Where Do You Get Authority? (Reflections on Pentecost 18, Year A 2023)

 

“When (Jesus) entered the temple, the chief priests and the elders of the people came to him as he was teaching, and said, ‘By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you this authority?’” (Matthew 21:23)

So what’s all this about authority ?I have to confess I sometimes act like the chief priests and elders in the gospel reading assigned for Pentecost 18, Year A in the Revised Common Lectionary (Matthew 21:23-32) when the subject of ecclesiastical authority comes up. In a way, I sympathize with these guys. When some yokel shows up out of nowhere and claims to speak for God the same way I claim to do, I want to see some credentials. You know what really gets my Fruit of the Looms in a bunch? Universal Life Church so-called “ordinations.” Okay. I’m usually a pretty mellow old guy—usually—but a sly, sardonic, and somewhat un-Christian smirk may begin to creep across my face when someone tells me they are an ordained minister of that specious denomination. The ULC has no official doctrine, no structure, and no actual congregations. They have, however, popped out “ordinations” like a Pez dispenser. With a few mouse clicks on the ULC website any bozo can claim to be an ordained clergyperson. It’s estimated there are over 18 million ULC “clergy” worldwide since the organization started cranking out ordinations in 1962.[i]

I have to ask by what authority are these individuals ministers? I can tell you by what authority I can call myself a minister: I hold a Masters of Divinity degree from a state accredited seminary, I’ve been approved by a national church body affiliated with a 500-year-old internationally recognized denomination, and I’ve been called by the good folks of Faith Lutheran of Philadelphia to serve as their pastor. I guess I could say my authority comes from the Lutheran Church and from the people of God. But, really, the authority of any Christian only comes from Jesus Christ.[ii]

I’ve got to be honest here. I don’t actually have any more ecclesiastical authority than the next guy. All the baptized in Christ have his authority to forgive, to pray, to love and welcome, and to offer up their quotidian tasks in service to God. I just get the fun job of keeping church order and talking about Jesus on Sunday mornings.

Jesus is a pretty clever guy. He knows that when his authority is questioned by folks who think only they have authority, any answer he gives is going to get shot in the butt. I mean, you just can’t argue with people who’ve already decided you’re wrong. What’s he going to say? “My authority comes from being the only begotten Son of God?” That answer is going to go over like a bad smell. So will saying, “My authority comes from the fact that I’m right and you dudes aren’t.” That might be true, but it won’t sit any better with the high muckety-mucks. Jesus can only prove his authority by showing his deeds have an effect. He’s the one healing the sick. He’s the one inviting the lost and the outcast. He’s the one forgiving the sinners. He’s the one feeding the hungry. He’s the one bringing hope. Wisely, Jesus throws the question of authority back on his inquisitors and gives them yet another splendid opportunity to reveal their ignorance and arrogance.

But back to that issue of authority. If my authority as a pastor comes from the Church, where does the Church’s authority come from? I’ll bet a lot of young folks would ask that question today. It isn’t enough to have “sound doctrine.” That doctrine has to accomplish something. That’s why Jesus follows up his verbal fencing with the priests and elders by telling them the parable of the two sons and asking which does the will of the father—the one who says the right thing or the one who does the right thing? The epistle of James puts it very nicely:

What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith but do not have works? Can faith save you? If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill’, and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? So faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead. But someone will say, ‘You have faith and I have works.’ Show me your faith without works, and I by my works will show you my faith.[iii]

Authority is revealed by its actions. When Matthew wrote his gospel the Church was under some nasty, violent persecution. To survive, those who trusted in the authority of Jesus had to put that trust to work. I think we’re in pretty much the same boat today in America. No one is going to send Christians into the arena or burn us at the stake, but our churches are bleeding out like a ruptured artery. Once upon a time we sat at the center of American culture. Not anymore. People will not respect our authority unless they see it do some good.

Personally, I think being on the margins might be doing us some good. Our new position forces us all into a deeper commitment to Christ and an excited willingness to act on his authority. I grant not all of us are about to start new and ground-breaking social ministry organization, nor will we begin marching in the streets demanding justice for all God’s creatures. We might, if we’ve reached a “certain age,” consider a life well-lived in obedience to the gospel has granted us the ability to speak authoritatively to our grandchildren about matters of spirituality and faith. I would hope we are able to say in all blessed humility, “I am who I am because He is who He is.”

God’s peace be with you, my friend. Please stop by again.

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[i] I got his figure from Wikipedia (Where else?). They cite an article by Lauren Bishop in the Cincinnati Inquirer from April 14, 2007 entitled “Ordained for the Occasion”.

[ii] I guess I shouldn’t be so hard on the ULC, but I have to draw a line somewhere. I’ve done cooperative worship services and events with many Christian denominations as well as Jews, Muslims, and Buddhists. I’m an ecumenist, but not a Universalist. If you say you believe in everything, you probably don’t practice anything. We all should find our path and walk it with discipline and integrity.

[iii] James 2:14-18

Jesus Must Be Crazy (Reflections on Pentecost 17, Year A 2023)

 

(Photo: Jiahui Huang)

“And about five o’clock he went out and found others standing around; and he said to them, ‘Why are you standing here idle all day?’ ⁷They said to him, ‘Because no one has hired us.’ He said to them, ‘You also go into the vineyard.’” (Matthew 20:67)

 When I taught public school in Los Angles a common sight on my commute to work would be these groups of Mexican guys standing around on street corners in the early morning hours. Everybody knew what they were up to. They weren’t gang members or loafers. They were guys looking for work. Independent contractors knew that, should they cruise by certain corners at a certain time, there’d be plenty of young dudes willing to dig, haul, plant, paint, hammer, fetch, carry, or whatever for a daily wage considerably below the union asking price. Cash payments. No withholding tax. No green cards. No questions asked.

I think about those guys when I read Jesus’ parable appointed in the Revised Common Lectionary for Pentecost 17, Year A (Matthew 20:1-16). These were men like the guys in the story who were just looking to get a day’s work and make ends meet. The ones that got to the corner early got the gigs. The latecomers were out of luck.

I imagine there are some folks who’d find those day laborers I used to see in LA appalling.  After all, these workers were probably breaking the law. If they’d been legal citizens or on work visas they could’ve gone to an employment office and wouldn’t be standing around looking to get paid under the table. Some people might think these guys should’ve been arrested and deported. They had no right to be here, no right to work or get paid, and certainly no right to enjoy the benefits which we good American citizens enjoy like healthcare or public education or a driver’ license. When bleeding heart do-gooders have the audacity to suggest that these migrants be treated with dignity and respect as fellow human beings, they make these illegals the equal to us—we, whose ancestors came ashore legally, learned English, and contribute to society as God-fearing Americans.

Of course, should we take the attitude illustrated above, it might be wise for us to remember that these migrant workers are often doing jobs no one else is willing to do. We might also want to consider that they are willing to work and work hard. They aren’t looking for handouts. We’d do well to recognize we don’t have a clue as to the situations which put guys like this on the street corners in the first place. We don’t know where they’ve come from or what kind of hardships, cruelty, or danger forced them out of their homeland to seek safety and livelihood in the US. We might be too quick to judge and too slow to understand. What would Jesus say?

It’s pretty safe to take this tale from Matthew’s gospel allegorically. That is, we won’t get anybody’s shorts in a bunch if we say that God forgives and welcomes sinners, no matter when they came to repentance. Remember that old hymn, “To God be the Glory?”

O perfect redemption, the purchase of blood,
To every believer the promise of God;
The vilest offender who truly believes,
That moment from Jesus a pardon receives.[i]

We’re all pretty okay with the idea that God’s mercy and love extend to even the “vilest offenders.” But, if we take this parable literally, some people are either going to think Jesus was crazy or they’ll want to attack the pulpit with torches and pitchforks. Sure! Everybody can go to heaven, but not everybody should get Medicaid. Some folks would much rather see children go hungry than accept that someone who might be illegal or lazy or an addict or in some way gaming the system is getting something they don’t deserve.

This begs the question, of course, of who are any of us to decide who is deserving and who isn’t?

This parable has always hit home to me. When I was a kid my dad was out of work a lot. He was a good worker, but there was an industry-wide slowdown, and hundreds of hard-working guys just like him lost their jobs through no fault of their own. This was an emotionally crushing experience for a guy like my dad who was brought up to believe that honest, good people worked for a living while deadbeat loafers and cheats sponged off the government. Suddenly he found himself in the same category as those he had denigrated.

The late hires in Jesus’ story, those who were left standing in the marketplace at five o’clock, must’ve felt worried and despondent, just like any unemployed person does. Can you imagine some poor guy standing around and thinking to himself, “Shoot! I overslept this morning, and then I had to milk the goat for the babies, and by the time I got to the marketplace there was no one to hire me. How am I going to tell the Missus I didn’t earn any money today?” But just as he’s ready to go home and face the music, a rich fellow runs up and says, “Hey! Can you pick grapes? I’ve got to get my crop in before sundown today. Come to my vineyard and I’ll pay you whatever’s right.” So the worker thinks, “Thank God. At least a few bucks are better than nothing.” Imagine his surprise and enormous relief when the boss gives him the usual daily wage. Now the guy is thinking, “Praise God! I praise and thank you, Lord, for this man’s generosity and mercy!”

God does not wrong us, even if we sometimes wrong each other. The goodness of the Lord should fill our hearts with gratitude, love, and compassion—just as Christ was compassionate. Judgment belongs to the Lord. It is for us to reside in the radiance of God’s generosity and do what we can in our own corner of the vineyard so that all may be cared for and God may be glorified.

Thanks again for looking in on me. I always enjoy it when you come. Please leave me a message, won’t you?

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[i] “To God be the Glory” was written in 1875 by Fanny Crosby and William Howard Doan but it wasn’t a real boffo hit until it was used in a Billy Graham Crusade in 1954. It’s a real foot-stomper. It was included in Augsburg’s Renewing Worship Songbook of 2003, but didn’t make the cut to go into the 2006 Evangelical Lutheran Worship (ELW). There’s nothing wrong with it theologically that I can tell (unless you consider that it might cause  one to interpret “belief” as a good work). I guess it’s just too easy and fun to sing. We Lutherans can be musical snobs. We don’t like to include a hymn unless it’s either from the 16^th century or sounds like it was composed by Stephen Sondheim.

Dealing with Jerks (Reflections on Pentecost 15, Year A 2023)

 

“For salvation is nearer to us now than when we became believers…” (Romans 13:11b)

If you live long enough, you’re going to run into people who just get on your last nerves. In my own time I’ve had to put up with some people whom I’d much rather have thrown down a flight of stairs. I’ll admit this isn’t exactly a shining example of the way God would have us deal with conflict or with individuals we find difficult (Hey! I’m only human!). Fortunately, the scripture lessons for Pentecost 15, Year A in the Revised Common Lectionary (Matthew 18:15-20 and Romans 13:8-14) offer us a glimpse of the way our Lord would want us to deal with the obnoxious, wrong-headed, stubborn, and infuriating in our midst.

In chapter 18 of Matthew’s gospel Jesus takes a break from his usual Jesus stuff of performing miracles, healing the sick, and casting out demons to give the disciples (who seem to be hung up on seeking status) a little lesson on how folks ought to be living their lives. This includes some words about dealing with people who make you want to throw things at them. This is just some frank, practical, common sense stuff.[i] Somebody’s causing trouble? Here’s what you do:

First: You go to this person and talk to them privately. Chances are you’re going to get whatever your issue is worked out. If you don’t…

Second: Ask one or two folks you trust to mediate this problem between you and the other person. You’re not blabbing about this to everyone and their cousin Javier. Just keep it between you, the person you’re concerned with, and a few discrete friends who are willing to listen to both sides. If that doesn’t settle the matter…

Third: You can go to the church or the higher-ups or whomever and ask for a policy decision, and if your opponent gets their shorts in a bunch over that…

Finally: There has to be some kind of penalty. Maybe it’s revoking voting rights or asking this person to step down from a position of authority. It may simply be your conscious decision to avoid this individual until such a time as the dust settles, your blood pressure goes back to normal, and you can be around them without wanting to choke the life out of them. Jesus says to let such a one be like a Gentile or tax collector—just remember Jesus loved Gentiles and tax collectors. It doesn’t have to mean complete excommunication. The goal isn’t to punish jerks (as much as we might like to!). It is always to restore broken relationships.

I’ve had to resort to this formula a few times in the quarter century of my ministry. Most of the time it works. The problems always seem to come when we’re not willing to talk to people face-to-face. We let our resentment marinate or we whine about our grievances behind the back of the person who has offended us, triangulating with people who have no friggin’ business being involved and probably would rather you didn’t walk through their brains in the muddy boots of your resentment.

Jesus told us “There is nothing hidden that won’t be revealed.[ii]” When there’s conflict within a congregation, a company, a club, or in your own home, people are going to feel it. It’ll get out somehow. If it’s not addressed, folks are going to form their own opinions about it, and, eventually, those opinions are going to become fact. My old bishop, Roy Almquist, used to warn that, “There are nineteen different explanations for everything. Eighteen of them are wrong.” When some bone-headed speculation gets repeated often enough it becomes the truth, and such a “truth” can become toxic to the community involved.

The older I get, the more I realize the quality of life has almost everything to do with the quality of relationships. In the Second Lesson for Pentecost 15 Saint Paul explains the fulfillment of God’s Law is love of neighbor. We are meant to be in harmonious relationship with one another.

When, in verse 11, Paul reminded the Romans, “salvation is nearer to us now than when we became believers,” he probably was thinking the End Times were approaching and Jesus would be making a return engagement any minute. When I read this now, however, I start to think my End Times are approaching. Since I’ve embarked on the seventh decade of my life, I realize there’s a lot more of the road behind me than ahead of me. All the reveling, drunkenness, debauchery, licentiousness, quarreling and jealousy Paul talks about (of which I certainly have done my share in my youth) seem very trivial and unimportant now when stacked up against a simple desire to live at peace with God and my neighbor in the years I still have left.

Jesus came that we might be reconciled with God. Our Sabbath worship always begins with confession and absolution, a reminder of this reconciliaton. If we accept that God accepts us, our task must be in finding a reconciling relationship with the earth, with those who have been shut out or forgotten, and maybe even with those who are closest to us who make us crazy from time to time.

Look: Nobody’s yet invented a time machine which would allow us to go back and fix things which have already happened. We can only deal with the here and now and try to make the days ahead be as pleasing to God as we, in our not-so-perfect flesh, can. So let’s get over ourselves. After all, the night is far gone, the day is near.

Thanks again for spending some time with me this week. Leave me a comment and let me know if there’s something you’d like to discuss.

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[i] In fact, Jesus’ formula for handling conflict in the Church is enshrined in the ELCA’s Model Constitution for Congregations.

[ii] Luke 8:17.

A Word About Labor Day & Pentecost 14

 

Labor Day Parade in Washington DC, 1894

Wayne, the ever-faithful and tireless volunteer sexton of Faith Lutheran, dropped by the office this morning after picking a bumper crop of tomatoes and cucumbers from Faith’s community garden. He wanted to show me how fecund out little plot has been before taking the produce down to Feast of Justice, our Lutheran food cupboard here in Northeast Philly.

“I don’t want to be pessimistic,” Wayne said, “but I don’t think you’re gonna see a whole lot of people in church this Sunday.”

I have to agree with him. It’s Labor Day Weekend, the “unofficial end of summer” here in the US. The weather should be nice at the Jersey shore, so I suspect church attendance might be sparse.

But that’s okay. I just hope that this weekend won’t be treated as a simple excuse for one more day of frolic before the kids go back to school. Let’s just take a sec and think about labor, okay? The first Monday in September owes its holiday status to a decree passed back in 1894 to celebrate the Labor Movement in America. This was at a time when unions were being formed so workers—many of whom had faced abuse at the hands of their employers—could demand decency and fairness from capitalists who would not voluntarily set aside their own natural inclinations towards greed and manipulation had they not been persuaded to do so. I think, on the whole, this has been a very positive thing for us as a country, wouldn’t you agree?

On the theological side, Martin Luther maintained that any work a person does—be it harvesting a field, teaching a child, milking a cow, or driving a cart—in some way benefited others. In 1520 Luther published his treatise To the Christian Nobility of the German Nation in which, among other things, he railed[i] against the notion that ordained priests were somehow holier than other folks. He maintained that all Christians have a priestly calling. We all can pray prayers of intercession for each other, and the work we do, if done nobly and with integrity, is a Godly work.

So! Let’s enjoy this Labor Day and consider how our work is a service to others. If you’re still earning a paycheck, thanks for doing your part—however you do it. If you’re retired, thanks for the work you did. You’ve earned your rest. May God bless and protect all who labor and keep them safe on the job. May the needs of all be met, and may fairness and equity be the goal of our society. Amen!

And now, a word about Pentecost 14:

“From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised.” (Matthew 16:21)

Judy asked if I would give her a little sip of water. The heavy medications she’s on give her a very dry mouth, and she wasn’t sure she could swallow the communion wafer I was about to give her. I held the Styrofoam cup of ice water close to her face so she could sip from the plastic straw. She apologized that her thirst interrupted the flow of the liturgy, but I assured her that it was okay.

On my way out of the nursing home I ran into Darlene, Judy’s niece and caregiver. Darlene’s job lets her work remotely, so she’s been able to sit with her aunt and keep her company now that Judy has been placed on hospice care.

“It’s hard to see her like this,” Darlene said. Her aunt’s cancer is progressing rapidly. She is now totally confined to her bed, in pain, and just waiting for the end to come. As I drove back to church I thought Judy is now where Jesus was—on the cross.

How could we have our faith without the cross, I wonder? How could we know a God who doesn’t know us, who hasn’t been where we all will go? In the gospel appointed for Pentecost 14, Year A (Matthew 16:21-28), Peter rebels against the notion that Jesus should endure the degradation of the cross. It’s hard to blame Peter, however. I imagine he’s been brought up like all the rest of us to fear pain and disgrace and value wealth, power, and importance in the eyes of others. Yet, setting his mind on such “human things,” as Jesus says (v.23), Peter has become the stumbling block.

The problem with human glory is it’s finite. The road to human achievement always leads to disappointment. One may win the Super Bowl one year, but the trophy will be passed to others the next year. You may conquer the world. Then what? As the poet Thomas Gray wrote,

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave

Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour:

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.[ii]

 

The ‘human things” always seem to separate us from each other and from God. We put our faith in our own understanding or our own piety or our own good works or our own faith we neglect God’s grace. Or, we put our faith in our own achievement, forgetting that making ourselves great means making others less. “Human things” split us apart, but the cross brings us together. Jesus came to walk the path we all walk, sharing in our collective humanity. Sometimes—and all too often—it means sharing our pain and disappointment.

So how do we share this walk with Jesus? Saint Paul’s words to the Roman church in our Second Lesson (Romans 12:9-21) are a very practical guide to denying ourselves and taking up our cross. If we’re to outdo one another, let it be in showing honor, loving the unlovable, and walking humbly with one another. Rejoicing with those who rejoice and weeping with those who weep.

Our job as Christians is, I think, always to look for Christ in others and let others see Christ in us. As I spend time with Judy as she enters this last part of her earthly journey, I see not only Christ’s suffering, but Christ’s grace. Jesus on the cross gave comfort to his companions and spoke words of forgiveness. Judy does her best—even through her immobility and discomfort—to make me feel welcome and valued. With her and with the many other saints I’ve watched depart over the years, I get a great sense of peace, understanding, and dignity. There is in the cross a nobility which nothing else can achieve.

God’s peace be with you, my friend. So glad you came to visit this week.

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[i] Luther liked to rail. He was good at it.

[ii] Thomas Gray “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” 1750.

What's Your Key? (Reflections on Pentecost 13, Year A 2023)

 

“I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.” (Matthew 16:19)

Keys are pretty important, don’t you think? Now that I’m in my sixties I tend to misplace my keys a lot, and that causes a certain quantum of anxiety. I need my keys, although there are some things now that used to require turning a key but no longer do—like starting your car. But back in the day you had to have keys to get into stuff. One summer when I was in college I worked at a ladies’ shoe store. I was a full-timer, so I got a key to the front door of the shop. The assistant manager also had a key. Of course, it required both keys to get in. I guess the retail powers-that-be didn’t trust pitiful underlings to enter the store unaccompanied.[i] Only the all-powerful manager possessed all the keys.

In our gospel lesson for Pentecost 13, Year A (Matthew 16:13-20), Jesus—who seems pretty pleased that Peter has passed his little oral quiz—tells his disciples he’s giving them the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven. They get the privilege of locking stuff in or opening stuff up. What this basically meant in Jewish tradition was Jesus gave his twelve buddies (and, by extension, all of us in the Christian faith) the authority to prohibit (bind) or allow (loose). BUT: we’re reminded that we’re only trustees here. We may think we’re only turning the keys here on earth, but we’re actually turning them in the Kingdom of God.

The main key we’re given is the key to understanding our relationship with Jesus. Peter has seen Jesus do some pretty freaky stuff. He’s seen him cure the sick, feed the hungry, square off against the high muckety-mucks, and even walk on water and calm a storm. He’s heard him preach some fantastic and puzzling words of alternative wisdom, too. Peter isn’t a super-educated guy. He may not understand geo-politics, quantum physics, or why his religion won’t let him eat a cheesesteak, but he knows one thing for dead sure—his friend Jesus is the most awesome human being he’s ever met, and if the Spirit of God is dwelling in no one else, it’s dwelling in Jesus of Nazareth.

The first key to our faith is the person of Jesus and our answer to the question, “But who do you say that I am?” (v. 15)

I think there may be any number of keys we could use to unlock this question. There’s the Norman Vincent Peale key. It says that Jesus is your very present help in time of trouble. You can always think positively because Jesus is there to look after you and bring prosperity to your life. There’s the Billy Graham key which says Jesus is your savior who died for you and saved you, a poor, miserable sinner, from the just and terrible reward for your iniquity. There’s the Dorothy Day/Reinhold Niebuhr key which says Jesus is your guide to compassion and activism for the sake of the poor. There’s the Nadia Bolz-Weber key which says Jesus is the voice of love and inclusion for those who have been marginalized, victimized, and left out of society. Perhaps we need all of these keys plus a key or two we haven’t thought about yet.

We’d do well to consider, however, that being handed the keys of the gospel is like being a sixteen-year-old kid who has been handed the keys to his dad’s car for the first time and told he better bring it back without a dent or scratch on it. The keys of the kingdom come with responsibility. They are not meant to lock us inside in snug safety. They are to open the door of our thinking and our hearts and allow others to come into the presence of Christ.

What is the key to your faith? And when was the last time you opened it up to someone else?

I hope you’ll think about that this week. Maybe you’ll share your thoughts in the comment section, too. But regardless, thanks for coming by. Do come again!

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[i] Actually, there was no guess work about this. They DIDN’T trust us. We had to take a polygraph examination before we were hired. The assistant manager I worked with that summer graciously validated the company’s paranoia by stealing thousands of dollars of merchandise from the store later that year.

Isaiah and the Exiles (Reflections on Pentecost 12, Year A 2023)

 

Russian icon of Isaiah, 18th Cent.

“Thus says the Lord God, who gathers the outcasts of Israel, I will gather others to them besides those already gathered.” (Isaiah 56:8)

It was a rather emotionally-charged Sunday last week at Faith Lutheran of Philadelphia. Our bold and hardy Church Council had the somewhat unpleasant duty of rendering unto our congregation this very unfortunate bit of news: it looks like we’re going broke.

Yup. Just like a lot of mainline Protestant congregations (and not a few Roman Catholics and members of the Orthodox communions), our cozy little spiritual haven is falling prey to the rapacious maws of old age, the effects of the recent COVID pandemic, rising prices, competition from mega-churches, a vastly more secularized culture, and a whole lot of other stuff I probably haven’t thought about. This means we’re going to have to make some draconian cuts to our budget. To do this we’ll have to find another congregation in more or less the same predicament—but without a called pastor—and ask if they’d be willing to share the services of your Old Religious Guy and split the cost of keeping his body and soul on speaking terms. This suggestion was met with a small amount of weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Now, it’s not that the good folks of Faith aren’t willing to share, but this arrangement would involve a change. Lutherans aren’t big on change.[i] Change means loss and loss means grief and grief sucks.

Fortunately for your Old Religious Guy, I get to preach on Isaiah 56 this week, a passage which speaks to the situation in which we find ourselves. How so, you ask? Let me explain.

Our First Lesson for Pentecost 12 (Isaiah 56:1, 6-8) is from what smart Bible scholar folks call “Third Isaiah.” Actually, we don’t know how many writers there were who composed the part of the Hebrew Scriptures we call the Book of Isaiah. It was at least three but probably many more. What we do think, however, is that one guy couldn’t have written all this stuff by himself unless he lived to be 250 years old—which seems rather unlikely. This collection of prophetic writings spans too long a time period.

Here’s the wonky stuff: “First Isaiah” (Chapters 1- 39) deals with stuff that happened in Israel and Judah before the Babylonians went to war and whooped the tar out of them. It’s mostly warnings about corruption, apostasy, idolatry, lack of compassion, and has a healthy dose of condemnation about foreign affairs and foreign countries. After all, what good’s a prophecy without a little condemnation?

“Second Isaiah” (Chapters 40-55) speaks to the people of God who are in exile in Babylon and offers glimmers of hope.

Finally, “Third Isaiah” (Chapters 56-66) speaks to the post-exilic people of God. These folks have returned to their ancestral land to find that things just aren’t the same as they were back in the good ol’ days.

The story of the people’s exile in Babylon and the prophecies which surround it takes up a pretty good chunk of your Bible. As Christians, we naturally want to focus on Jesus. It’s easy to forget that huge part of Scripture which deals with failure, defeat, disgrace, disappointment, frustrated nostalgia, and heartache which is the Exile story. It might be a good idea for us to remember that this distasteful chapter of Israel’s history played the second lead role next to the story of the Exodus in their group consciousness. It was their own version of the Great Depression, and it was still smarting a few hundred years later by the time Jesus came along.

One of my favorite smart Bible scholar guys, Marcus Borg, has this to say about the Exile:

As an image about God and us, as an epiphany of the human condition and the solution, what is (the Exile story) saying? What is life in exile like? We live in a century in which millions of exiles and refugees know the experience firsthand. For the rest of us, it is fruitful to imagine what life in exile is like. It is an experience of separation from all that is familiar and dear. It usually involves powerlessness and marginality, often oppression and victimization.[ii]

Even though, as Borg explained, the experience of this devastating failure was deep fried into the psyche of God’s people, the prophet called “Third Isaiah”  tried to draw attention away from the disappointed sense of nostalgia and offered a vision of what God can do with God’s people provided they’re willing to use a little imagination. God isn’t interested in recreating the old Jerusalem. God’s been there and done that. What God is asking for is an expanded and inclusive community which invites, unites, and shares. It might’ve been necessary for an older model of religion to die so a newer one could be born. In this sense, change isn’t such a bad thing.

I think we can identify with the exiles who returned from Babylon to find a ruined Jerusalem and wondered how their faith was to survive. We’ve returned from COVID to find fewer butts in our pews and fewer bucks in our offering plate. Our young people don’t share our spirituality, but that’s not to say they’re not finding a contextual spirituality of their own—a spirituality which welcomes people formerly estranged and emphasizes acts of mercy over church doctrine and tradition.

The history of God’s people is always one of disaster and deliverance. The children of Abraham became the slaves of Pharaoh, but God rescued them. David’s mighty kingdom became the vassal of Babylon, but God rescued them. Our Savior was crucified, but he rose. Even the nation of Israel was obliterated, but it was reborn centuries later. Change may mean loss for us, but not for God.

God’s sneaky like that.

Keep the faith, my friend. Thanks for reading.

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[i] Ever hear the old joke: How many Lutherans does it take to change a light bulb? None. We DON’T change. OR: It takes seven. One to climb the ladder and replace the bulb, and six to stand around and talk about how much better the OLD bulb was.

[ii] Borg, Marcus, Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time: The Historical Jesus and the Heart of Contemporary Faith (San Francisco: Harper, 1994) Page 125.

How to Walk on Water (Reflections on Pentecost 11, Year A 2023)

 

"Christ on the Sea" Boucher, French 18th Cent.

But immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.” (Matthew 14:27)

When we last left Jesus in the Revised Common Lectionary’s gospel lesson for the 10^th Sunday after Pentecost (Matthew 14:13-21) he was doing some pretty cool Messiah-type stuff—healing the sick and feeding the hungry. Matthew’s gospel presented these activities as miracles, but, when you stop to think about it, we, as a society, could probably do the same things the Lord was doing if we had the resolve to do them. After all, seeing to the basic necessities of our fellow human beings is kind of what our Christian vocation calls us to do. Nothing miraculous there.

On the other hand, walking on water is pretty much a miracle.

The story of Jesus perambulating merrily across the Sea of Galilee—blatantly defying the laws of natural science—right in the middle of a howling wind storm is something which stretches credulity. If you’re feeling a little cognitive dissonance with the gospel lesson for Pentecost 11 (Matthew 14: 22-33), I’d advise you not to worry too much about it. Don’t get wrapped up in wondering if this is literal or not. If you do, you might miss the point of the story.

If you’ll permit me a rather wonky digression, our boy Matthew loves to throw in references to stuff in the Hebrew Scriptures. In that insightful albeit vexing book of Job, God makes a reference to walking on water, and Job says God “trampled on the waves of the sea.[i]” Walking on water is just one of those fun things God does. Jesus’ stroll across the waves and his announcing himself to the disciples by saying, “It is I” (which in the Original Greek is ego eimi, translated literally as “I AM,” the name God uses in Exodus 3:14) are obvious references to the divinity of Christ.

But you already knew that.

So what can this tale, which most of us have heard a whole bunch of times, teach us today? One of the little details which pops out at me this time around is verse 23, “And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone.” I’m glad Jesus finally got a break. At the top of chapter 14 we learn that Jesus’ friend and mentor, John the Baptist, has been executed by Herod Antipas. When Jesus hears about this, he decides to take a little time for himself (Wouldn’t you?) and gets in his boat for a short retreat on the other side of the lake where he can be alone and think things through. Unfortunately, his plan falls to pieces when a whole horde of sick and needy people, apparently accompanied by the twelve disciples (who also could use a course on etiquette and personal boundaries), come charging around the Sea of Galilee on foot like teenage girls racing to get Taylor Swift tickets.

Jesus heals the sick and provides food for the masses. Then he packs off his twelve buddies in the boat, and asks the five thousand plus well-fed and healthy supplicants to give him a little space. Why? So he can pray. So he can get himself refueled by being in the presence of God—the eternal God who sees and understands beyond our human moment.

Meanwhile, the twelve disciples are having a pretty rough time on the Sea of Galilee. As happens, an unexpected windstorm has blown up, and these guys are now trying to stay afloat. You may know that, for the ancients, water was a symbol of chaos and uncertainty. We all need water to live, but too much of it will kill us. The disciples are out in the dark feeling lost, scared, and confused—just like we do much of the time.

So, in the wee small hours of the morning, Jesus calmly strolls out to be with them. He’s bringing peace because he’s been in conversation with the Father. He’s got his eyes on the bigger picture. He’s not afraid of stuff—not of failure or embarrassment or poverty or any of the human things which keep the likes of us up at night. He’s not even afraid of death.  He knows this is just a moment in God’s time.

We’ve been having some nasty summer storms in my part of the world lately. I guess that’s due to climate change. Of course, we always get plenty of warning from the weather dude on the local TV station. The guy I usually watch on the early evening news has all kinds of colorful charts and maps which show when the storm will come. What I think is cool about this is his colorful charts and maps also show when the storm will end. I always think of God as the Doppler radar of our human journey. From God’s vantage point, the swirling chaos of our lives is only momentary. All the forces which create it are finite.

Of course, if you’re like the disciples in the boat, you don’t know how things will turn out. Everything is scary. They’re ready to see Jesus as a ghost, a specter of death in the midst of their fear and confusion. But Jesus calls to them and tells them not to be afraid. He’s the calm in the storm. Naturally, Peter wants to rush out to him, to walk with the guy who seems to have it all together when everything else is breaking apart. Jesus is cool with this. But Peter, like all the rest of us in our troubled or transitional moments, gets side-tracked by the chaos and starts to sink into it.

Jesus does what he came to do—he saves poor old Peter, just as he’s come to save the rest of us from ourselves. I always wonder what he said to his guys once he climbed into the boat with them. I imagine it being something like this: “So what were you guys worried about? You’re fishermen. You know how to handle a boat, right? Look: our whole spiritual movement could’ve died when John got busted, but it didn’t. I might’ve been overwhelmed by that crowd back there who wanted food, but I wasn’t. We could’ve run out of loaves and fish, but we didn’t. Knucklehead here could’ve drown, but he didn’t. You’re afraid of uncertainty, and I get that. Just don’t forget my Father is stronger than anything you’ll ever come up against. And, by the way, you might’ve noticed that the winds have died down. So let’s go home and have breakfast, okay?”

It’s easy for us to be like Peter in this story. Our challenge is to be like Jesus—to have such a strong core of love and faith that we can walk through the dark weirdness and confusion and still be able to reach a hand out to others.

Stay strong my friend. It’s only when we panic that we die. And please come and visit with me again. I do so enjoy your company.

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[i] Job 38:16 and 9:8 respectively. I have to give a shout-out to Professor Nicholas Schaser of Macalestar College in St. Paul, MN who wrote the commentary on this passage for the Working Preacher website this week. Thanks, Professor Nick for pointing out the references in Job. I really dig Job, but I’d never have noticed this or connected these passages to this week’s gospel on my own.