"When You See These Things Taking Place..." (Reflections on Advent 1, Year C, 2021)

 

"Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.” (Luke 21:28) 

Yikes! 

Jesus seems to be painting a pretty nasty picture in our gospel lesson for Advent 1, Year C (Luke 21:25-36). What’s particularly nasty about it is that it looks like everything he’s talking about is coming true right now. If we’re not seeing signs in the sun and the moon, we’re certainly seeing some wild stuff here on earth. People may not be fainting with foreboding, but there’s more than enough foreboding to go around. Don’t you feel it? 

You don’t need a crystal ball or an angelic visitation to know that the whole world is at a tipping point. It may not be the end of the world, but it’s sure going to be the end of something—and it’s going to get scarier before it gets better. 

When Luke wrote his gospel (and we believe that was sometime around 85 CE although no one really knows for sure), things were looking rather grim. The Jewish people had launched an all-out war of revolution against their Roman overloads, and got soundly whooped. The great temple in Jerusalem was destroyed, and the whole theology of cultic sacrifice was shot to pieces. If you were a Sadducee, you were out of business. If you were an Essene hiding out in the desert waiting for God to intercede, you were disappointed. If you were a Zealot jihadist, you were killed in battle or crucified. If you were Jewish at all, your whole idea of what it meant to be God’s Chosen was something you might’ve started to question. 

Of course, Jesus knew all of this was going to happen, and he didn’t seem to be too alarmed about it. For just about everyone else, however, it was a time of devastating loss—and loss means pain. Even the anticipation of loss is painful, the fear that things are going to change and not be the way we’re comfortable with having them. 

Isn’t that where we’re at today? We hear on the news about climate change. We’re in a race against time, and, quite honestly, I think time is going to win. That’s going to mean rebuilding and reprioritizing. A changing weather pattern and rising seas will probably mean some of our favorite vacation spots may not exist thirty years from now. It will mean some industries will disappear, and that may lead to a whole new economy. It may mean an influx of climate refugees, and the majority of Americans may not look like me anymore (and that really scares some people!). 

I know that I’m scared of the polarization of American politics, the viciousness of our discourse, and the miasmic fog of nonsense lots of people seem to be believing these days. The January 6 assault on the Capital was something I never dreamt was possible in America. What will the next few years look like if we give in to arrogant nationalism, xenophobia, and the worship of firearms? You don’t need to be a prophet to know that something is up. Times are changing, and they don’t look all that rosy. 

And to top it off, we are also staring down the barrel of a changing church. American Christianity in general—and Lutheranism in particular—is taking something of a beating from a shifting culture, the gig economy, an addiction to cyberspace, and the vanishing Sabbath. . In our own congregation we see an aging membership, declining worship attendance, and serious deficit spending. If these things weren’t enough, we must now deal with the unpredictable consequences of COVID-19. What is to become of us in the next few years? 

One thing must be certain: things will never be the way they were. 

So what does Jesus tell us? He tells us to keep alert, not to hide from change, but to face it head on. He tells us that our redemption is drawing near—even if it may not look much like redemption to us. He reminds us that God is always with us and that his words will not pass away even when it seems like everything else is dissolving before our eyes.       

 When Jerusalem fell and the temple was destroyed, something new emerged. The Pharisees—who weren’t into ritual sacrifice as much as they were into parsing every syllable of the Law of Moses—created what would evolve into rabbinic Judaism. But a new religion was also emerging—that which adhered to the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth. For some the world was ending, but for others a whole new way of loving God was unfolding. 

No meaningful change can come without pain and loss. The birth of a child can’t be accomplished in any comfortable way, but when the pain is over, the joy is tremendous. In the midst of our fear and foreboding, let’s lift our heads in the faith and hope that God is doing something unknown, unexpected, and wonderful. 

A blessed Advent to you all.

We Need a Monarch (Reflections on Christ the King, 2021)

 

“My kingdom is not of this world.” (John 18:36) 

Old Anglophile that I am, I think I’ll be really sad when Britain’s Queen Elizabeth passes away. I know as a good American I’m not supposed to like monarchs, but I can’t help but feel a certain affection for this old girl. In my lifetime I’ve seen thirteen United States presidents, seven supreme leaders of China, eight leaders of Russia (counting the former Soviet Union), eight secretaries general of the United Nations, and six popes. But there’s only been one queen of England. She’s become something of a universal granny—a wonderfully dignified little old lady who keeps everyone on their best behavior. No matter what kind of slob may be occupying 10 Downing Street, the queen is still the representative of the nation, the embodiment of what a noble, charitable, courteous, and benevolent nation is supposed to be—whether it is or not. She is the one who is entrusted with holding the nation to a higher standard. 

On Christ the King Sunday, the last Sunday of our liturgical year, we are reminded that we all have a monarch who holds us to the highest of standards. It’s the standard of “Do unto others” (Mt. 7:12), of “Give to all who beg from you” (Mt. 5:42), “Love your enemies” (Mt.5:43-44), “Forgive seventy times seven” (Lk. 17:4), and “Greater love hath no man than to lay down his life for a friend” (Jn. 15:13). When we look to our king—our suffering king on the cross—we’re looking at the human embodiment of love, forgiveness, inclusivity, charity, patience in suffering, and faith in the eternal goodness of the Creator God. He is the king who represents the things we most long for in our hearts, whether we know it or not. 

In the gospel lesson from the RCL (John 18:33-37) Jesus reminds us that he is not of this world because the way of this world is violent and self-serving. It’s Pilate’s world—a world of bureaucracy, expedience, and dog-eat-dog power struggles which have no time for the things of God. The Roman prefect seems impatient with the peasant rabbi. We can almost hear him sigh as he asks, “What have you done?” Is there a non-religious charge he can execute this man for? Pilate isn’t a Jew and can’t waste his time on silly religious matters. If Jesus claims to be a king, then he’s admitted to a charge of sedition and Pilate can nail him to a cross without hesitation. 

But Jesus isn’t about to call himself a revolutionary. His way is not the way of violent rebellion or earthly power. It is, rather, the way that God has intend that we should live together. It is, let us hope, the way we will one day live together in eternity. The pragmatic Pilate, however, has no time for this. He cynically asks Jesus, “What is truth?” Truth for him, or for anyone worshiping the false gods and rulers of this world, is a fluid thing which can change according to how it serves our self-interest. 

I am both amused and frightened by the rhetoric of some in America today about obeying earthly rulers. There are so many who now protest the recent government directive about COVID vaccinations in the workplace, claiming that they are fighting against tyranny and “government overreach” by refusing to obey these mandates. Perhaps they imagine themselves as heirs to those early American patriots who opposed King George III. I find the talk of “tyranny” slightly ludicrous. I would suggest to the anti-vax and maskless crowd that they live for a time in North Korea, Communist China, or Saudi Arabia and then decide if they are living under tyranny here in the U.S. 

There have been many times during the last several years when I’ve wished the U.S. were a monarchy. If only we could be like the U.K with an elected government but a permanent monarch—and if only that monarch were Christ the King. Then there would be no need for mandates because we would all do our best to represent the sovereign. We would unquestionably do what was right and safe out of love for our brothers and sisters. We would care for them, protect them, and love them. There would be no controversy over gun laws because no guns would be needed. No argument about social welfare because we’d all share as Christ would have us share. No pro-life/pro-choice agitation because life would be respected and wise choices would always be made. 

Yes, if only we had a monarch who represented the “us” we only wish we could be. But, his kingdom is not of this world—even though it should be. 

May the peace of God be with you.

No "Ifs," Only Light (Reflections on All Saints, 2021)

 

“When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.’” (John 11:32) 

 “If you had been here.” Whenever I read the story of the raising of Lazarus (John 11:32-44), the appointed gospel text for All Saints Sunday, I’m always struck by that phrase. Both sisters use it when they approach Jesus. Jesus had been told that his good friend Lazarus was sick. They asked him to come and heal him, but Jesus didn’t show up and now Lazarus is dead. If I were Lazarus’ sibling, I’d certainly be upset that Jesus dawdled around too long, that help didn’t come on time. If it had, things would be different. 

If. That’s the two-letter mantra of grief, isn’t it? If things had gone differently, we wouldn’t be having this funeral. Somehow we always think we could’ve done more. We could’ve done something to either prevent a tragedy (or someone else could’ve done more), or at least we could’ve found a way to make this parting hurt less. Unfortunately, what’s done is done and can’t be undone. So we have to live with it in spite of our “ifs.” 

You see, “if” never gives us peace. It can make us feel guilty or make us feel angry, but it can’t give us comfort. Only faith can do that. I guess the compilers of the Revised Common Lectionary give us this story of Lazarus being raised as our All Saints gospel because they don’t want us to focus on the “ifs”—on our sense of loss—but, rather, on Christ’s love, compassion, and resurrection. 

Something I’ve always loved about this story is that Jesus, even though he is crying and “greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved, (v.33)” [i] starts his prayer with the words “I thank you, Father.” He sees in tragedy and loss the opportunity to find faith and to praise God.

I do a lot of funerals, and I don’t think many people see a funeral as an opportunity to praise; nevertheless, the grief we feel when we lose someone is just a reflection of the joy that person gave us in life. I hope we would celebrate All Saints as a day of thanksgiving and inspiration. God has put saints in our path to help us on our journey, and we, in turn, are the saints who are called to lighten the paths of others. 

On this All Saints I’d like to celebrate some who have touched my life and the life of our congregation. 

Helen Ferguson was a long-time client of my wife, Marilyn, when Marilyn had her neuro-muscular practice. After Marilyn closed the practice, Helen and her husband Gary remained friends with her. The Fergusons—particularly Helen—were enormously generous people. Even when she was sick with cancer, Helen continued to make donations to Yellow Ribbon, a charity with which Marilyn was involved which collected gifts for our deployed military. Helen always donated her gently-used clothing to Lydia’s Closet and made monetary donations to Faith Lutheran. Gary, a retired Lt. Colonel in the US Air Force, was one of the classiest gentlemen I’ve ever known. He was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross in Vietnam. Although not a regular church-goer, he was fascinated by Biblical studies and often handed on to me his issues of “Biblical Archeology” magazine. He was also a thoughtful and courteous man who could discuss religion and politics without rancor or hyperbole and respected the opinions of others. We are lighting a single candle for this couple as in life they were so close to one another, and died only a few months apart. 

We will light a candle for Marilyn’s cousin, Tom Lucid. Every family should have a Cousin Tom. A quiet, gentle man, he was the one who always called and asked, “So how are you?” He was part of the glue that kept a family connected over the miles and over the years. Tom remembered as a child being entertained by his uncle Edward. Uncle Ed fought in Korea and was declared Missing in Action. Tom spent the last years of his life trying to track down his uncle’s remains. 

Doris Saudarg was another quiet and gentle soul who would do anything for her family. She took in her Aunt Helen who had been crippled with polio as a child and cared for her throughout her entire life. When her sister, Flo Craw, passed, Doris called her widowed brother-in-law, Fred, every day and cheered him up. Her old Boscov’s co-worker, Cheryl Sermarini, remembers her for her gentle spirit and extreme kindness. She was also the most awesome grandmother—always supporting her grandchildren and cheering them on. 

What can I say about the legend that was Joy McGinley? Talkative? Yes! Eccentric? That doesn’t even begin to describe her. Yet Joy had an undeniable love and compassion for just about everyone. She never forgot a birthday or a special occasion. You could always count on a card from Joy at Christmas or Easter or your birthday. She was the one who called shut-ins and asked about their health. Having no children of her own, she lived to give gifts to her nieces, nephews, and grand nieces and nephews. She looked after he sister, Debbie, and her aging father until they passed. In her later years she took in her troubled niece, Jenny, and kept in touch with her, wrote to her, and prayed for her when Jenny was incarcerated. (We are lighting a candle for Jenny, too.) 

Finally, I cannot say enough about Faye Glass. In troubled times, she held this congregation together. She was the epoxy which connected members of Faith Lutheran with each other. She was strong and stubborn, but had enormous faith in God. I will always admire her sense of optimism and her insistence that all will turn out for the best. She was generous and forgiving and hugely proud of her grandchildren. No one could sit in a hospital bed and smile and laugh like Faye. 

There is a popular story I’m sure generations of pastors have used as a sermon illustration. A little boy stands inside a church nave staring at the stained glass windows depicting various saints and apostles. A Sunday School teacher asks him, “Do you know what a saint is?” The little boy replies, “Sure! The saints are the ones the light shines through.” 

God bless, and thanks for reading!

---

[i] The Greek for this is really interesting (at least it is to me!). What the NRSV Bible translates as “greatly disturbed in spirit” the King James translated as “groaned in the spirit.” The Greek word is enebrimhsato, which literally means Jesus made the sound of a horse snorting. This means he snorted with indignation—he was angry at death or at the lack of faith of the mourners. Whatever was the cause of his anger the gospel doesn’t say. We’ll just have to ask him when we see him.

Reformation Day, 2021

 

“If the Son makes you free, you will be free indeed.” (John 8:38)

I like to imagine on this 504^th anniversary of the Protestant Reformation what it must’ve been like to hear Martin Luther preach. I bet the old boy gave a pretty rousing sermon. With a temperament like his I’ll bet no one fell asleep in church. I picture the Castle Church in Wittenberg—the gentry seated in cushioned pews beneath the soaring arches, the poor working stiffs standing in the back, the air smelling of a mixture of incense, perfume, and b.o. (there being no such thing as deodorant in those days). I see the corpulent, middle-aged professor mounting the steps to the pulpit, adjusting his academic gown, wiping a bit of sweat off his forehead and breathing heavily after his climb (Luther liked his beer and bratwurst. In his post-monastic career he really packed on the pounds!). The church, which was rarely completely silent, suddenly falls still to hear what the great man has to say about the appointed text, John 8:31-38 (Our Reformation Day gospel in the Revised Common Lectionary).

I’m not sure what Luther might’ve said, but I know he’d want to address the questions of slavery and freedom. To what were the people enslaved? Sin, of course. (Well, duh! Aren’t we all?) But he might also like to point out some of the social issues his congregants faced. They were slaves to the social class into which they were born—although that was changing for some of them. Many were slaves to the land they worked. Some worked for themselves, but many were tenant farmers for wealthy landlords. They were slaves to the whims of their local princes and to the Catholic Church—a church which frightened them into submission with horrific visions of a punishing fiery Hell or a few gazillion years in Purgatory. Most of them were simply slaves to ignorance and despair. The Medieval life philosophy was pretty simple: you were born, life sucked for a couple of years, then you died. If you were lucky and good enough, you might get to go to Heaven.

But now the folks who herded themselves into the Castle Church like so many sheep into a pen (because God would be peeved if they didn’t go) were hearing something new. Luther had the audacity to tell the peasants they were beautiful in the eyes of God just as they were, and the work they did was just as holy as that done by their priests and bishops. They had a right and a responsibility to stand up for themselves and demand their landlords treat them fairly—they wouldn’t go to Hell if they questioned the social order as they had been told they would. The Church couldn’t ask them to earn or buy their way into God’s heart—the Son had already secured their place for them when he died on the cross. And, yes, they may be ignorant and unlettered, but they didn’t have to stay that way. Their princes could afford to build schools and hire teachers who would teach their children to read so they could see the Word of God for themselves.

Can you imagine how those sixteenth century folks felt hearing good news like that? I’ll bet church seemed like a pretty exciting place for them. They heard the truth, and it set them free.

So how about us? What’s the truth we need to hear all these centuries later? To what are we in bondage? I wonder how often we’ve sat smugly through a Reformation Day service thinking, “Slaves? We’re Lutherans and have never been slaves to anyone! We have correct doctrine!”

(By the way, I’m always amused by the reaction of the folks in the gospel story when Jesus tells them they are in bondage. The descendants of Abraham had been slaves in Egypt for about 400 years. Then they were defeated and enslaved by the Assyrians and the Babylonians and later became the vassals of the Persians, the Greeks, and sundry little piddly countries and were, at the time of the gospel, occupied by the Romans. Somebody else was always calling the shots for these guys. I think, however, they are saying here that they are direct heirs of the promise God made with Abraham and not proselytes—as if their DNA was the source of their salvation!)

But back to our situation. If Dr. Martin were preaching to us, what do you think he’d call us out on? Our reliance on the metrics of bucks in the plate and butts in the pews as a measure of our ministry? Our devotion to practices and traditions which may no longer serve the gospel? Our current American culture of contempt in which we gorge ourselves on one-sided news so we can feel superior to others? Our sense of burn-out which makes us apathetic to social issues? Or just our vague sense of fear?

If we let Luther preach to us on the Reformation Day, I’m sure he would remind us of three crucial gifts we already possess—God’s Word, God’s grace, and our own faith. These three are the rock we rest on. The scriptures teach us of Christ’s love on the cross and of his resurrection. There can’t be an Easter without a Good Friday. Yes, things will change, times will be frightening, and cultures will shift. Luther’s times were, in some ways similar to our own. Countries were polarized (In fact, if you held the wrong position in the wrong place, you could find yourself tied to a pole and set on fire!), enemies threatened, and diseases closed down churches. Luther himself battled depression. Nevertheless, he always considered despair a great and shameful sin[i].

The Reformation was an unsettling time of major change—just like today. Unsettling times call for boldness and the knowledge that things which change are never as important as those which endure—God’s Word, God’s grace, and our faith.

---

[i] See his explanation to the sixth petition of the Lord’s Prayer (“Lead us not into temptation”) in the Small Catechism.

While There's Hope There's Life (Reflections on Pentecost 22, Year B 2021)

Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly…” (Mark 10:48) 

There’s an old expression, “When ya got nothin’, ya got nothin’ to lose.” 

That’s kind of the way I see our blind protagonist in the gospel appointed for Pentecost 22, Year B in the Revised Common Lectionary (Mark 10:46-52). “Blind Bartimaeus,” as he is often called, is really one of the saddest figures we meet in the gospels. Sure, there’s the man born blind in John 9 and the Gerasene Demoniac and a bunch of other sad, afflicted, and helpless souls Jesus encounters in his earthly journey. BUT: all these other folks at least have a community. Bartimaeus doesn’t seem to have anyone on his side. In fact, he doesn’t even have a real name. The Bible tells us he’s the son of Timaeus, but we knew that anyway since the prefix “bar” means “son of.” This is a guy who has lost his own identity. 

Go figure: When Jesus asks Bartimaeus what he can do for him, the blind man says, “My teacher, let me see again.” Notice he says, “see again.” Bartimaeus wasn’t born blind. He’s lost his sight, and with it he’s lost his job, his ability to contribute, and his place in the community. No wonder nobody remembers his first name. He’s not even begging at a temple or synagogue. He’s out on the road, presumably by himself, somewhere between Jericho and Bethphage, begging from those who pass by. He’s an outcast. 

But this guy has one thing left—hope. We can tell from the way he talks that he’s heard of this Jesus guy, a guy who is very likely the Messiah. A guy who can heal the sick and the lame and make things right and whole again. So, when Bartimaeus hears that Jesus is coming his way, he starts raising a ruckus. He calls Jesus “Son of David.” He’s not just acknowledging Jesus’ genealogy, he’s invoking the name of Israel’s greatest kick-ass king. In this way he’s declaring that Jesus is the heir to Israel’s throne and probably the long-awaited Messiah. This is a pretty daring claim to make, and it doesn’t sit well with everyone who hears. The retinue following Jesus or the folks traveling the same road have so little regard for the blind beggar that they tell him to put a sock in it when he starts calling for Jesus. But this doesn’t stop Bartimaeus. No, sir. He’s going all out in the hope God will bring him back to himself. 

When Jesus calls him over, Bartimaeus jumps up and throws off his cloak—which was probably the only thing of value he had left. When you’re desperate and you have next to nothing, you have to gamble even the little bit you have. Jesus usually touches the people he heals, but in this guy’s case all he has to do is tell him he’s been made well because of his faith. 

I wonder how Bartimaeus reacted to this. I wonder if the world seemed more beautiful to him with his eyesight restored. Was the grass greener than he remembered? Was the sky deeper blue? One thing’s for sure—the world was not the same as it had been before he lost his vision. It never is when we’ve suffered great loss. When we go through a time of utter despair, depression, loneliness or whatever and find we’ve come out on the other side, we can’t be the people we were before. Our survival has to bring about a kind of repentance. Whatever Bartimaeus was before he lost his sight, he was a follow of Jesus once he got it back. 

The story impresses me with a couple of things. First, the old saying “while there’s life there’s hope” is all wrong. The truth is, while there’s hope there’s life. I always ask people who come to me for pastoral care if they can imagine a time when they won’t feel the way they currently feel. If they answer “no” I know I’m in way over my head. That’s because they’re confessing to being hopeless. Whatever our situation, we need to beg Jesus for mercy and a new vision to see ourselves in a new way, to see what God has done and is doing, and to see the road forward. If we can’t, we’ll be dead inside. 

The other thing Bartimaeus teaches us is some real gutsy proclamation. After all, the guy had nothing to lose. When he was told to be quiet, he shouted Jesus’ name even louder. Desperate times call for boldness, and that boldness can lead to empowerment and joy. 

May God’s joy be with you this week. Thank you again for stopping by. 

The Cup and the Crown (Reflections on Pentecopst 21, Year B 2021)

 

“…but to sit at my right hand or at my left is not mine to grant, but it is for those for whom it has been prepared.” (Mark 10:40) 

It might be pretty easy to shake our fingers at James and John in the gospel lesson for Pentecost 21, Year B in the Revised Common Lectionary (Mark 10:35-45). If you back up a little in the reading you’ll notice that Jesus is telling the gang for the third time—third time, no less!—about what’s going to happen to him in Jerusalem. There’s going to be mocking and flogging and crucifying. This isn’t exactly the pretty picture these boys have in their heads. Nevertheless, Jesus gives them the straight skinny even though they don’t want to hear it or understand it. The Zebedee boys—like all the rest of us who only want to listen to the news we want to listen to—act like Jesus never said anything at all and proceed in their selfish way to do a little self-promotion. 

“So, Boss,” they say, “when we get to Jerusalem and kick out the Romans and you become king, will you reward us for our faithfulness? After all, we’ve been with you from the very beginning. We left our nets and our dad and followed you. We took on an uncertain and itinerant lifestyle and went hungry at times and got kicked out of places and went on long mission trips without a second tunic or any money in our wallets. We cast out nasty demons and healed icky sick people. We even hung out with you when you ate with tax collectors and sinners. Don’t you think we’ve earned a place of honor? Shouldn’t we get a big promotion for our efforts?” 

Can’t you just imagine Jesus staring at these guys and shaking his head? Then he has to ask them, “Will you boys be ready to endure what I endure?”

 “Sure!” say James and John, probably thinking they’ve already put up with enough crap and hardship to last them a lifetime. But they’re not ready for what comes next. Jesus lays it out: they will endure what he endures—pain and rejection and imprisonment and (at least in James’ case) execution. What’s not guaranteed is any earthly reward for enduring it. 

This is awfully lousy news for anyone who’s hung up on the notion of fairness. After all, if we put in the effort, shouldn’t we get the reward? Shouldn’t living a good and virtuous life entitle us to good and virtuous things? Doesn’t God want to bless us with earthly comforts and rewards? Joel Osteen thinks so! 

Unfortunately, Jesus doesn’t. 

According to scripture, none of us are really entitled to anything but punishment.[i] Nevertheless, we seem to get a spiritual wedgie whenever we see someone besides ourselves getting blessed, and we’re quick to feel slighted when we don’t get what we want. It is nice, I’ll grant, to get a little pat on the back or a little “bonus” every once in a while for being obedient followers of Jesus, but are we really expecting a prize for doing what we’ve said we’d do—and what we know we should do—in the first place? 

We live in a sinful world, and, like James and John, we’re all going to suffer in some way. We’ll all have to hold our noses and drink down the nasty-smelling cup of pain, frustration, grief, and unpleasantness that comes with being human. It can’t be avoided. What matters is the spirit in which we drink it.

When I last preached on this text in 2018, I had just finished reading W. Somerset Maugham’s 1906 satiric novel The Bishop’s Apron. It’s about a scheming Anglican clergyman who plots to become a bishop. When he is offered a lesser post instead, he has the opportunity to reflect on how he has behaved, what his real values are, and what being in the service of God really means. Unfortunately, his self-reflection doesn’t last too long, and he re-inflates his ego and begins scheming for another position of honor. It is, after all, a comic novel.[ii] 

Since I wrote that sermon, a close friend of mine actually became a bishop. In fact, several of my seminary buddies have made quite nice careers for themselves: one a bishop, one a dean, one a seminary professor, and quite a few have moved on from their first calls to larger, wealthier, and more prestigious congregations or positions within the synod and national church organization. My daughter asked if I ever became envious of their mobility. 

I can only answer that my friends and colleagues have been entrusted with their positions because their gifts will allow them to better serve the kingdom of God by occupying such roles. Again, like James and John, we all may want the honor, but we may not be able to drink the cup of responsibility which comes along with it[iii]. Our gifts are not of our choosing[iv]. They come from the Holy Spirit. They are for those for whom they have been prepared. 

Whatever gifts we’ve been given, we are to use in the service of others. If we are not content with doing what we’re doing, perhaps we ought not to be doing it. If being a good and faithful Christian is not reward enough for us, then perhaps we are not really good and faithful Christians. Or, perhaps we have temporarily lost sight of the fact that our reward has already been prepared for us on God’s lay-away plan.

In whatever your circumstances, may your joy in the Lord be complete.  Thanks for reading.

---

[i] See Romans 3:23, 6:23, Genesis 3:19, 6:9ff, john 3:16-18 and a bunch of other verses.

[ii] This should give you a pretty clear idea of how much respect Maugham had for the clergy.

[iii] I think recent history has shown how bad things get when someone gets the honor but isn’t up to the responsibility!

[iv] If they were, I’d be singing at the Metropolitan Opera or pitching for the Phillies!

Some Uncomfortable Stuff From Jesus (Reflections on Pentecost 19, Year B 2021)

 

“Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.” (Mark 10:15)

I got a call from an old buddy this past week, and I hope he won’t mind my using his situation as a sermon illustration. It seems that after about thirty years of marriage he and his missus are about to call it quits. As any divorced person knows, this really sucks—it doesn’t matter what the circumstances are. Broken relationships are painful, and a broken marriage can really sting in light of the gospel lesson assigned for Pentecost 19, Year B (Mark 10:2-16) in the Revised Common Lectionary for 2021.

Yup. It’s that nasty passage in which Jesus talks about divorce and adultery. Since my buddy and his wife are Catholic, this is a pretty tough piece of scripture to choke down. Our Roman brethren frown on couples who split up and have been doing so for centuries. Did you know that in Ireland, the most Catholic country in Europe, it was—as late as 1996—actually illegal to get a divorce? I mean, what were they thinking? Your spouse could be a brutal junkie, a criminal, or a psychopathic murderer, but you had to stay with them because divorcing them was a sin. Really..?

The best way to approach this subject—or any subject in the Bible that makes us feel a little queasy—is to look at the context. I’d like to remind my old friend that the Bible was written a long time ago and in a culture much different from ours. The most crucial thing to remember, however, is the radical nature of the guy who is being quoted—Our Lord and Savior. Jesus is at times prone to a bit of hyperbole. Just check out his warning to believers whose actions or words screw with the faith of newer and more vulnerable Christians (See last week’s gospel lesson Mark 9:42-50). I know we might like to think of Jesus as that gentle shepherd, blessing children and comforting the sinners, but he’s also that wild, freaky guy who overturns the tables of the money changers and pisses off the religious leaders. Sometimes he says extreme things to get our attention. If his teachings don’t make us uncomfortable every once in a while, maybe we’re not really hearing what he’s saying.

At the time this story takes place, it wasn’t uncommon for Pharisees to debate each other over every aspect of the Law of Moses. These guys really loved to split hairs. In Deuteronomy 24:1-4, it says a man can divorce his wife if she doesn’t please him or he finds something objectionable about her. But how do you define “objectionable?” I imagine these Pharisees wanted to hear Jesus’ take on this so they could pigeonhole him. But Jesus isn’t having it.

In Mark’s gospel Jesus makes it clear that a broken relationship—for any reason—is still a manifestation of sin. In Matthew’s gospel, which we believe was written later than Mark’s, Jesus makes a little caveat that you can divorce your spouse for “unchastity” (See Matthew 5:32). This is usually understood to mean adultery, but there’s a little more baggage attached to this word. The Greek word is porneo (from which our word “pornography” comes) and could refer to incest which might have been common in some parts of the ancient world. The older text, however, reflects Jesus’ reminder that a certificate of divorce—however legal it might be—doesn’t erase the fact that two people failed to get along and good faith was broken.

But good faith is broken all the time. One of Jesus’ wildest statements is made in Matthew 5:28 when he opines that anyone who eyeballs an attractive person who isn’t his or her partner and starts to imagine hooking up with them is committing adultery. Even just asking yourself “What if?” means you’ve kicked the Sixth Commandment to the curb. And that means just about every last one of us has been an adulterer at one time or another.

It is also likely Jesus is aware of the consequences of sin in his time. If a man did show his spouse the door, it was possible he was dooming her to a life of poverty. Jesus’ radical words might well have been in support of the rights of women and a reminder of the duty we all have to protect and care for the vulnerable.

We sinners really love making a hierarchy of our sins—usually ranking the ones we don’t think we’ll commit as worse than others. But Jesus reminds us of the truth: sin is sin—and we all do it, say it, or think it every day of our lives. We all are guilty, and we all are forgiven by God’s grace. The best we can do this side of the kingdom of God is be grateful, accept the consequences of our actions, and try to triage the hard choices we make based on what will do the most or least harm.

It’s anyone’s guess why Mark glued Jesus’ teaching on divorce to the incident related in verses 13-16. Here Jesus scolds the disciples for trying to stop folks from bringing their children for him to bless. Perhaps Mark liked the juxtaposition of innocent kids—kids who haven’t yet learned how to judge others or become their own jailhouse lawyers—with the legalistic and excuse-making Pharisees. Jesus says that we all need to approach him like children who need to be loved and are willing to accept love and forgiveness. That’s how we get through this life with all our past mistakes and our incurable human tendency to sin. We just come into Jesus’ embrace, cry a little on his shoulder, say we’re sorry, and promise to do better next time.