Audio Link and Sermon Manuscript for Sunday, July 25th

If you'd like to hear the recording of my sermon from Sunday, July 25th, 2010, click on this file and download: 

http://www.box.net/shared/xe3e6et9ps


The manuscript follows below: 


The Seventeenth Sunday of Ordinary Time; July 25, 2010
Park Avenue Presbyterian Church; Des Moines, Iowa
Texts: Hosea 1: 2-10
Psalm 85
Colossians 2: 6-15 (16-19)
Luke 11: 1-13 *

“Participation by Prayer”

--} Honestly, there are a lot of questions to be asked about today’s gospel lesson.

• Why does Jesus teach a prayer that’s different from the one we say in worship?
• Why do Presbyterians “pray it” differently than the Methodists, or the Episcopalians?
• How come Luke’s version and Matthew’s version of the Lord’s Prayer are different?
• Is Jesus teaching us “how” to pray, or “what” to pray?
• Why do we pray a prayer like this one every Sunday—so often, that it’s wrote and “boring” and we might not even know what it “means” anymore?

And honestly, there are a host of other questions we could ask, too. Like:

• What do the words of this prayer really MEAN?
• What are we “really praying for” when we say these words?
• Is there a particular theology being espoused, or doctrine, or dogma, that we should be careful of or concerned about?
• Christians have been praying this prayer for almost 2,000 years—shouldn’t we try something different for a change?

But honestly, I really don’t want to have to deal with any of those questions this morning. Instead, I’d like to tell you about how I’ve come to know the Lord’s Prayer in my own experience, and then see if the gospel story doesn’t shed some additional light on how Jesus invites us to be in relationship with one another and with God.



It was some years ago now; I was a young pastor serving a small congregation in the middle of Nebraska. We had a young family who had moved to town with two daughters—a nearly 2 year old, and a nearly 4 year old. Since the congregation was exclusively older, we didn’t have any children’s programming at all. But with some encouragement, we got the family to come to worship and bring the girls and things were quite happy. The congregation now had “entertainment” because they could watch the two girls during worship. They knew just how to make mom and dad squirm, and occasionally make one another squeal. And it was all perfectly fine—especially for the congregation, quietly “observing” during the sermon.

But all this changed one Sunday. As the pastor I’d been intentional about involving the girls in worship, inviting them to sing with us or occasionally referring to something they liked in the sermon. That congregation—like this one—also made a habit of reciting the Lord’s Prayer together every Sunday. And on this particular Sunday, I was paying careful attention to the 4 year old as the congregation began reciting the prayer. And it was one of those flash-bulb kind of moments. The 4 year old was about to punch the 2 year old; one of those moments when you thought you could imagine the future that hadn’t just happened yet. And at just the moment the congregation began “Our father, who art in heaven…” the 4 year old’s face changed. I could almost see the flash of “recognition” as the words stumbled past her ears and registered in her brain. Miraculously, she pulled back from her sister and her head swiveled around as she tried to comprehend what was happening. It was as if her brain was screaming out to her that the congregation was praying that prayer her mother had been trying for several weeks to teach her at bedtime. And because she was sitting in the front-row, I—the preacher—was the only one who got to see the gaped mouth of utter astonishment—as she discovered for the first time that somebody else knew that prayer, too.

In all my years in the church, this is one of the most precious of moments that I’ve been privileged to witness. But with it, was the following Sunday. Everyone was back in church, except the 4 year old brought her rapt attention. She didn’t bother with her younger sister. She sat, carefully listening, through the prayers, the hymns, the scripture reading, and even the sermon. It was as if she knew, at any moment, the whole congregation was going to do something. And sure enough, when it came time for the Lord’s Prayer, her suspicions confirmed, she was ready. And as we prayed on that next Sunday, she added her voice—her most grown up, adult, I’m going to participate too, voice—to the rest of ours and prayed so that everyone could hear her. And there wasn’t a dry eye in the house after that. There in those moments a mere 4 year old had learned what my preaching and worship professor had promised us in seminary, the kids will “get it too.” And she did.



Now I tell you that story because I want us to see and to know that it’s NOT because of the particular doctrine or dogma of the prayer that’s particularly important. I don’t know exactly what Jesus had in mind when he encouraged his disciples to pray “this way,” but I do know that in the tradition of Christian believers the Lord’s Prayer has taken a monumental place in our Spiritual formation and participation in the life of Jesus Christ. It could be about the words themselves. Yes, it probably is at least partly about the very words. But for nearly two-thousand years, for whatever reasons, Christians have recited the prayer. And it’s likely how we first learn to participate in believing.

You see, in the earliest church, the Christian community was small. A handful of families in any one place, really. There weren’t large gatherings like we know them. There weren’t church buildings. There wasn’t any kind of church infrastructure. No pastors, no elders, no bishops. The Apostles might have gathered in Jerusalem, but they were a far cry from the day-to-day experience of Christians. It wasn’t like today, when we expect to be asked questions like, “where are you going when you die?” or “was Jesus born by way of a virgin-birth?” or “is Jesus the only way to salvation.” In the earliest experiences of faith, people didn’t know “what” they believed or even “what” the church believed. Believers were marked by the prayers they prayed and the ways they acted toward others in the world.

“Christians” as we’ve become known as, were formed around the community that shared the words of the Lord’s Prayer and enacted the teachings of Jesus.

And so when Luke relates this story to first-century believers, there’s immediately the encouragement to begin praying these words. In fact, the earliest believers presume this prayer is a prescribed prayer. They write it into their worship practices and daily rituals—and they hand it down, generation by generation. Now that’s persistent prayer! And that’s generally the part that you and I affirm and participate in ourselves—every Sunday in worship, perhaps every day in our daily spiritual lives—if nothing else, we always have THIS PRAYER to sustain us. And as we join in the now-familiar and well-worn words, as they tumble out of our mouths across our lips perhaps even unknowingly, we join our voices with the myriad of thousands across the centuries who offered them in their own time of need or their own practices of reverence and hope. The fact that we know them “together” melds us as believers. “Together” it’s a common vision and witness—not just for ourselves, but for others. And we come to faith, I think, when we offer our own ascent to the words, as we join the chorus of believers in every time and place. And it’s always a feel-good kind of moment.



But honestly, I’m not sure that’s what Jesus had in mind—at all. And I say that, not because I doubt these were Jesus’ words, but I think somewhere along the way we took them a bit overboard. Don’t get me wrong, I like that we have the Lord’s Prayer. I like the grounded-ness that we feel in it, the unity and togetherness that comes from our common voicing of it. But those well-worn familiar words may have just been an example; where the true and heart-felt desire of Jesus was to teach us that “praying” is essential to accomplishing what God asks us to do. Not so much “how” we pray or even “what” we pray, but that we pray.

While there’s a lot that could be said about the “what” that we pray, I believe the prayer becomes instructive for us, not so much because of “what” Jesus has followers pray but because the Church chose to take up praying together. It’s a teachable moment both for us and the world. For us—more than the words that stumble out of our mouths, flowing off our tongues without our minds giving them a second thought or understanding the gravity of what they ask—the prayer does what otherwise seems impossible. It calls us to participation together.

For the earliest believers, that followers prayed together was exactly the point. More than doctrine or theology or specific petitions, Jesus marks us with a prayer—the repetition of which has been preserved and practiced for hundreds of centuries. And it marks us, not by what it means or how seriously we offer the words; but that we declare it. That we add our voices to the thousands and myriads. It’s how our lives are changed. It’s how we are reformed and conformed to Christ’s image. It’s literal, it’s spiritual, it’s hopeful. Not because we say magic words, but because we join the throng of faithful who know it and pray it, together.

Should we try something different for a change? I don’t think so. And neither did the 4 year old.


--+ Friends, God sent his son, the Christ, to show us how to pray and the power of prayer and the promise of persistence heard and responded to. So let us add our voices to those of the faithful of every time and place—that we too, might give witness not just to “what” we believe, but “who” we believe in. AMEN.

If you're looking for a semon from Sunday, July 18th...

I wasn't preaching this morning.  Our congregation had a guest preacher from a local outreach agency, Hope Ministries.  Mary Kohlsdorf offered the message this morning, did a great job, and I got to play a supporting worship leader.  That's a nice change.  I'll be back in the sadle next Sunday. 

Thanks for checking this out. 

David Stipp-Bethune

Audio Link and Sermon Manuscript for Sunday, July 11th, 2010

If you'd like to listen to my sermon from Sunday, July 11th, click on the link below and download. 

http://www.box.net/shared/ujtxzsd53t

The manuscript I used follows below: 

The Fifteenth Sunday of Ordinary Time; July 11, 2010
Park Avenue Presbyterian Church; Des Moines, Iowa
Texts: Amos 7: 7-17
Psalm 82
Colossians 1: 1-14
Luke 10: 25-37

“Measuring: ‘Who Is My Neighbor’?”

--} One of the unanticipated experiences I had on my pilgrimage to the Holy Land last fall was getting to stop along the highway between Jericho and Jerusalem, and stand near what is being billed as the “Good Samaritan Inn.” Now before you get all excited, it certainly IS NOT the historical “location” of Jesus story, along the road from Jerusalem to Jericho. And if we’re honest, Jesus tells us a story that may or may not have been historically true; and there is no way of telling “where” that spot would have been along the road. Any relationship to today’s modern highway that spans the distance between Jerusalem and Jericho is tenuous at best. But when our bus stopped at the driveway to the “Good Samaritan Inn,” we naturally grew excited. We only got as far as the approach drive that would have led to the building site for a hotel; but we were greeted by a locked fence with no view of the hotel. Failing to get to the so-called “Good Samaritan Inn,” we stood along the drive next to the modern, interstate-like highway and marveled—not at where we were, but the mustard weeds growing in the ditch next to the drive.

For the first time my group-mates and I were face to flower with the infamous “mustard seed plant.” Finally, all the “book-sense” about how ugly a mustard plant was, made sense. Here it was in the ditch alongside the road, clearly an unwelcome, unwanted, undesirable pest. Now that “other” story Jesus tells about a mustard plant growing large enough where birds might nest in it, made more sense. What an atrocious example!

It was in this rather non-descript, yet picturesque spot along the road between Jericho and Jerusalem that our group shared evening worship at the end of the day when we were returning from the historical places of Masada, Qumran, and the Dead Sea. And it was here, that our group spent time together talking about what it meant to be a “neighbor.” And as you might guess, we shared stories with one another about the people on the trip who had helped us on our journey, from sharing medicine or drinks, to mealtimes and assistance; from places we showed our true colors and acts of kindness and mercy we had received from one another. And, as you can imagine, it was a nice moment in the glowing sunset.

But I don’t believe this is the kind of thing Jesus had in mind when he told the story of the Good Samaritan.

What we don’t often acknowledge about Luke’s story is that Jesus’ point seems to be getting the lawyer to identify his “neighbor.” But when he does, it’s a surprise ending. We often think the “neighbor” must be the guy left for dead in the ditch; but we arrive at that conclusion by not listening to the lawyer who identifies the “Samaritan” instead. When Jesus asks, “which one was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” the lawyer identifies, “the one who showed him mercy.” The “one who showed mercy” was the neighbor; so that “loving one’s neighbor,” means loving the one who shows mercy. And in Jesus’ story, this is a scandalous conclusion—a surprise, much like that mustard seed plant.

What Jesus seems to be saying is that loving one’s neighbor—IS—loving the Samaritan. Which is sort of like being told to love one’s enemies. The point of the story isn’t just to “go and do likewise;” or simply, going and helping those in need—as good as that might sound. The scandal here isn’t that someone is left for dead while people walk by and then someone gets commended for finally helping the victim; the scandal is that the Jewish believer—the lawyer—must come to “love his neighbor”—the dreaded Samaritan. And if that weren’t enough, to go and do likewise. What Jesus finds necessary is not just doing the deed of mercy; but instead, the loving of the one who is merciful.

Now as we know, Jews and Samaritans were long-divided peoples. They disagreed over religious practices, the importance of the Temple in Jerusalem, and generally didn’t care for one another. Their disagreements were significant and notorious. They spoke disdainfully of one another, and often acted out of fear and hatred. They viewed one another like many people might think of illegal immigrants coming into our country to take American jobs; or even like some people perceive homosexuality and same-sex marriage. Simply put, asking the lawyer to consider “loving the Samaritan” is much akin to asking the rich man to sell his possessions and give the money to the poor. Neither one is likely to be happy about the necessities. It’s easier, you see, for Jews in Jesus day to contemplate having to break religious laws in order to help someone left for dead in the ditch than having to admit the demand of the Kingdom of God was to “love the neighbor. Loving a despicable so-in-so, because he’s the one who helped a man left for dead in the ditch, and having to “go and do likewise”—that’s hard. And that’s exactly Jesus’ point.

To be “justified,” the lawyer has to contemplate what would never occur for him to do on his own. To be “justified,” he must somehow entertain how God sees the world. And that doesn’t leave room for any kind of self-interested-ness. Loving neighbor is suddenly transformed. A “neighbor” isn’t just someone in need, but instead is the one who shows mercy. Careful followers of Jesus are invited to love the show-ers of mercy—their neighbors—and to live like them!



Now one of the people I got to see in Minneapolis at General Assembly was one of my Israel trip-mates—a friend, and a neighbor. Over dinner one evening we were reflecting on our journey from Jericho to Jerusalem on what was a fine, modern, interstate-like, limited access highway. We never noticed at the time, but my friend had learned since our visit, that the super-highway was an Israeli-only road—meaning only Israeli citizens were permitted to use it. Recalling our journey, we remembered that there were few access points along the highway; and that clearly, the road was meant to be used by people who got on in Jerusalem or Jericho, without stopping in-between. As modern and convenient as it was to travel quickly and easily, I can’t help but see that road as a visible division between peoples. A reminder of the staunch disagreements between Jews and Samaritans.

Today, perhaps the so-called “Good Samaritan” wouldn’t be allowed on that road at all! Today, maybe even Jesus couldn’t travel that highway! And as I thought about it, perhaps even in the first-century, it would have been likely the Samaritan wouldn’t have been accepted kindly along the Jericho to Jerusalem road. Maybe, Jesus, neither—especially if the Romans knew that he was a subversive. For the lawyer, “loving one’s neighbor as one’s self must mean loving people like the Samaritan and Jesus—subversives, unattractive folks, people who were “different” from the lawyer. So maybe, times haven’t changed!

Rather than the lesson being about helping those who have been beaten, robbed, and left for dead, Jesus is asking us to “love the neighbor” instead. To love the one or ones rendering aid. To love the one or ones who are daring to make a difference. To love the one or ones who are taking up for others—“others” whom you and I might regularly walk past on our way to more important things. “Others,” with whom we might disagree, or even disapprove. To “love,” the mercy show-ers, and going forth to show mercy ourselves.



One of the actions of General Assembly this week, was to recommend to our denomination’s 173 Presbyteries the adoption of a new Form of Government. This new Form of Government, if voted in the affirmative by a majority of Presbyteries would restore the language for ordained church officers to be—ruling elders, teaching elders, and deacons. Ruling Elders are Session members; Teaching Elders are ministers of Word and Sacrament. Like the “plumb line,” “Ruling Elders” are called—not as “rulers” whose majority vote garners their way to “rule” and lord it over others; but instead are “measurers.” Ruling Elders are supposed to participate in the “measurement” of the fidelity of the church to the gospel of Jesus Christ. In other words, Ruling Elders are the measurers, the “plumb line” whereby they determine how well or how far the church is from keeping God’s intentions.

Jesus’ point in today’s gospel story it would seem, “measures” that that the lawyer who would justify himself, still has a ways to go. And how might Jesus’ story “measure” us and our congregation? Do we love the ones who show mercy? Do we do likewise? What walls of division do we still maintain? How often do we deny others access to the Kingdom of God and its values because we’re convinced they’re lesser or undeserving?

So what it means for Ruling Elders, to “measure” is for us to seek the ways of being pointed in new, more faithful directions—like the lawyer in Jesus’ story. And Jesus’ expectation—it seems to me—is that careful followers will notice that loving the neighbor is more than tending to the man in the ditch. Loving the neighbor calls us beyond ourselves—not just in acts of mercy, but learning to be merciful. And being merciful begs for an investment on behalf of those in need—time, talents, resources. Or isn’t that how Jesus’ story turns?

I believe Jesus is asking us to measure the ways we have divided and conquered—seeking instead for us to build up and restore. Or isn’t that how Jesus’ story turns? I believe that if we are interested in the life God promises through the Kingdom, we have to measure better and trust in Jesus and the ways he LIVED. It means investing ourselves in the care of others, and learning to love those who do mercy—and do likewise.


--+ Friends, God sent his son, the Christ, to show us how to live; the Holy Spirit has come that we might trust in new life. So let us measure ourselves in our fidelity to the gospel of Jesus’ life and witness and trust that we can live in new ways. AMEN.

Link to the audio file and manuscript for my sermon from Sunday, July 04, 2010

If you'd like to hear the audio recording of my sermon from Sunday, July 4th, click on the link below and download. 

Link to the recorded Sermon from Sunday, July 4th, 2010:  http://www.box.net/shared/f8ol3n0uk4



The Fourteenth Sunday of Ordinary Time; July 04, 2010
Park Avenue Presbyterian Church; Des Moines, Iowa
Texts: 2 Kings 5: 1-14
Psalm 30: 1-2, 11-20
Galatians 6: (1-6) 7-16
Luke 10: 1-20 *

“Eat. Cure. Say.”

--} We’ve got a GREAT Fourth of July bible story for today, don’t we? Could it possibly get any better? We’ve got “fireworks” with “harvest laborers” sent to proclaim “the kingdom of God has come near,” demonstrating power over scorpions and snakes, and even without purse, bag, or sandals can cure sick people. And if you want REAL fireworks, it doesn’t get any better than Jesus “seeing Satan falling from heaven like a flash of lightening!”—does it?


But I want to begin today with a different image—one that’s ancient in its scope, but yet familiar to us all. The Psalmist and good ole King James take us where “The Lord is my Shepherd… who prepares a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.”

This morning, here’s that table—the Lord’s Table.

“The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want…” and when you get past lying in the green pastures and being beside the still waters and your soul is restored, you can walk through the valley of the shadow of death and not be afraid—then comes the table, “in the presence of mine enemies.”

I know now as an adult [and the beneficiary of biblical scholarship] that the shepherd “I shall not want,” is actually a statement about the Lord being our shepherd and that WE SHALL NOT BE IN NEED. But I always grew up thinking and feeling and even believing the Lord was my shepherd that I wouldn’t want—because he makes me to do things I’d rather not. And even with the green pastures and the still waters and the restored soul—the valley of the shadow of death and the table in the presence of my enemies was just too much. The Lord MIGHT be my shepherd, but it didn’t have to be a shepherd I’d want. I’m glad times have changed.

I begin here because today’s gospel reading is one of those places that I think if we’re honest, there are tasks of discipleship with the Good Shepherd that we’d rather not have to take up. Going out, as Luke’s Jesus describes, “like lambs into the midst of wolves, without a purse, bags, or sandals sounds tough; and even then, to have to rely on the hospitality of strangers, to eat whatever is provided (whether you like it or not), and to CURE THE SICK—doesn’t sound like a gig any of us are going to sign up for anytime soon. And even as we’re taught it’s this great evangelistic call to go out into the harvest reaping the Lord’s fruit of believers… we’re quick to presume (or at least hope) that such a calling isn’t for people like us. And if that’s what we think, maybe we’ve misread the gospel.

Instead, hear a word of hope:

[There is a story told about] a missionary who was lost at sea in a fierce storm; his boat capsized and he washed up on the edge of a remote village in a strange land. Half-dead from starvation, thirst, and exposure to the elements, he was found by the people of the village and nursed back to health. He learned their language and lived among these people for twenty years. During that whole time, however, this missionary confessed no faith. He sang no hymns. He preached no sermons. He didn’t even recite a single word of scripture to the people of this village.

But during those twenty years, whenever someone was sick he would take care of them, often sitting up with them late into the night. When people were hungry, he gave them food. When people were lonely, he was a source of companionship. He always took the side of those who had been wronged. In short, there was not a single human condition with which he did not identify.

After twenty years had passed some other missionaries arrived at this village and began talking to the people about a man named Jesus and about the love of God who was the Creator of all things. After hearing about this “Jesus” the missionaries were telling them about, the villagers were confused. This “Jesus” had already arrived and was in fact living among them, that he’d been with them for the last twenty years. “Come,” they said, “we will introduce you to the man about whom you have been speaking.” The missionaries were led to a hut where they found their long-lost fellow missionary whom they assumed to have been dead.

Now I don’t know in fact whether this story is true, or not. But if it were true, it would seem to come right out of the pages of Luke’s gospel. Where the point Jesus is seen to make is that the work of the Kingdom of God is not so much about what is “said” about faith, but what is essentially exhibited in/by the life of the believer. That very ordinary things can bear an extraordinary witness to God’s power. Where it’s not just about our sacrifice but how we demonstrate God’s intention to shepherd God’s creation through the lifestyle of Jesus.

Luke’s gospel was written later in the first century. Though we like the idea of Luke being a first-hand account or an eye-witness to what Jesus says and does, that’s really not the case. Most scholars date the gospel of Luke being written between 80 and 85 C.E.—a generation or more after Jesus was crucified. Luke’s primary audience would have been a community of believers worshipping together, praying together, and probably asking themselves, “what are we supposed to do now?” Sound familiar? Don’t we ask that same kind of question about our church, our community, our denomination?

But Luke’s period of middle eastern history read a bit differently than our own, being marked significantly by the Romans crush of the Jewish Rebellion. Unlike America’s bid for freedom, where the foreign powers got booted out, the Romans left Jerusalem in ruins, the Jewish Temple wrecked, and God’s historic peoples dispersed far and wide across the region and in the world. Christians lagged around in the background, not yet arriving as a forceful collection of Jesus-followers on the world stage. And the point of the gospel stories seems to be not only to recount the stories of what Jesus said and did, but to offer some real direction for the people who would be “believers,” who wanted to “follow” in the ways Jesus taught and proclaimed. It’s a good application for folks living in the first century; but it remains a palpable message to instruct even us today, too.

It’s hard to figure out what we should call these 70 Jesus instructs—volunteers?, they’re not disciples; are they proclaimers of God’s kingdom?; believers?; followers?; or should we stick with Luke’s “laborers in Lord’s harvest”? But no matter what title we fashion, what’s really “telling” is what Luke’s Jesus actually says to them. Forget for a moment that bit about carrying no purse or bag or sandals—as if there were some airline luggage fee back then, too—but concentrate instead on what Jesus identifies as the behavior that has the most consequence: “Eat what is set before you; cure the sick who are there, and say to them, ‘The kingdom of God has come near to you.” Because when these so-called “laborers in the Lord’s harvest” return, they tell Jesus joyfully, “in your name the demons submit to us.” Eating, curing, saying. And it’s then that Jesus says to them, I watched Satan fall from heaven like a flash of lightning.”

In Luke’s story these 70 go out, they eat, they cure, they say. And the result—Satan falls from heaven. Luke even makes it sound like these two things are directly related—as if the 70 doing this job makes heaven safe. And maybe, it can make it sound like things are well and good for us, that—oh by the way—it’s no longer necessary for you and I have to have to go out “and be lambs in the midst of wolves” with “no purse no bag, no sandals, not greeting anyone on the road;” that it’s no longer necessary for us to go out with the threat of being rejected. Ah, we’re almost safe—green pastures and still waters just ahead, right?

But more than Satan falling from heaven like a flash of lightening—[remember that image tonight at your fireworks show]—Jesus adds, “See, I have given you authority to tread on snakes and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy; and nothing will hurt you.” This isn’t an advertisement for all the snake-handling and scorpion showing faiths out there; but instead seems to promise “laborers” that there’s nothing that can hurt us along the way. They seventy have gone out, their work establishes new boundaries—as wide now as the cosmos—with Satan falling from heaven. We don’t have to fear “rejection” or “suffering” or getting killed. But it isn’t all green pastures and still water, just yet. There remains that bit about “the table in the presence of mine enemies”—and Jesus may promise that we don’t get hurt, but the enemies are still real.

Now I started with that image of the table and our enemies because at least for me, while being the bearer and bringer of “comforts” galore, Jesus is also the kind of shepherd that “I’ll not always want.” He makes me to do things that I ordinarily won’t want to do. Give up my purse, my bag, my sandals, having to eat what’s provided, cure the sick, and to say to receiver and non-receiver alike, “the Kingdom of God has come near.” But here’s the part of today’s reading that I find exciting. Rather than getting hung up on the things Jesus says “NOT” to take, consider the human things. Caring for the sick. Eating with people and sharing food together. Being a community where there’s true companionship, visits for the lonely, and someone to take up with those who are wronged. Think of that missionary sent to establish faith, but doing it by never talking about it, only living it.

These are things that are—in fact—cosmic in scope. And whether it’s one of the original 70 dispersed by Jesus or believers to whom Luke is writing, or 21st century American Christians in Des Moines, it’s not an impossible task. It’s not filled with fear or fright; and the world—the whole cosmos—is made better, made safe. A little friendliness and tender-loving care and kindness, and Jesus reminds us something else is very much at stake.

“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.” It’s the Lord’s table where we believe Christ comes among us, to be resident in us, to remind us. And it’s at THIS table where enemies can become our friends. In the same manner Christ is joined to us, somehow, we can be joined—even to our fiercest rivals. Think about the missionary going off to live the gospel amongst strangers; and forging friendships not with the tip of a sword, but the love of Jesus. And not where we have to convince people to believe, so that they can be assured they will wind up in heaven—no! Where we witness to people through simple acts of kindness that we learn from THIS table.

Brothers and sisters, this is not just a day to remember freedom’s fight and how we won and how much God has blessed America. This is not a day for nationalistic bravado alone, about building walls and security fences and “keeping people out,” like when we repulsed the British by which we won our freedom. This is also a day to remember the gospel’s promise that the power of Christ is with us and among us—the power to eat, cure, and say—“the Kingdom of God has come near.” For us to remember that as Christians we have the power of Christ among us and with us and the question is not about heaven or hell, but instead, what we will do with Christ’s power and with the sharing of ourselves? Do we turn it into a sword, or turn or swords into plowshares?

What Jesus said: Laborers, pray that the Lord of the harvest will send out laborers into his harvest. Go on your way. Eat. Cure. Say.


--+ Friends, God sent his son, the Christ, who died and was raised; the Holy Spirit has come; and we are called to the sound, the touch, the sight, of the Kingdom of God being near—even in America. The Lord has appointed. Let us eat. Let us cure. Let us say… so that all the world might know. AMEN.