An Easy Way to Make Your Public Angry (Reflections on Epiphany 4, Year C, 2022)

Nazareth as it appears today

And he said, “Truly I tell you, no prophet is accepted in the prophet’s hometown.” (Luke 4:24) 

You have to hand it to Jesus. He has an uncanny knack for getting folks riled up. As we pick up our Epiphany lesson from where we left off last week (John 4:21-30), Jesus seems to be basking in the sunshine of approval from the hometown crowd in Nazareth. All are speaking well of him and are amazed at his gracious sermon on Isaiah. I’ll bet they’re whispering to one another, “You know, I knew him when he was just a little tyke. I always knew he’d be a famous prophet one day. In fact, I encouraged him!” 

But even as most of the folks beam with pride over the local boy whose made good, a few just can’t resist the temptation to “dis” their favorite son. “Wait a minute,” they say. “I knew this kid when he was in diapers. He’s no big deal. He’s just the son of a poor working stiff. No proper education. Closest this Jesus got to being a prophet is being the grandnephew of a second-class priest from a crappy little town out in the sticks somewhere. I mean, where does he get off preaching in our synagogue..?” 

Jesus, of course, pics up on the trolls’ discontent. He could point out that he’d observed all the purity laws, actually studied with scholars at the Temple in Jerusalem[i], and has been baptized by the senior prophet on the scene, John the Baptist. But no. Instead, Jesus goes on the attack. 

Jesus knows that they’re indulging in one of the oldest sins in the book—jealousy. They just can’t stand it that some other towns benefitted from miracles their homeboy performed. It just eats them up. Jesus throws a little gas on the fire when he points out that God has historically been generous to people “not like us.” God has had the audacity to love sinners and foreigners and outsiders—people who aren’t the chosen ones, people who shouldn’t be entitled to any form of assistance from “our” God. People who don’t deserve to be blessed. 

We humans seem to be very sensitive when we see benefits going to other folks. Our politicians know this, too, and for years they’ve been playing on this weakness of ours. Screw compassion, they tell us. Don’t let the undeserving get away with anything. Our hard-earned tax money is going to welfare cheats, illegal aliens, and foreigners who hate us and our probably at this minute plotting diabolical acts of terrorism against our great nation. Don’t give ‘em another penny! 

By playing on our jealousy, pride, and arrogance, some have convinced us to defund the undeserving. In so doing, we may be defunding the deserving, too. If politicians can get us to hate the “other,” they can probably talk us into policies which will ultimately be against our own best interests. 

As soon as Jesus points out God's history of indiscriminate goodness, the previously supportive crowd wants to throw him off a cliff. I think his warning to the synagogue of Nazareth is a warning to us, too. Faithfulness to God has to mean love and compassion for our neighbors. We don’t get to pick whom God loves. I’ll admit that there will always be some who will game the system as long as there is a system to game; nevertheless, the system was put in place so that no one should fall through the cracks or go hungry or homeless. 

Our challenge today is to decide whether we want to base our relationship with society on empathy and mercy or on suspicion, judgment, and self-interest. It may sound facile or trite, but we couldn’t pick a better process for discernment than the old 19^th century query: 

“What would Jesus do?” 

God be with you, my friend. Stay safe.

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[i] Luke 2:41-52

For Crying Out Loud (Reflections on Epiphany 3, Year C, 2022)

So when was the last time you read through the book of Nehemiah? Been a while? I’m guessing that, unless you’re really a Biblical scholar, this is one piece of literature with which you’re unfamiliar. And in case you are unfamiliar, let me set up the reading we have for Epiphany 3 in the RCL (Nehemiah 8:1-3, 5-6, 8-10[i]). 

Although it sounds like it should be a book of prophecy, Nehemiah is actually the last of the history books in the Hebrew Scriptures. The story we read takes place after the Israelites have been freed from captivity in Babylon. They’ve come back to their native land after about 70 years in exile and have rebuilt the walls of their capital Jerusalem. On balance, it’s a pretty good time for these folks and things look to be going just about as well as they can under the circumstances. The season has come to renew an ancient ritual, the Reading of the Law. All the people gather from their homes in the surrounding area to the new, rebuilt Jerusalem to hear the priest and scribe Ezra read from Moses’ Greatest Hits. It seems, however, that not everyone understands the Law, so there are Levites (members of the priestly tribe) who explain it for them. 

(I’m wondering if, after 70 years in a foreign land, most of these folks grew up speaking Babylonian and didn’t understand Hebrew. You think? Maybe that’s why they needed interpreters.) 

The weird thing in this story is that, when Ezra starts to read from the Law, everybody starts bawling their eyes out. Why? I have few clever guesses. It could be simple nostalgia. That is, I’ll bet some of these folks never thought they’d ever be back home (or back in their ancestral home since only those who were captured as little kids would even remember the old Israel), and they were so overjoyed to be participating in this Jewish holiday that they just lost their stuff and started to weep. That’s one theory. 

Another thought is that hearing the words of the Law made them feel really guilty, and they started to understand why God had permitted them to lose the war with Babylon, why they had to live as captives in a foreign land, and why their beloved city was turned into a pile of rocks. All their regret and grief and shame came spilling out once they heard the priest tell them what they were supposed to have done. 

But there’s also another interpretation which says the people cried when they heard the law because the way it was interpreted was just too darn hard to accept. Some Bible scholars point out that when Ezra starts talking Law, folks start to get their shorts bunched up. Back in the book of Ezra he chews the returned exiles out for marrying non-Jewish spouses and declares that God is excessively peeved with them for bringing foreign influences into their homes. Ezra declares that every mixed marriage be dissolved,[ii] a command which was as welcome as a dead mouse in your box of Cap’n Crunch. It’s possible that the Law isn’t what makes folks break down and weep. It’s the hard-assed way some choose to interpret it. After all, would you want some government or religious authority telling you whom you can or can’t marry? 

So what does this have to do with Jesus in Nazareth five centuries later? In our appointed gospel lesson (Luke 4:14-21) we find Jesus doing what Ezra was doing in our first lesson—reading the scriptures to the people. Unlike Ezra, however, Jesus’ reading sounds a lot more upbeat. What can be better than the poor (who weren’t just those who were cash-strapped but included outcasts, lepers, foreigners, etc) would get some good news, the captives (not just prisoners but those bound by labor contracts like indentured servants) would be let go or could quit their jobs, the blind would see, the oppressed (anyone put in a cruel or unjust position by someone more powerful) would go free, and the Jubilee Year would be proclaimed? 

That last part was a reference to the Law of Moses spelled out in Leviticus 25:23-38[iii]. This was a law which required that, on every fiftieth year, there would be a massive debt forgiveness, land would be restored to original owners, slaves would be released, and the poor would have their needs met. The whole economy would hit the reset button. This sounds like a pretty darn good law to me, and, if it brings anybody to tears, those tears would be tears of joy and relief. For Jesus the Law means respect for the lowly, freedom from debt and economic bondage, free healthcare, and equality and sustainable livelihood for all. What’s to cry about? 

I guess there are two ways we can look at the Law. The first is to see it as restrictive and controlling and constantly reminding us that we’re sinners and are unworthy of the goodness of the God who has to give us these rules to keep our sinful little selves in line. The second way to see the law as God’s gift which reminds us to live in perpetual conscientious awareness of one another. 

Jesus reminds us he didn’t come to abolish the Law. He came to fulfill it. How we choose to observe it will be the difference between tears of joy or anguish. 

God’s peace, my friend. 

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[i] If you’re wondering why we’re playing hopscotch through this passage, the editors of the RCL, in their mercy and kindness, have eliminated the unnecessary lists of Hebrew names which no lector could even begin to pronounce. The cuts don’t affect the meaning of the passage.

[ii] See Ezra 10:6-15

[iii] You may want to look this up!

Crack Open the Wine! (Reflections on Epiphany 2, Year C 2022)

 

“Everyone serves the good wine first, and then the inferior wine after the guests have become drunk. But you have kept the good wine until now.” (John 2:10) 

So of all the ways Jesus could reveal his glory, he chooses to make 180 gallons of wine? I guess for some wine connoisseurs that might be pretty darn glorious, but for the rest of us, doesn’t it seem a little trivial? I mean, couldn’t he have started out with feeding the 5,000 or making a blind beggar see or casting out a demon? Alleviating hunger, sickness, or poverty seems to be much more in keeping with the Christian mission than just letting some party-goers continue to have a good time. 

Elisabeth Johnson, a professor at the Lutheran Institute of Theology in Meiganga, Cameroon, asked this question in her article for this week’s Working Preacher website where she discussed the gospel lesson appointed in the RCL for Epiphany 2, Year C (John 2: 1-11). I trust Professor Johnson will allow me to paraphrase her thoughts a bit when I say she characterizes this act as not so much of a “miracle” but as a “sign.” The word John uses in verse 11 is semeion (shmeiwn is the way it looks in Greek in case you’re interested[i]) which could literally translate as “sign” like a stop sign. It’s something which identifies something else. Turning water to wine was not in itself the big deal. Even Jesus didn’t seem to think the beverage situation was all that crucial. The real point is the action of transformation identified Jesus as the one who does the transforming. Of course, nobody in this story seems to pick up on this except the disciples and few of the caterer’s staff who bring the wine to the sommelier. 

Professor Johnson also points out that wine in scripture has been used as a symbol for joy and celebration.[ii] I guess there’s nothing wrong with Jesus’ first awe-inspiring act being one which brings joy instead of one which brings relief from suffering. It’s pretty easy for some Christians—even us pastors—to get all hung up on incarnational ministry and forget that the joy of the Lord is our strength.[iii] Sometimes you just have to cut loose and party. 

But what if you’re all partied out? What if there’s no earthly reason to celebrate? What if you’re sick and frickin’ tired of COVID, you’re broke, you’re bored, and your health is in the toilet? What if the party’s over? 

Yeah, it’s pretty easy to look at the world and wonder as Merle Haggard did, “Are the good times really over for good?”[iv] If we are willing to surrender all faith, all hope in the transformative power of God, then I’d guess the good times are over. If we wish to pine for what is lost instead of being grateful for what we have, then we can shut off the lights and go home. If we revel in our misery, make fault-finding our hobby, and judge every situation by our own standards while forgetting that God’s view is larger and grander than our puny imaginations, then we’re stuck drinking sour wine. 

Joy, true joy, doesn’t come from either us or our circumstances. It comes from God. Our challenge is always to learn to demand less yet expect more. I encourage you to pray for irrational joy and the faith to believe that what lies ahead may be just as wonderful as or even more wonderful than that which you’ve already experienced. 

In anticipation of how God is changing and transforming us in to wiser, more grateful, and more insightful servants of his grace, we’re throwing a small party this Sunday. Wine will be served. 

May God’s joy flow though you abundantly!

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[i] And why wouldn’t you be?

[ii] See Isaiah 25:6 and Amos 9:13

[iii] Nehemiah 8:10

[iv] Listen to Merle sing this song by clicking Merle.

God Winked (Reflections on the Baptism of Our Lord, 2022)

 

“You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” (Luke3:22) 

One of my all-time favorite movies is the 1991 Billy Crystal comedy City Slickers. It’s the story of three life-long buddies from New York who decide it would be a cool idea to vacation by going on a cattle drive in the southwest. In a brilliantly written scene, the friends challenge each other to name the best and worst days of their lives. Phil, a woebegone grocery store manager who is being divorced by his controlling, ill-tempered wife, tells his friends that his best day was his wedding day. Knowing how unhappy he’d been in his marriage, his comrades seem incredulous. Phil explains that he was the oldest son in his family, the first to marry, and the first to get a real job. What had made the day linger in his memory was the way his father had winked at him just before the wedding ceremony began. 

“I made it,” Phil says. “I’m all grown up. I’m not a goofball anymore.” The father’s wink had been a blessing, an anointing which conferred adulthood on his son. 

Luke’s gospel version of Christ’s baptism (Luke3:15-17, 21-22 in the Revised Common Lectionary) ends with the Father “winking” at the Son. Jesus has fulfilled all righteousness. He has been presented and circumcised, grown in wisdom and years, and now has been baptized by his cousin, the senior prophet of the land. Now he is ready and equipped for what will lie ahead, and the Father has bestowed his blessing. 

It’s a shame that not everyone gets the privilege of receiving a parental benediction when reaching one of life’s milestones. Some people have had to grow up fast without a parent to teach them the ropes or declare them man or woman enough to handle life well on their own. Others spend their whole lives—well into their middle years—trying to get that wink of approval out of a parent or other mentor who grudgingly refuses to bestow a nickel’s worth of praise and won’t concede that the former child or protégé has drawn even with them. 

I have a fuzzy but fond memory of a night when my dad phoned me and asked if I’d meet him at his favorite diner. I was in my mid-twenties, living on my own, and teaching at a local community college. Over a slice of pie and some coffee he asked me my advice on some insurance policy he was thinking of buying. I don’t recall the details, but I recall that night as the moment my dad, in his own way, admitted that I had grown up. It was great moment. 

I guess we all have many moments in our lives, many little milestones passed and rituals observed, when new chapters begin. Our baptism, our First Communion, our Confirmation, our graduation from high school or college, our wedding, our children’s baptism, our retirement—all moment for which we prepare or for which others prepare us for something new and, it’s to be hoped, purposeful and enlightening. It’s pretty great—don’t you think?—to have someone with us who says, “Good job!” at such times.    

I will always recall how proud my dad—who grew up during the Depression and never finished high school—was of me when I received my first master’s degree. Unfortunately, he had passed away before I was ordained to the Lutheran ministry, but after my ordination mass my big brother Lee put his arm around me and said, “The Old Man would be proud of you. I’ll bet he’s smiling from Heaven.”

On the walls of my office I’ve proudly hung my Certificate of Ordination and my Master of Divinity diploma. The most important decoration I display, however, is my framed Certificate of Baptism. This document speaks the loudest because it’s not about any puny thing I’ve done or accomplished. It’s about what God through Jesus has done for me. I can look up from my desk and see this certificate and know that the Father is winking at me and saying, “You’re my child, my beloved; with you I am so well pleased that I sent my Son to die for you.” 

Of all the milestone moments in my life, the most important was the moment of my baptism. The washing up I received over six decades ago promised the remission of all my stupid sins and welcomed me into the family of Christ. It fulfilled all righteousness and prepared me for everything that was to come after. 

So what is to come? The baptism of John promised the forgiveness of sins, but John promised the baptism of Jesus will bring the Holy Spirit and fire. How does the knowledge of your baptism effect you? Do you feel the Spirit of God’s approval? Can you imagine that at your time of life God has anointed you for a purpose, a purpose that reflects God’s glory and love? 

Do you know that God has winked at you, and is calling you beloved?