, Iowa
Texts: Joshua 5: 9-12
Psalm 32
2 Corinthians 5: 16-21
Luke 15: 1-3, 11b-32 *

“There Is Mercy For All Who Wish to Be Freed”

--} Several weeks ago, we began this Lenten season with this story about a valiant King, a dragon, and one of the King’s sons.

Once upon a time, there was a great and noble king whose land was terrorized by a crafty dragon. The scaly beast delighted in ravaging villages with his fiery breath. And though the king led his sons and the knights of the realm in many valiant battles against the dragon, they had never succeeded in vanquishing him.

One day, one of the king’s sons was riding alone in the forest when he heard his name being whispered. In the shadows of the trees, was the dragon. “Don’t be alarmed,” said the dragon. “I am not what your father thinks.”

“What are you, then?” asked the prince.

“I am pleasure,” said the dragon. “Ride on my back and you will experience more than you ever imagined. Come now. I have no harmful intentions. I simply seek a friend, someone to share flights with me. Have you never dreamed of flying?

Visions of soaring high above the forest and hills drew the prince from his horse. The dragon unfurled his wings after the prince had climbed on his back, and with two powerful thrustsof his wings, they were airborne. The prince’s apprehension rapidly melted into awe and exhilaration.

From then on, the prince met the dragon often, but always in secret lest his father and the knights of the realm should discover his treachery.

Then, one day, while the prince and dragon were flying over the countryside, they spied a village in the distance. Before the prince realized what was happening, the dragon was already torching the thatched roofs with fiery blasts from his nostrils and roaring with delight at the sight of people fleeing their homes in terror.

The following day, the refugees made their way to the king’s castle to seek protection. The prince tried to remain in the shadows, so as not to be noticed, but some of the refugees stared and pointed at him. “He was there!” one woman cried out. “I saw him on the back of the dragon.” Others nodded their heads in angry agreement.

“Banish him!” one of his brothers cried out.

“Burn him alive!” another shouted.

Slowly, the king strode toward his son, and the prince steeled himself, fully expecting his father to kill him on the spot. Instead, the king embraced him and wept as he held him tightly. As he held his son in his arms, the king called out, “The dragon is crafty! Some fall victim to his wiles and some to his violence. There will be mercy for all who wish to be freed. Who else among you has ridden the dragon?”

The prince lifted his head to see someone emerge from the crowd. To his amazement, he recognized an older brother – one who had been lauded throughout the realm for his brave battles with the dragon. Soon a steady stream of others were stepping forward, some with tears streaming from their eyes, others with their heads bowed in shame.

One by one the king embraced them all. “This is our most powerful weapon against the dragon,” he announced. “Truth. No more hidden flights. Alone we cannot resist him.”

How interesting this reaction of the King and Father. At just the very moment that the son expects to be killed—and we think, "rightfully so"—his father embraces him. “The dragon is crafty!” And clearly if the King were to kill all those who had ridden the dragon, there would be none left to fight it. And if God dealt with sin in the ways we often proclaim…?

All too often we come to Luke’s parable expecting to engage it by allegory. We like to name the people in the characters. We call the Father God, the younger son, sinful; and we don’t quite know what to do with the older son. He’s probably the one that beckons us, though. Few of us like to admit that we’re “sinful enough” to be represented in the younger son; few of us like to believe that we are called to the great and valiant graciousness of the father to offer such a “return” to his son; and that leaves only the older son, who we find not so savory, either. To come at the parable allegorically though, almost always leaves us with the Father pleading with US to come into the party celebrating the wayward son. And if we’re honest, we never want to be so willing. But maybe there's another way into the parable. 


I LOVE how Luke tells us this parable. Listen to the beginning: “Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to [Jesus]. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.” Pharisees… think “older son.” But notice that Jesus frames the scene by saying, “ALL the tax collectors and sinners,” by which I think he means “ALL.” So think, in particular, all the government regulators and CEOs who took that bank bailout money and squandered it, Congressional representatives who sometimes listen and are responsible and often aren’t; think sinners and make your favorite list—bank robbers, murderers, thieves, homosexuals, heterosexuals, child molesters, abusive spouses, cheating friends. And gathered together, Jesus would turn to those who would take offense—think older son, the Pharisees, and my guess is all of us… “There was a man who had two sons. The younger of them said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.’ So he divided his property between them…”—you know the rest.

As Luke tells it, the younger son says to the father, “give me the share of the ousia that will belong to me.” Ousia, is a Greek word we’re all familiar with, but you might not know it. My lexicon for translating biblical passages tells us ousia means “property” or “wealth;” and while that’s accurate enough, ousia is also a word that the Church has fought long and hard over. Not quite three hundred years after Luke is writing his gospel, ousia becomes the word the Church Council at Nicaea uses to define the relationship between God and Jesus. The exact line of the Nicene Creed says, “of one Being with the Father”—or, “of one SUBSTANCE.” It’s a word that conjurs not just “property” or “wealth” being transacted, but perhaps something more akin to “substance”—like God promises Abraham will have a child with Sarah of his very own “issue.” DNA, a last name, family heritage. Read this way, the father in our story appears to be giving more than just money to his son.

What the Church believes about God and Jesus is that they are of one substance. The Son comes to inhabit the earth as a human being with the “substance” of God. Some theologians even suggest the parable of the prodigal plays on that relationship: God the father, Jesus the son who goes far away to another country—earth—to the dissolute living of human beings. But before we go back to allegorizing again, Luke’s story seemingly suggests that father and sons are connected in their very “being-ness”—the father and the younger son, the father and the older son, the older son and the younger son.

Luke throws another twist at us too. Notice that it isn’t the “dissolute living” or what we often call the “sinful behavior” that gets the younger son into the story’s real trouble. It’s true, he squanders, or spends all the money—yes. But it’s the famine that does him in. And famines—like earthquakes, storms, tornadoes, fires, and disasters of all kinds—affect human beings in a variety of ways, the good and bad alike. His trouble comes not because he stupidly spent his fortune and now has nothing; trouble finds him because the place where he finds himself isn’t willing to recognize his ousia. He’s the low man on the totem pole because he’s got no family. No one will give him anything because the rule is, “fools get what they deserve.” If he had family, they would be OBLIGATED to take him in. So the redemptive moment becomes when he decides to return to his ousia—when he remembers his “substance”—who he really or truly is.

Notice too, that this “repentance” is not “forgiveness.” That despite the son’s intention to seek forgiveness the father will have none of it. Grace trumps forgiveness in this story. But what ousia means is that “substance” never wears off. So he still gets the best robe, the ring, the fatted calf, the celebration… no matter what he did. Repentance, “finding oneself” is one thing; forgiveness… that’s another story.

But isn’t Luke’s story able to offer us an important view toward who and whose we really are. We believe that Jesus—the same “substance” or “ousia” as God—comes to earth to live in the same “ousia” as human beings. In a way, that’s how Jesus is able to drag all of us back up to heaven, because he “unites” human beings with God—in the waters of baptism, there in the font; in the feasting at the Lord’s Supper, here in bread and cup; in the word—the logos—proclaimed from forever. In Jesus we are melded to God in that we are even called brothers and sisters with Christ and therefore, we bear some of “God’s ousia ourselves.”

That bears striking resemblance to what we proclaim in the creation story; that God created human beings, literally “breathing into us the breath of life”—the pnuma or Spirit of God. And in imparting life to us, we believe God gives us God’s own image—so that we bear the image of God if not God’s same substance. It’s how we can say in all seriousness that we can see “Christ” in one another. And we believe that we are created by God and that we return to God when we die.

So that at least part of what Luke offers us is a story that seems to bear out that truthful reality that because of Jesus Christ, human beings belong to and are related to God’s own substance. That human beings—no matter who we are or what we’ve done—always have a way home.

What does this mean? I believe it means that we can say of every human being—by “ousia”—you belong to God, you are of God. That fathers and sons can meet with an embrace rather than the business end of a sword. It means that we can say, “we belong to God,” and mean it. It means we know God’s ousia trumps whatever mistakes we’ve made in life—how ever the ways we have “ridden that dragon” thinking we were alone all that whole time, given over to our own desires. God says, “no so”—that’s not your story! “I” am your story!

And people always want to ask, “does this mean the perpetrators of those despicable acts—do they get into heaven, too?” Luke’s parable doesn’t address that. What we’re saying is that “coming to one’s self,” human beings find a way to God in Jesus Christ. We are not saying, “oh you murders, you traitors, you child molesters, it’s really OK what you did, come into the party.” We’re NOT saying that AT ALL. We’re saying that every human being belongs to God no matter who they are or what they’ve done. And that God bears the burden of what happens next. And if the parable’s any indication, don’t we have to believe that at the minimum, God invites them to enter the grand party—by dying to an old way of living and embracing a new one? The same thing God says to us—even if our sins aren’t perceived by us to be quite so bad.

Shall we not dare to say, as the other father does to his son, “There will be mercy for all who wish to be freed.” Mercy and forgiveness are not the same things. Mercy is the way of coming home, of returning, of the door being opened from death to life anew.

“There will be mercy for all who wish to be freed.”

Too often, you and I stand like Pharisees, trying to guard the door, not letting any sinfulness get past. Even for us, “there will be mercy for all who wish to be freed.”

Brothers and sisters… the party beckons.


--+ AMEN.




As always, thanks for checking this out. 

The Audio Link and Manuscript for my Sermon from Sunday, March 07, 2010

Here's the Link to the Audio File for the live recording of my sermon, as delivered, on Sunday, March 7th.  The link will be followed by the manuscript I worked from. 


http://www.box.net/shared/fovcsaamk0



The Third Sunday in Lent; March 07, 2010
Park Avenue Presbyterian Church; Des Moines, Iowa
Texts: Isaiah 55: 1-9
Psalm 63: 1-8
1 Corinthians 10: 1-13
Luke 13: 1-9 *

“It's Not Too Late to Get the Manure on Your Shoes?”

--} Lent is a time when the Church turns toward Jesus’ death—not resurrection, DEATH. The old wisdom is: “you can’t have an Easter resurrection without a death”—so, we walk with Jesus toward his death. And let’s face it, that just “feels” weird.

Death almost always makes us uncomfortable—especially unusual circumstances. One of my Facebook friends, a seminary colleague, a pastor in Houston, posted this earlier this week:

Visited a friend of a friend in hospital... This young couple's son, age 14, is slowly suffocating due to rejection of a lung transplant. No hope for survival. They are hoping for a swift and painless death because that's the best they can hope for.

Last year they lost their other son, age 16. He had cystic fibrosis and went septic after a visit to Universal Studios in Orlando and died in the car in his mother's arms on the drive home. The mother is 40 years old. GOD help her and her husband and their son who's dying. Keep them in prayer.

Death bothers us so much, that we Americans cling to life as if any kind of death were bad. We even try and legislate for it, or often find ourselves labeling it, “a shame,” or “a tragedy”—perhaps like some of the people coming to Jesus. Stanley Hauerwas, a well known Christian ethicist and theologian says that if most Americans were asked to name the purpose of life, we would answer, “the purpose of life is not to die.” [Really?]

Yet Christian doctrine, like Jesus in our gospel lesson, has an emphatic corrective. Commentator Ralph Wood asserts:

“Christians… believe that we have come from and that we will return to the God of Jesus Christ. Our central conviction, therefore, is that the purpose of life is indeed TO DIE—faithfully, graciously, perhaps even in martyrdom—so as to indicate that God’s kingdom is indeed our reason for living.”

I take it that he means our “reason for life” isn’t captured only in being with family and friends, that it isn’t simply a desire to live longer, or to give up or throw away our lives easily, but that we would be intentional about living out our FAITH that says, “we belong to God.” Not tragically, not shamefully.

Luke’s gospel reports that when Jesus is told about the “Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices,” Jesus throws back at them a longstanding question about life and death:

“Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? …Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem?”

Jesus acts as if people were asking “who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” or more pointedly, trying to answer the question about the relationship between one’s sinfulness and personal accountability. In searching for the “reason” someone dies, too often we think people must have done something wrong to cause God to get mad at them.

This presumption has led Pat Robertson and other irresponsible Christians to conclude that the Haitian earthquake was the result of some “deal made with the devil,” or that New Orleans—for its well-known parlors of iniquity—brought on itself the destruction of Hurricane Katrina or that Chilé must have done something even more self-destructive in earning God’s wrath. In response to all such proclamations hear the voice of God in Jesus answering with an emphatic: “NO!!!!!” For us, Jesus forever breaks the link between sinful behavior and supernatural consequences. Life and death ARE NOT related to sinfulness. Sinning more or less does not effect one’s chances for premature death or survival of tragic happenings. We cannot and must not presume that particularly moral or righteous behavior is rewarded by less tragedy or that less righteousness earns more wrath. After all, the central story of Christian faith is that a sinless Jesus suffers and dies because of the sins of others. Humans beware! Sinfulness alone doesn’t keep people out of the kingdom of God. [Thank goodness!]

What Jesus does say, however, is that unless we experience metanoia, we can never leave death behind. Metanoia is the Greek word which is often translated in this passage as “repent,” but the word literally means to turn, or to turn around—“to change one’s mind,” or perhaps even better, “to have a change of heart.” “Repentance” is a loaded term implying for me some kind of sinfulness has occurred. I think what Jesus is saying, to break the link between sin and death, is that unless our hearts are changed, we can’t leave death behind. And here, Jesus offers us a parable:

“A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, ‘See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?’ [The gardener] replied, ‘Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.’ ”

Notice in the parable that change was expected, but not achieved; but also, that the tree was not without an advocate. Advocating for a change, the gardener proposes a kind of intervention—that judgment be suspended until such time as the roots could be dug around and manure applied. Even despite no apparent change in 3 seasons, the possibility of fruitfulness yet remains. It would seem that every opportunity might be given for the desired change to occur before judgment is rendered.

Many commentators suggest these stories are meant to emphasize that the “time” is short, that Jesus is declaring something like, “repent, before it’s too late!” But to me, there’s a difference between saying, “repent before it’s too late,” and “it’s not too late to have your minds changed,” or “it’s not too late to start bearing fruit.” After all, it seems to me that the Jesus is saying as well, “the ‘gardener,’ the ‘advocate’ is with you to help enable your fruitfulness—prepare to receive the manure.

The difference between Jesus demanding a change of heart that I have to accomplish for myself and Jesus who declares a change of heart is necessary and that he stands ready to help bring it into being—is huge. The one results easily in the attitude, “well, I guess the Haitians or the Chileans didn’t change their ways, or they wouldn’t have suffered God’s judgment.” The other possibility, that of Jesus standing ready to help us, means that we can “be changed” by our relationship with Christ. Jesus, breaking the link between sin and death, is the shovel-er of manure for our sake—declaring for us, “it’s not too late to bear fruit.” The one providing the manure to “feed” the tree and its produce is the same one who becomes our bread, that we too might be nourish and bear fruit. Or could it be as well, Jesus reminding us that we, too, have hands and tools and can help others by helping to dig and shoveling manure for them, too.

About that manure… one of my other Facebook pastor-friends shared some thoughts recently about our relationship to God in light of the things that can happen to us. He wrote:

As pastors, my wife and I live in a church “manse,” a house owned by the church in which the pastor lives while serving that congregation. Ours is a beautiful old 3-story home, built in 1872. In between the church and the house is an equally historic cemetery. The well-groomed cemetery is separated from the house by a hillside that is covered with trees and brush and is home to a family of deer during the summer and foxes and squirrels and groundhogs the whole year long.

I’ve decided that if these woodland creatures have any concept of a higher power, it is probably similar to that of many Christians. That holds especially true of the squirrels. Knowing that we have so many animals living right next to our house, we often toss bits of fruits or vegetables or breads up on the hillside, instead of throwing them away. When our Halloween pumpkins are done, we toss them on the hill; if grapes, apples or oranges start to spoil, they get tossed on the hill. Stale cookies or bread, up they go to the hill. And in a very short while, you’ll see the squirrels appear from everywhere, gathering food as quickly as it was tossed on the hillside.

There’s one other thing that ends up on the hillside – dog poop. We have two dogs, a Black Lab and a small dog of indeterminate breeding. They generate the usual amount of dog poop and, having grown up in farm country in the Midwest, I tend to just scoop it up out of the yard and toss it back into nature – right there on the hillside. So I imagine that the squirrels must think there is some deity out there, sometimes tossing gifts of fruit and vegetables and at other times, throwing some poop into their lives. Do they wonder what they’ve done to deserve either? Do the squirrels wonder what they’ve done wrong when the poop starts to fly? Do they reflect on what they could have done better so that the “God of the hillside” wouldn’t poop on them? When the fruit and vegetables come raining down, do they congratulate themselves, thinking they’ve finally lived the kind of “squirrel life” they were supposed to?

Or maybe the squirrels say to themselves, “Well, I don’t know where this poop is coming from, but it must be part of God’s plan for us. The poop is being thrown at us to test us. God surely won’t give us more poop than we can handle.” Does any of this sound familiar? I’m really not making fun of people’s faith, but I do have to wonder what we base some of our beliefs on – maybe nothing more than some random instances of gifts and poop. After all, sometimes “poop” happens – all on its own, not God-sent.  [My thanks to Rev. Mitch Trigger who share this story about his own experience and observations.] 

Perhaps it is important that we Christians say as boldly as we can that God loves us so much, that God takes every opportunity to provide the metanoia—the change of heart—that is necessary for us to live with the vision of the Kingdom of God, and not be caught up in the suppositions of the world. There is no way to insure ourselves of better things or longer life by avoiding sin. The truth is that even with all the manure and careful digging, the tree cannot live forever. Jesus doesn’t say that by living a more moral or fruitful life, we somehow avoid dying. Even if it isn’t cut down, but bears fruit, the tree eventually will die—so did Jesus, and so do we.

The difference is what we believe about God; and what we believe about death.



--+ AMEN.