Friday, September 22, 2017
Exodus 16:2-15, Psalm 105:1-6, 37-45, Philippians 1:21-30, Matthew 20:1-16
Monday morning, I sat up in bed and I said to Melody, “Another week of trying to get people to do stuff. And they already have too much to do.” Am I complaining? I love my job, it’s my privilege to be your pastor, but privately I’m a constant complainer. If I act nice in public, under my breath I’m always grousing and griping. It is a trial for my wife. I went with her to Costco last week and as we came back out to the parking lot she said, “I’m never taking you here again.”
So in the parable, that would be me complaining about the landowner’s generosity as a case of unfairness. In Exodus, that would be me filing a complaint about our hunger in the wilderness. I take offense at suffering. That would be me who is challenged by St. Paul in Philippians, that our suffering is a privilege, at least when it’s for Christ. And I suspect that challenges you as well.
In the parable, the joke is that what the vineyard workers complain about is grace. Not the principle of grace but the effect of grace. The principle of grace is that you get gifts from God you have not earned and do not merit. The effect of grace is that other people can get gifts from God that you don’t get. “Hey, yes you gave me enough, but they suffered less for it! This grace thing feels unfair.”
One of the difficult lessons of the Christian life is that God is not accountable to our human notions of fairness. That the world is unfair we learn to cope with from an early age. But when God feels unfair, well that’s like growing up with unfair parents: your brother got a better bike than you did, your troubles did not receive the same attention as your sister’s. It takes real faith to keep believing in God when the lives of other believers seem more blessed than your own.
This living by faith is in itself a kind of suffering, suffering as endurance, as enduring while not receiving. Having faith in a God who does not answer to your experience of fairness is a kind of suffering, the suffering you do for Christ, which St. Paul calls your privilege! St. Paul can be such a Calvinist!
Everybody knows that the ethical life is choosing for the right against the wrong, for what is fair against what isn’t fair. But what about when choosing for the right will cost you unfairly, or cost you things that other people get to keep? That too is a kind of suffering, and that too requires to live by faith, that the right thing is its own reward, that the cost is itself the benefit. You have to live by faith that love wins, because with love the cost is the same thing as the benefit.
It sounds glib when it comes from me. What do I know of real suffering? That I’ve been treated unfairly by the denomination that I love? First world problem. So don’t take it from me, take it from St. Paul, who knew of what he spoke. He wrote these words from prison. He had to spend his most productive years in prison, like Muhammad Ali, like Nelson Mandela, and his imprisonment was totally unfair. False incarceration. He was confined in conditions of isolation, and yet, from his soul he extended out across the empire a great space of unconditional welcome. His privilege.
Last week I spoke about the space of unconditional welcome in very glowing terms. This week the plot thickens, because that space does not exclude your suffering. The space of unconditional welcome can be a wilderness. A place of testing and temptation. A bare and empty space, that gives you no accouterments, no conveniences, no comforts and no furniture. No groceries. All cost and no benefits. And maybe no vision, no vision of the kingdom of heaven to encourage you, just the empty space with no conditions of comfort.
Into the wilderness God welcomes the Children of Israel, this god they do not know from Adam. The gods and goddesses of Egypt they understand, but not this new god who has forced them here. Is his palace on that legendary mountain where they have to go to meet him?
Whoever he is, they’re now his guests, in his realm, and as his guests they feel he is obliged to feed them. Or maybe they felt like they are the slaves of this god who bought them from the Egyptians at the price of blood, and so as his slaves they have the right to rations. In either case, it’s up to God to feed them. Their complaint seems to be legitimate. God does not contend the point.
What upsets Moses is the way they ask for it, the tone of their complaint, insulting God, and slandering the liberation God has won for them. Talking about their former enslavement as the good old days. Ingrates! Well, they’re hungry. And afraid. And traumatized by the violence of their liberation. They had not asked for freedom, only for relief. They have no experience at freedom, and freedom is scary. They don’t know what to expect from this god, and their slavery has trained them in distrust and resistance. They are passive-aggressive, untrusting, always acting victimized.
God designs their daily rations to be a testing, a proving, a training in obedience. Not the old obedience of slavery but the new obedience of freedom. The obedience of trust instead of the whip, by faith instead of force. You go out every morning to collect your food, but you get only enough for each day. If you keep it a second day it spoils, except what you collect on the sixth day, which will be twice as much and will not spoil for the Sabbath Day. “Give us this day our daily bread.”
Notice it’s not, Give me this day my daily bread, because no matter how much or little you collect, everybody has just enough. So too in the parable of the vineyard, every worker got the same pay no matter how long and hard they worked. They grumbled that the landowner made them equal! Socialism! What happens to initiative! Making everybody equal isn’t fair. Give me this day my daily bread! But the bread God gives us is to share. In the parable, it’s to share and share alike, but in Exodus it’s to share according to our need. In the wilderness God trains in communion.
This training in obedience is a training in receptivity, the receptivity to grace, because it’s grace that will get you through the wilderness. You need training in receiving grace. You resist receiving it even when you need it, so God trains you in receptivity, and for that God welcomes you into the wilderness. Are you in a wilderness in your life? How much baggage are you still depending on?
What was the wilderness in Philippi, what was the suffering of the Philippians? The effect of their baptisms was to make them undocumented aliens in their own land. Dreamers whose DACA status has been revoked. Worse yet, allegiance to the Lord Jesus was treason against the Lord Caesar. This was the threat they lived with every day. A constant low-grade suffering that might break out in violence and beatings at any time. Unfair indeed, because for Jesus’ sake they kept honoring Caesar far more than he deserved. Their freedom in Christ was worth it, the benefit was more than equal to the cost, but living by faith is its own kind of suffering, enduring, holding on and holding up.
The space of unconditional welcome can be a wilderness, and it’s God who welcomes you into it. And when you find yourself complaining, it’s precisely in your complaining that you must seek for God. You must look deeper into your wilderness to see God’s glory.
I’m not talking about the power of positive thinking. I’m not talking about turning mountains into goldmines and lemons into lemonade. I’m saying that what you are complaining about is what God is testing you in, your wilderness is your proving ground. “The flame shall not hurt you, I only design / your dross to consume and your gold to refine.” Your gold is your collection plate, your bowl for gathering manna, not your success but your receptivity to God’s grace within your life, God’s presence in your life. I can attest that this has been true for me, and I myself did not welcome it, it was painful and I was afraid and I complained to God, but it was true and good and hopeful, because what I was given was God’s self.
One last thought. When the space of unconditional welcome is a wilderness, we’re still called to be a community of Jesus, especially then. And that means that when you are in your suffering, it is the privilege of the rest of us in this community to suffer your complaining and make space in our lives for you, to welcome your emptiness into our lives. As unconditionally as we know how. We give you the gift of ourselves to go along with the gift of God’s own self, and sometimes the gift of ourselves may have to stand in for God when God feels absent or unfair.
You don’t have to earn this gift of ourselves from us, it is grace, and you don’t have to worry that it might cost us, because the cost is the same as the benefit, because it is love and that’s the way it is with love, when it’s the love of God that needs no benefit and spares no cost.
Copyright © 2017, by Daniel James Meeter, all rights reserved.
Thursday, September 14, 2017
Exodus 14:19-31, Psalm 114, Romans 14:1-12, Matthew 18:21-35
This is the third installment in my sermon series Space, Practice, Vision, in which we test the terms of our draft new mission statement: Old First is a community of Jesus Christ in Brooklyn offering a space of unconditional welcome, a practice of worship and service, and a vision of the Kingdom of Heaven.
This week: a community offering a space of unconditional welcome.
The first chapter of the Book of Genesis sings the song of God making space, space within the chaos of the ancient deep. Great space, safe space, for the tender flourishing of life. Space under the lofty ceiling of the firmament. Space between the waters for dry land to appear. Space for birds above and creeping things below. God began this work by God’s Spirit moving over the face of the primeval deep, the wind of God upon the waters.
God did something similar in the Exodus. The exodus of the Israelites through the Red Sea recapitulates Genesis. When Moses stretched out his hand, the wind of God blew over the waters and divided the sea to make dry land, between the walls of water on their right hand and their left. It was a long, thin space towards their escape. It was a great long hallway into freedom.
But the welcome in this space was not unconditional. The welcome for the Israelites was a trap for the Egyptians and the death of them. This is taken by Exodus as just and right, that life for one group means death for another, that some are in and some are out, and the walls of God’s design are there to protect us from our evil enemies.
Unconditional welcome is not natural. Animals don’t practice it, no nation practices it, even when it’s our ideal. Human communities don’t practice it. Our welcoming each other naturally is conditional. We welcome you if you do not threaten us and our young, if you do not threaten our comfort or our treasure, nor our allies with whom we have allegiances. In the realm of religion, we welcome you if you fit our holiness code (not that we ourselves ever measure up to it). Right now a group in the Reformed Church is working to keep our churches unwelcoming to Christians who are gay or lesbian.
What else is new. It’s the way of the world, but it’s not the kingdom of heaven. The death and resurrection of Our Lord Jesus Christ is the end of all exclusion, all separation, all distinction. His royal welcome is so lavish and total and unconditional that the church hardly believes it and rarely practices it. But the space of unconditional welcome is the earthly image of the vision of the kingdom of heaven.
Now let me tell you a story. Sixteen years ago yesterday, at the Flatbush church, I preached my candidating sermon to become your pastor. The search committee was there to hear me, including Lindsay, Peter, Jane, and Cecilia. It was the Sunday right after 9/11. I mention in passing that the lectionary texts that Sunday were miraculously relevant to the devastation of the World Trade Center.
That Friday we had driven here from Grand Rapids, Michigan, and we drove because all the flights were grounded. Rick Stazesky was driving, Melody up front, and me in the back seat working on my sermon. From the Tappan Zee Bridge we got our first sight of the smoke. Soon we saw fighter jets patrolling overhead and then military vehicles on the Triboro Bridge, and I broke down sobbing in the back. From the BQE you couldn’t take your eyes off the hideous column of smoke.
Rick drove us into Park Slope, and we saw our first good thing. The front doors of this church were open. People were sitting on the stoop and in the doorways and the narthex, with lighted candles all around. People were sitting in the sanctuary, some of them in groups. On the walls long sheets of newsprint were hanging and people had written their prayers on them. The prayers were from all different religions and some things written were against religion. No problem—the welcome was unconditional.
We learned that the sanctuary had been open all week. We learned that very soon after the airplanes hit, while the debris from the burning was raining down on Brooklyn, someone from this congregation had opened up the doors and started making quiet music. In the shadow of the terror, people came in, seeking refuge, seeking sanctuary, and here was sanctuary. Someone hung up the prayer sheets.
I’m not sure who it was, but it wasn’t the pastor, you didn’t have one then. The interim pastor was stuck out in New Jersey. Someone of the congregation had the vision of a space of unconditional welcome. And on that Friday, when Melody and I saw what we saw, we knew we wanted to come here.
Do you know that what you did that week changed the church’s reputation in the community? Before that we were regarded as the mighty fortress, deservedly or not. Did you know that only the center of the narthex was open, and the outer doors at either end, below the steeple and the porte-cochere, were sealed shut and never opened because both ends of the narthex were closed off for storage? That hallway there was also full of storage and cabinets that blocked the doors to the alley. A mighty fortress.
Since then we’ve gradually opened things up to make the space more welcoming. Decluttering, cleaning, opening windows, rebuilding windows, opening doors, removing pews, making room, making space. It is true and paradoxical that in such a great big building it takes constant work to offer space.
Just as in your community of Jesus it takes constant work to keep offering emotional, social, and spiritual space, constant re-imagining the vision. It is true and not paradoxical that in order to make this community a space of welcome you have to keep doing your own personal inner decluttering. Making room and space within yourself. Which brings us to our gospel lesson from Matthew 18.
The parable of the king and the two slaves has a comic ending. Melody says to think of the king as Tony Soprano and the first slave as one of his capos who owes him money. Tony lets him. Then Tony finds out the capo he let off easy won’t let off an underling for far less dough, and Tony takes that as disrespect. So he has the capo tortured, to teach him some respect.
The point is that you forgive the sins of other people against you if only out of respect for God. If you don’t forgive other people, you are disrespecting God. The comic point of Jesus here is that you forgive the sins of others finally not because you yourself are such a saint, but because you fear God! Or at least show some respect for God and what God has done for you! Who do you think you are, not to forgive? Hasn’t God forgiven you seventy-seven times?
Think of the practice of forgiving sins as your internal decluttering. You make yourself free of that thing they did you, and that insult is no obstacle, and this unfairness is no longer in the way. You just don’t want that on you any more, what they did to you.
Now if what they did to you was hurtful injury, and the damage remains and the pain keeps coming back, you’re going to have to forgive them for the same sin every day for years. If they can’t change, you make space between you and even disconnect from them altogether in order to be able to forgive them. Otherwise you’ll be so busy having to forgive their every new sin that you won’t have space in your life to welcome other people who really need you.
The practice of welcoming is taught by the Epistle to the Romans. St. Paul tells the community of Jesus to offer room within it for people who practice their religion with opposing practices. If you abstain, you abstain to the Lord. If you eat, you eat to the Lord. Here too it’s a matter of respect to the Lord.
And if the other person’s religious practice is hurtful or racist or homophobic, then you invoke last week’s section of Matthew 18, when Jesus called us to try reconciliation first, and if that doesn’t work, to bring it to the church. You take it to Tony Soprano. Which is why we have the Board of Elders, our collective mob boss, for spiritual muscle and respect. It’s hard, it’s hard to do both, to have a community which is a real community and also to offer unconditional welcome. It isn’t natural, which may be why more churches don’t do it, but the vision is worth keeping ever before us, because it’s the vision of the kingdom of heaven.
Here’s how we’re going to keep it before us: with a symbol and a story. The great big symbol is our sanctuary, a living symbol, an active symbol that actually is what it symbolizes. You are restoring it for mission, to give back to the public community its great, safe space of unconditional welcome. It is for you and for your worship, but no less is it for people who are not you, but who are God’s.
And the story is what you did here sixteen years ago, before I came. You need to tell that story every year to be reminded of the mission that God has given you. You need to tell that story as a love story, the tale of how someone saw how to express the love of God for all the people of the world.
Copyright © 2017 by Daniel Meeter, all rights reserved.
Friday, September 08, 2017
This is the second in my sermon series in which we test the terms of our draft new mission statement: Old First is a community of Jesus Christ in Brooklyn offering a space of unconditional welcome, a practice of worship and service, and a vision of the Kingdom of Heaven. This week: "a community offering a practice of worship and service."
The very first practice of worship in the Bible is the Passover. The Passover was the first regular sacrifice that God instituted, the first communal meal to be repeated as a ritual. And every year Jews still celebrate the drama of their liberation, the Feast of Freedom, Pesach. We Christians celebrate a derivation of it every week. Passover is one of the two sources that the Lord Jesus blended to give us holy communion, also a supper of the lamb.
At sundown they slaughtered their lambs, as one, the very first costly thing that this collection of slaves ever freely did together. Then in common they stayed inside their homes to roast their lambs. In common they painted their doorposts and lintels with the blood of their lambs, and the blood was the means to distinguish them from the Egyptians around them, the only means.
The blood of the lamb is what spared them from the wrath of God upon the Egyptians and their gods and from the judgment of God upon their oppressors. They were spared, they were saved, not by their own revolt or war of liberation, but by believing in common the promise of the lamb. The meal is what made them a holy communion, and eating the meal is what nourished them for their first steps into freedom.
The Passover is wonderful and horrible. We are rightly horrified that God should have slaughtered all those Egyptian children, no matter how many Hebrew children the Egyptians themselves had killed. Two wrongs don’t make a right even for God. Of course, American history reminds us that no nation has ever let its slaves go free without bloodshed. And in ancient times, people just accepted that gods could act like this. But isn’t this God supposedly different, isn’t this God supposed to be moral?
We have to remember that Old Testament stories are not about morality. They’re not about justifying the good and condemning the bad. They’re rather about God’s election and God’s judgment — God’s election of a humble people, in this case Israel, and God’s judgment on a people of pride and prejudice, in this case Egypt.
So when we are troubled by questions about God’s jealousy and wrath, the Passover story does not address these questions; they are answered for us only in the distance, in the Passover of Jesus and his blood upon the post and lintel of the cross. Here in Exodus, election and judgment are displayed in naked conflict with the world. For us this conflict is only resolved in Christ, in whom God enters the world and takes the judgment and the wrath upon himself.
So the Passover story leaves you up in the air with morality unresolved, and you can come down to land only with the morality of Jesus. To read this wonderful and horrible story you have to be like an angel who passes over the violence, because on the doorposts of history you have haltingly spread the blood of Christ, the lamb of God. Agnus dei, qui tolles peccata mundi, miserere nobis. “O Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.”
But that first night, in fearful obedience to God, that night the tribes became a communion, the rabble became a congregation, the slaves became a kingdom of priests and a holy nation. This is the same transformation that we practice every week in worship too. We enter the room as individuals, open for something. We listen to God’s messages of judgment and love, we eat the sacred meal that celebrates our freedom, and we are transformed thereby into a communion of the lamb.
Maybe you did not ask to be transformed. You just wanted to add some God into your life. But the effect of this practice of worship is gradually to transform your whole view of the world—what you desire, what you value, what you long for. In a word, your culture. Instead of the world of the flesh on its own terms, even the best of the world on its own terms, you enter the culture of the Kingdom of Heaven, with different kinds of power, a different sort of freedom, and a different set of benefits.
The transformation was traumatic for Israel, as the later stories show. What God gave them they had not asked for nor planned for. They had not asked for freedom, just for some relief. They had not asked to leave their homes in Egypt, and they don’t know where they’re going. This God of Moses — they don’t know this God from Adam. After centuries of absence he suddenly remembers them, and says he’s on their side, and by signs and wonders he gives them what they had not asked for. And if this God did this to the Egyptians tonight, who knew what this God might do to them next week?
Even to escape the slaughter of the firstborn must have been traumatic. The wailing in Egypt outside their houses. They would have suffered the same fate as the Egyptians if not for believing the strange instructions. You see how it works: To survive the judgment you must believe in the judgment. If you trust the Word of this God, the judgment of this God frees you instead of punishing you. For them it was freedom from slavery in Egypt. In your case it’s freedom from the guilt and bondage of your sin. Without even waiting for you to confess your sins, God unexpectedly and gratuitously passes over them. You are free.
I did not say freedom from sin, not yet in this life. But freedom from the guilt and therefore from the bondage of your sin, and that’s the second practice after worship, the second practice of the Christian life, the practice of forgiving sins. Forgiving our own sins, which we can do appropriately by accepting God’s forgiveness and then learning to confess our sin. And forgiving the sins of others, the ones they do against us, and learning to do this appropriately and with justice and good mental health.
In our gospel lesson the Lord Jesus calls it the loosening of sin, from loosening the bonds of bondage. It’s a kind of freedom and also a kind of space, it’s your giving room to other sinners. It is a service that you offer. And it’s one part of offering a space of unconditional welcome. It’s a matter of practicing the roomy and spacious freedom of the culture of the kingdom of heaven, the culture of the dawn, the culture that you learn in worship, instead of the confining culture of the world, of darkness, of bondage, of punishment, of payback, of cause and effect.
Consider the method Our Lord lays out for us in Matthew 18, how you deal with an offense against you by someone also in the church. In the old culture you rightly take offense, and you complain to your allies and they owe loyalty against the offender. We do this all the time. It is being bound to the offense. In the new culture, you loosen the grip of the offense on you. You make space for yourself and for the offender. You go to the offender first, and you follow the steps to work it through.
Now in the end you might not achieve your hoped-for reconciliation, but already you’ve invested in the other person, and so you have implicitly begun the process of forgiveness already in yourself, and that means you are acting in your freedom. The method has its limitations when your offender is sick in the head or malicious or violent. And even at best the method is challenging, so you learn to just mostly not get offended. You keep raising the threshold of offense. You pass over their offenses against you. Or in the language of our epistle to the Romans, you owe no one anything. And then you’re really free.
If they don’t want to reconcile, you disconnect a bit, you give them space. You treat them as "a Gentile and a tax-collector." Now Jesus must have said this with a grin, because it was Gentiles and tax-collectors that he was always eating with and drinking with. When Jesus made a space, it was still always unconditional welcome. Now if I’m not as successfully forgiving as Jesus was, please don’t judge me, and I won’t judge you. But the point is clear: in the culture of the world, sin compels you and it compels your response to the sins of others. In the new culture, sin is there, sins exist, but they lose their power, they roar but they are in a cage. In the culture of freedom, sins are no longer occasions for compulsion but opportunities for the exercise of grace.
The space of unconditional welcome does not mean we will never offend each other, but rather that we are not bound by our offenses. We transform the culture of bondage to the culture of freedom, and we do this by our practices of worship and service. The freedom is owing no one anything, except to love one other. This is what you want. This is why you are here today. You came to worship to receive God’s love, the learn the culture of God’s love, and to share God’s love for all the world.
Copyright © 2017 by Daniel Meeter, all rights reserved.
Saturday, September 02, 2017
Exodus 3:1-15, Psalm 105, Romans 12:9-21, Matthew 16:21-28
I’m starting a new sermon series today. It’s called A Space, A Practice, A Vision, and for the next ten Sundays I’ll be asking the scripture lessons every week to speak to one or more of those three themes: a Space, a Practice, a Vision.
Why those three words? I have taken them from the draft new mission statement for our church that our consistory has been working on. You see, when I came here sixteen years ago, one of my first jobs was to develop a mission statement, which we did, and that mission statement has been guiding us since, and you hear me quote from it every Sunday as the welcome in our service. It has served us well, but over the years I’ve come to feel it as too inward—welcoming people in, but not directing us back out, nor speaking of God’s mission to the world outside our doors.
So now the consistory is working on a new mission statement. This time it’s being drafted by them and not by me. When the drafting team gave its first report to the consistory last Spring, I was so moved by their proposal I got emotional. It’s not final yet, and it’s part of a larger process of casting a vision for Old First. So why not contribute to the process with a sermon series, to let the Bible speak to the statement, to give some better certainty that is what God wants for us.
So here it is: Old First Reformed Church is a community of Jesus Christ in Brooklyn, offering a space of unconditional welcome, a practice of worship and service, and a vision of the Kingdom of Heaven.
You will notice that the first part of the statement is the same as our current one. Our church is a community, a community defined by our source and center in Jesus Christ and not by any other commonality of identity. Our community exists not just for ourselves and our benefit, but to offer something, something for God, and something for the world around us.
What do we offer? Three things. First, a space of unconditional welcome. Space that is literal and figurative—physical space, sanctuary space, big space, beautiful space, sacred space, shelter space, meeting space, concert space, rehearsal space, public space, and also social space, spiritual space, healing space, emotional space, inclusive space, room, room for you, room for individuality and diversity. Absolute hospitality, unconditional welcome.
But not empty space, for in this space we offer, second, a practice of worship and service. We practice certain practices designed to worship God in a way that leads to welcome and inclusion and healing and service to each other and also service to the world. Our practices make movement in the space, in and up and down and out again. This part of the mission carries us out beyond our inwardness.
Please notice that our first lesson from Exodus speaks to Space, and our second lesson from Romans speaks to Practice.
In Exodus, from the burning bush, God makes a promise to Moses: “I know the sufferings of my people, and I have come down to deliver them from the Egyptians, and to bring them up out of that land to a good and broad land (that’s the Space), a land flowing with milk and honey (it’s not an empty Space, it’s a healthy Space, a healing Space), to the country of the Canaanites, the Hittites, the Amorites, the Perizzites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites.”
So no, it’s not empty space, there are other people living in it. It’s not a welcoming space or inclusive space, and for the Israelites to take that Space they’ll have to remove the other people from it by violence with a Holy War. Which is what Peter was expecting the Messiah do with the Romans.
There are Christians today who are saying on the media and in support of this current President that because that holy violence is in the Bible it is Biblical for us to do. But St. Paul says quite clearly otherwise in Romans 12, in his list of Christian practices of worship and service.
When he says “leave room for the wrath of God, make space for the wrath of God,” he means the space of judgment and wrath is off limits for us who follow Christ. In that space, we are not allowed. “If your enemies are hungry, feed them; if they are thirsty, give them drink. Never avenge yourselves. So far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.” Of course that is difficult, of course that’s challenging and maybe costly and dangerous. It may feel like giving in, surrender, even collaboration, if you enemies are the ones in power.
The only way to sustain it is by practicing the practices of worship and service laid out clearly in the chapter. We are told to “Rejoice in hope,” so we practice rejoicing and hoping counter-culturally. We are told to “Be patient in suffering, and persevere in prayer,” which is not passive indifference but active intervention but knowing our limits and lifting the trouble up to God. We are told to “contribute to the needs of the saints,” so we support this community of Jesus with our money, and we are told to “extend hospitality to strangers,” so we labor to keep a capacious building open that does just that.
It is rewarding and fulfilling. But you have to get over the hump and through the resistance of it feeling like sacrifice, because it means the sacrifice of your entitlements according to the world. The Lord Jesus does want you to gain your life, but his counter-cultural challenge is that in some real sense you have to lose your life in order to find it. The sacrifice of your natural entitlement is what he means by taking up your cross. And to take up your cross, you also have to let go of your sword and self-defense.
That’s what Peter did not see yet. Peter wanted to say, “Blood and soil, our blood, our soil,” and he wanted the Messiah to fight for that. He figured it was Biblical, like the Christian-nationalists today. But to this temptation we have to say, Get thee behind us, Satan. Not because we are more righteous. But because we have met the enemy and it is us. We are the enemy whom Jesus feeds, with his own broken body. We are the enemy whom Jesus gives to drink, with his own blood.
Peter did not yet see the vision of the Kingdom of Heaven that Jesus could see. Yes, Peter would see it before he tasted death, but only after the death and resurrection of his Lord. St. Paul came to see it too, and life inside it is what he describes in Romans 12 with his list of practices. The practices of worship and service are meant to be evidence of the over-arching vision, the dream, the hope, and the third part of our draft new mission statement, my favorite part, a vision of the kingdom of heaven.
The kingdom of heaven is not for escape to heaven but for the full salvation of this world. And maybe other worlds and planets too, who knows. We believe that the salvation of this world requires us to pay attention to this world, but if we see the world from only within in the world, our sight is distorted, depressed, and distracted.
If we see the world only from within the world, then we’re going to be like Peter and reject the way of the cross, of death and resurrection. If we see the world from only within the world we’re going to want to carry guns instead of our crosses. We think we are being realistic, but the world in itself does not know itself. In order to see the world rightly we have to see it from the perspective of heaven. To serve the world with both love and justice we have to view it with the x-ray vision of the kingdom of heaven.
I invite you to look for the kingdom of heaven, because only then can you make sense of losing your life to find it. And I invite you to believe the promise of Jesus, that when you lose your life for his sake you will find it, because when you accept his promise you will start to see the kingdom of heaven. I know it’s circular and also counter-cultural, but I invite you into it.
One last word. He told us to pray for it. He told us to pray: Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, in earth, as it is in heaven. Because it hasn’t fully come we pray for it. On earth God’s will is certainly not being done. But it is being done in heaven. It’s not just that God gives space to our resistance and rebellion, but God is so subtly powerful to weave our disobedience into God’s grander strategy and great design.
Yes, not just powerful, but weaving, embracing, incorporating, absorbing—in other words, loving. We want this church to offer a vision of the kingdom of heaven because we want this church to offer the overwhelming height and depth and breadth and length of the love of God.
Copyright © 2017 by Daniel Meeter, all rights reserved.
Saturday, August 26, 2017
Exodus 1:8–2:10, Psalm 124, Romans 12:1-8, Matthew 16:13-20
The princess of Egypt called the child “Moses,” because she drew him out of the water. Who gave you your name, which one of your parents? Does your name mean anything? Has it affected you? Have you wished your name was different? What name would you give yourself? There was a guy named Warren Wilhelm Jr., who changed himself to Bill de Blasio.
How do you picture yourself? How well do you know yourself? Who is it that really understands you? If people knew the whole truth about you, what would they say, what would they call you, or would they desert you? Does it matter how other people see you? Don’t you need other people to help you keep yourself in perspective, and to remind you what is true about yourself? Who is it who can look at you and say, “I know you, I know who you really are”?
In our Gospel story, Jesus and Simon Peter are looking at each other face to face. They name each other. They know about each other. There is energy between them. Something is created here.
They’re on vacation up in Lebanon, taking time away from all the crowds. It’s not for nothing we are told that it is Caesarea Philippi, the Roman citadel that was the antithesis of Jerusalem, the seat of everything the expected Messiah was supposed to be against. For here King Herod had built his other temple, gleaming marble, paid for by their taxes, where Julius Caesar was being worshiped as a god.
Now if you were a Jew, and expecting the Messiah, you believed the prophecy of Daniel that the Roman Empire, for all its power and glory, was judged by God and would be cast down, and someone whom Daniel called the “Son of Man” would rise into heaven to sit at God’s right hand and govern all the nations on God’s behalf, a new world empire.
The identity of this Son of Man was a matter of debate among the Jews, so when Jesus used the title for himself, as he did, it was audacious of him, and the disciples will have noticed it. And now in sight of the shining marble citadel, Jesus raises the debate: “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” The disciples give the various standard opinions among the Jewish interpreters.
Then Jesus adjusts the question: “But who do you say that I am?” And bursting with an answer is Simon: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” Shimon bar Yonah, intense, impetuous, impassioned, impatient, outspoken. Not that he understands as yet the fullness of what he’s said, not yet beyond Jesus being a very special human being, but he’s on the right track, and Jesus is delighted. “Bless you, Shimon bar Yonah. You’ve told me who I am. Now let me tell you who you are. You are Petros, Rocky, your new name is Rocky. You’re the rock I’m going to build my church upon.”
Which is sort of a joke! Simon was the opposite of solid and stable. He was unstable and impetuous. When he was hard he was only brittle–firm to the touch but easily broken. He started strong and talked big but never delivered. Rocky! You could better call him Sandy! Not really the guy you’d want to lead a long term organization. Are you sure, Jesus?
The Lord Jesus knew of Simon’s fragility. He knew his flesh was weak, and that Simon’s blood, so quickly hot, got quickly cold. But it wasn’t Simon’s flesh and blood that Jesus would be building on. Just as it was not Simon’s own smarts that understood who Jesus was. Not flesh and blood but his Father in heaven had revealed it, and Simon would have to grow in comprehension of what he had been told.
Just as it wasn’t for the strength of Peter’s character that he was made the leader of the church, it was rather what God would do through Peter’s weaknesses. It wasn’t the solidity of Peter that made him the foundation, but that Peter would lie down in the right place, and God would find a way to build on him. It was just such a weakling like Simon Peter that God had called to be the leader of the leaders of the church. The Lord designed the church to be poor and weak.
By contrast are the Hebrew midwives in the story from Exodus. It’s wonderful that we are told their names, Shiphrah and Puah. These two women were as tough as Simon Peter was weak. They defied the power of Pharaoh and the might of Egypt. And because they themselves were powerless they had to do it subversively, and they leveraged their weakness!
They played on the prejudice of the Egyptians. They gave their explanation that the Hebrew mothers were like dumb animals giving birth out in the fields, unlike the Egyptian upper class women in their houses whose lives of pampered privilege left them unable to give birth without professional assistance. When Pharaoh heard it he said, “Well, yes, of course,” and so the Hebrew midwives got away with it.
The sister of Moses did something similar. She who had been watching the little basket floating among the bulrushes counted on the shallowness of the pity of the Egyptian princess. The princess had pity on the Hebrew baby crying, even though the monstrous suffering of the Hebrew people seemed not to bother her, and the baby’s sister calculated that the pity of the princess did not extend to actually wanting take care of the baby, so she offered her mother as a nurse, who then not only got to keep her child but also got paid for taking care of him. So just like the midwives, the women in the family of Moses subversively leveraged their powerlessness. Women have had to do this a lot!
The weakness and poverty of God’s church is apparently by design, by the intention of its Lord. That goes along with not being conformed to this world. That goes along with offering our bodies as living sacrifices. That goes along with not thinking more highly of yourself than you ought to think, but to regard yourself with sober judgement. Face the fact of your pretensions, pretensions from your aspirations or pretensions you’ve developed just in order to survive in a world that is competitive and stingy and unforgiving.
But God is subversive with our pretensions about ourselves. God turns us upside down and calls us the opposite of what we are or think we are or think we are supposed to be. God is with you like the midwives were with Pharaoh, leveraging your prejudice, God is with you like Moses’ sister with the princess, leveraging your selfishness, God is with you like Jesus with Peter, calling you a name that is the opposite of what you are. Which is good, right?
Your name is yours, but it does not belong to you. You learned your name from your mother calling you that sound. You learned to recognize that sound as you. Your learned yourself from other people calling you that. And it’s other people who say your name more than you do yourself. You have a name because of who you are to other people and what they want from you and need from you and also have for you. And your name carries associations, you are not free of them, you are tied for life to the associations of your name. I cannot measure the effect of my mom having called me Daniel instead of John, as in the family order it was my turn to be, but I’m sure it has affected me. Such is the reality of our relative powerlessness in the world, even with our own selves.
The subversion that is common in these stories is for different reasons. The subversion by the midwives is for resistance and survival. The subversion by the Lord Jesus is for love, for the loving vision of Simon can be when he’s transformed into Peter. When he’s no longer conformed to his old self but transformed to his new self. The Lord Jesus calls you to the same transformation. He subverts your vision of yourself in order to offer you his new vision of yourself.
But at the same time, you don’t have to hide your past behind a new name, like Mr. Wilhelm felt he had to do, but even your old self is loved by the Lord Jesus, and your name remains the same. The new name that the Lord God gives you is your old name, precisely in the honest story of your failures and your weaknesses, loved by God.
You don’t have to be afraid that God knows the whole truth about you because God will not desert you, because God loves you even for who you really are, not for whom you wish you could be. And we in the Christian community can do the same with each other, we can love each other in our weaknesses and failures, even in our pretensions in which we hide to protect ourselves, and we can extend that same love to the world, for then we are loving each other with the love of God for us.
Copyright © 2017 by Daniel Meeter, all rights reserved.
Thursday, June 22, 2017
Genesis 21:8-21, Psalm 86:1-10, 16-17, Romans 6:1-11, Matthew 10:24-39
Heidelberg Catechism Q 88-90.
Our story from Genesis makes Abraham look not so good. True, he was in a fix, but the story is on Hagar’s side.
It reminds me of The Handmaid’s Tale. Hagar was a slave who got used to bear a son for Abraham. Hagar had no say in the matter, and no right to her own son, not if her mistress claimed him for herself. But suddenly Hagar’s boy became inconvenient when Sarah gave birth to a boy of her own. So Abraham disinherited Hagar’s boy, which Abraham had the right to do.
Abraham had all the rights here, including the right to free his slaves, which he did to Hagar. Hagar had no rights, not even in her freedom. Her freedom was dangerous to her. Back then every woman had to be under the protection of some man, lest some other man take his way with her. Every village would be dangerous for Hagar and her boy, so she took her chances on the desert.
Of all that Abraham did to Hagar, setting her free was the worst. Though back then it was not unethical, the story depicts him as dishonorable. He sets her free in the dark, before dawn, by himself, surreptitiously, and he packs her provisions, which is a servant’s job, and he does it on the cheap, with just some bread and water, he who had just hosted a lavish feast to honor little Isaac. He puts the skin of water on her shoulder, touching her body, which once he had loved. She has to yield to him again. This is how he treats the mother of his firstborn son, for some years his only son: dishonorably and shamefully.
We are troubled by God’s complicity. God tells Abraham to do what Sarah said. True, God was not complicit in their having used Hagar in the first place, and it was their having doubted God that resulted in this shameful outcome. True, God promises Abraham that Hagar and her son will survive and someday flourish, but imagine him trying to tell her that as he casts her out in the dark.
We are troubled by God letting her suffer first. That it’s the crying of the boy that God responds to. Does she count for nothing? God watches her suffer and only saves her at the last resort. Does God prefer to wait till other hopes are gone? Do we say that God is always just in time? Where is the goodness in this story? Or is she the goodness, she who was the one true innocent, she who was being punished for having been obedient to her masters.
She reveals some strength and determination. It’s more than the desperate tenacity of a refugee mother because she determines to keep her freedom. She will not submit to some other man to be her protection. She determines freedom for her son, and that he be expert with the bow, which frees him from the culture of his rejecting father. She gets him a wife from Egypt, which frees him from social obligation to some other local chieftain. She persisted! Go Hagar. Who does she think she is? In the words of Hebrews 2, “She despised the shame.” She made honor out of their dishonor. It was Abraham who acted shamefully, but I think her son would have reasons to be proud of her.
I love it that we get this story on Pride Sunday, even though it’s only a coincidence. Now you know that it’s my discipline not to use the pulpit to augment secular holidays, like Mothers Day or Labor Day. I determine my preaching by the scripture lessons, not by topics of the day. But doesn’t this story speak to the experience of gay people in the church, cast out by the patriarchs, with the apparent complicity of God, sent off in the dark with a skin of water and a little bread, and only reluctantly rescued by God but kept out in the wilderness. If you had to pick an Old Testament lesson for Pride Sunday, what better could you select than this!
The other lessons are relevant as well. Take the opening charge of Romans 6: “Should we continue in sin in order that grace may abound?” That charge is used today against LGBTQ Christians who have accepted their orientation and seek to live wholesome lives within it. Take the gospel, where Jesus speaks about being divided from your family, and many LGBTQ Christians know this all too well.
It’s also my discipline not to preach to one group of people, but to the whole church. So while we note the special relevance of the lessons today, all of us are meant to feel the sharpness of St. Paul’s charge not to continue in sin. And we all have to face the challenge that ones foes will be members of one’ s own household. And all of us should consider with Abraham and Hagar our own experiences of shame and dishonor and exclusion and casting out, both when we do it or when it’s done to us. All of us are called to despise the shame and get free and stand up straight.
Pride is not a word that comes easy to Christians. Pride is considered one of the seven deadly sins. But the pride that is deadly is the pride that is the opposite of humility, the opposite of taking up your cross. The Lord Jesus says that those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for his sake will find it. That’s the humility of the cross, the surrender, the death that paradoxically is the way to life, and in this way to life one of the worst obstacles can be your pride. When you think you don’t need salvation, when you don’t need to repent and surrender to the gracious love of God, then your pride is a deadly sin.
But there’s also a pride that is the opposite of shame. The shame of those who cast you out even while saying they love you and they feel distressed in doing it. They give you a skin of water and a little bread and hope you go away quietly. And shame is contagious, so their shame you take upon yourself. Their rejection engenders your own self-rejection. But then look at Hagar who decides to despise the shame and seek her own freedom and hold her head up high. Well, if that’s pride, then good. And that of course is the kind of pride that we can honor today for gay folks in the church.
At issue of course is how we locate our sin and how we define our righteousness. Religion tends to locate sin as this kind of behavior or that kind of action. A sinful life is this kind of person and a righteous life is that kind of person. Those folks are sinners, and these are saints. St. Paul does it very differently in our Epistle. He says that everyone of you is both, both sinful and righteous, and all your behavior is both sinful and righteous.
St. Paul teaches, and our Catechism confirms, that there are two of you, simultaneously, the old self always dying, and the new self always rising. As certainly as you are baptized, your old you has been crucified with Christ and your new you has been born again in you. You both live on in you, your you who is enslaved to sin and death and your you who is already free from sin.
Your conversion is not a once-thing, as if before you were converted you were a sinner and after your conversion you’re a saint. Your conversion is a daily thing, a daily converting your old you to your new you, and every day you convert yourself again. This continues all your life till you die, and for Christians death is not a punishment, but a final casting off of that old you so that only the new you is left. Your old you will be dead for good, and your new you of the resurrection inherits the life of the world to come.
Do you find it realistic and helpful to consider yourself this way, simultaneously dead to sin and alive to God in Christ? Does it relieve you of the shame of your continuing sinful, selfish, and even morbid self in you despite your better intentions and your absolute desire to be righteous and joyful?
But is it psychologically healthy to consider yourself a double self or a divided self? Maybe, maybe not, but let me employ again the quantum mechanics that Jabe Ziino employed in his sermon last week. A remarkable discovery of quantum mechanics is that one electron can be in two places at once simultaneously. So, let’s say that it’s not that you are a divided self, but that you exist as a whole in two places at once—in the old you in the death of Christ, and in the new you in his rising again. It is your being in him that makes you righteous and holy, not your fitting in anywhere else.
Which is how I deal with the character of Abraham, that shameful and sinful saint. I’m all on Hagar’s side, but I can still love Abraham for the him that belongs to God. As I want to be dealt with myself, as I want to be loved, and in what I want to boast. I invite you to believe that this is how it works, and that this is how you are loved, and how you are loved by God.
Copyright © 2017 by Daniel Meeter, all rights reserved.
Wednesday, June 21, 2017
Links to Scripture Lessons:
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
God makes a promise, and Sarah laughs.
What will be your response, when God shows up uninvited to your house, tonight, for dinner? Or, I should say, when three random guys show up tonight, hungry and unwashed, and make an outrageous promise to you?
There’s a common idea that belief, faith in God, has gotten more difficult in recent years. Our expanding scientific knowledge sometimes seems to contradict what’s in the Bible. Who needs to have faith when we can know everything for certain?
IN our neighborhoods We value peaceful diversity of belief, living alongside people who have beliefs quite different from our own.
But this is not an easy goal to accomplish.
Another person’s belief can challenge our own, asking us to question our assumptions, and sometimes our faith.
These are real challenges.
So we often accept the idea that way back in the day, before things got so complicated, before we acquired all this sophistication and intelligence, faith in God was just easier. People were more simple-minded.
But in our reading from Genesis, we see that belief in God was not easy thousands of years ago, even for uneducated nomads in the Palestinian desert, the parents of our faith Abraham and Sarah.
God makes a promise to Sarah. And it is so hard to believe, that she laughs!!
I don’t think this is because she is a scoffing kind of a person.
Probably she is practical. She is a realist. Understandably she may be somewhat bitter and skeptical of promises and hope.
Her entire life she has hoped for a child.
She lives in a society in which a woman’s chief honor and duty is to bear children, and she has failed to do that.
And now she is 90 years old. She spent her life traveling with her husband, herding animals hundreds of miles across the desert, under the burning sun and through the cold night, living in a tent. I wonder what she looked like.
They were prosperous. But by our standards today, they had a hard life. And after 90 years, Sarah’s been disappointed a lot. She’s wanted nothing more than to have her own child.
But at least she finally knows what to expect out of life. Sarah knows who she is, she knows what her skills are, and what her skills are not. She is resigned to reality.
Her life has been hard. But at least she’s found some comfort in knowing what to expect from herself and from life.
And then one day, three strangers come to her tent.
And they have a message not for the man Abraham, but for Sarah.
“Sarah, 90 years old, childless, you who could never be the kind of person your husband, your society wanted you to be-- you shall have a son.”
The promise is ridiculous. And Sarah laughs to herself.
“After I have grown old, and my husband is old, shall I have pleasure?”
But when offered this pleasure, she can’t accept it.
It’s ridiculous. It can’t be true. Not for me.
God’s promise contradicts everything Sarah knows about the world, and about herself.
And God asks her to let it all go.
It is no wonder that she laughs, and then she is afraid, when she realizes the pleasure God is calling her to. God is asking her to forget who she is, and to start a new life.
God’s promise asks Sarah to step into darkness and nothingness.
Why does God appear in this strange manner, or maybe I should say, in such an ordinary manner? If God only wanted to deliver the message to Sarah as efficiently as possible, maximizing everyone’s productivity, then why didn’t God show up as a burning bush or with a multitude of angels?
Instead, God appears as three human strangers. They eat, and drink, they are dirty and need to wash up just like everyone else. It is only after Sarah laughs to herself at their message, that they reveal they know her innermost thoughts and thus reveal their divinity.
So she stops laughing and is afraid, she tries to take back her thoughts, but God calls her out. Embarrassed in front of the master of the Universe.
Now if God had shown up in a blaze of glory and brilliance, surely this awkwardness could have been avoided. Sarah would not have laughed-- she would have fallen down, blinded by God’s majesty, and received the message with awe and terror.
But is that really the best way to send a message? Is that the way we learn best? By being shouted and scared into submission?
As painful as it is, the best way to learn to be careful around fire, is to touch a hot stove and be burned!
The Apostle Paul in his letter to the Romans, encourages us to boast and celebrate in our sufferings.
knowing that suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because of the love we have been given.
Suffering produces endurance. Through the trials, the pains, the weights we carry in this life, we learn patience and endurance.
Endurance produces character. The word translated “character” here, is δοκιμη (dokime) in Paul’s Greek, which could literally be translated “testing,” or “the character of one who has been tested.”
So endurance helps us through δοκιμη, through testing. And our character is formed through our testing.
And testing produces hope.
Paul doesn’t say that victory or triumph over your test produces hope.
It’s not passing the test, getting an A, that produces hope.
Sarah had plenty of suffering. And her suffering produced great endurance. And her endurance produced testing, when God visited her. Her process of testing was frightening. and embarrassing. She didn’t pass the test; God didn’t give her a grade at the end. But Sarah passed through the test, and her testing produced character and hope.
Despite the fact that we make mistakes and often fail our tests.
Something happens in the process of testing, that produces hope.
(Don’t tell the New York Department of Education that testing produces hope.)
Anytime we go through a test, we put something at stake. We make ourselves vulnerable.
We are ready to learn something that we didn’t know before.
And we might lose something dear to us.
And when we make ourselves truly vulnerable, ready to let go of everything we hold on to, we have faith.
Faith is the secret strength in vulnerability.
Faith that despite the darkness and the many losses-- we are created and saved in a true love that cannot be lost.
As our brother Paul reminds us, we are not made righteous by winning, by passing the test. This is not a human test with right answers and wrong answers.
We are made righteous by faith.
We are tested so that we can learn ourselves in hope, and become ourselves in the process.
Physicists who study the nature of matter, quantum mechanics, identify in the tiniest particles a strange property, called quantum superposition. I’m not an expert, but I understand the essential idea to be, that a tiny particle like an electron cannot be described as occupying a single position or a single path, the way large objects do, the way this glass or this microphone exists here in this one location, until it moves along a single path to another location.
Rather, the electron exists as a composite of all the possible paths or positions it might take. It’s not just that we don’t know where the electron is, but that truly the election does not have a single position or path.
It is only when human observers test this electron, that it collapses from occupying all those possible states, and takes a single path to a single destination.
This is in contrast with the classical Newtonian view of matter, that if we know enough about an object right now, we can predict with certainty its future state.
Quantum physicists says, No. Until we actually test a particle, the best we can know is its possibilities.
It seems that God has built into the very fabric of our world, the reality that the process of being tested, makes us who we are.
As we learn from our Gospel reading, God has compassion for us. God sees we are like sheep without a shepherd. We are a full and ready harvest with few laborers to gather us.
So God, having compassion, sends to us those who can heal, cure our diseases, cast out demons, and bring the dead back to life. God sends to us those who proclaim the good news, “The Kingdom of heaven has come near.” And God also sends us to do all these things.
In compassion, God has visited us, more than once!
God came to visit Sarah and Abraham, and ate their food and washed up under the tree outside their tent.
God came to visit Sarah and Abraham, and ate their food and washed up under the tree outside their tent.
God came to us again, to our towns, looking for welcoming hearts, and God gave us food and drink and washed our feet.
And God has promised to come again to visit us, and God us making us into who we are.
Unto him that loved us and washed us from our sins in his own blood,
And has made us kings and priests unto God and his Father
Unto him be glory and dominion forever and ever, Amen.