Sunday, July 20, 2014

The Sixth Sunday after Pentecost [Proper 11A] - July 20, 2014 (Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43 and Romans 8:12-25)


 
Over the past few months, my wife has been slowly introducing our daughters to George Lucas’ masterpiece Star Wars series. To some degree, viewing these movies is a rite of passage in our culture. They’ve become a permanent part of modern folklore, and their special effects expand the child’s imagination to include galaxies that are far, far away. Many of us, I suspect, can remember the experience of seeing one of the movies in the theater.

For our daughters, the initiation is happening at home in front of the television screen. One by one, over the course of weeks and months, the movies have been shown—although first Melinda and I had to decide whether we should view them in the order in which they were released, beginning with Episode IV, or if we should show them in narrative order, beginning with Episode I.

Jar Jar Binks: Friend or Foe? I'll let the experts decide...
As it turns out, I don’t think it matters for our 6-year-old. She instinctively understands what is going on, and although she may not have the vocabulary to explain it, she grasps that there is a cosmic conflict between good and evil brewing. And she grasps that eventually it’s going to lead up to a big showdown. In fact, every time a new character appears on screen, she will lean over to Melinda and whisper, “Is that a good guy or bad guy?” She wants to know right up front which side everyone’s on, whether she can trust them or malign them. The fact is, of course, you can’t always tell which characters are evil, especially at first…and especially just by looking at them. After all, Jar-Jar Binks is a pretty freaky looking dude! Truth be told, many of the characters end up having a little bit of sinister in them at some point, and most of the sinister ones end up having a small streak of purity somewhere. Regardless, there is much clarity, which makes it appealing. That’s what the whole saga is based on, anyway: a battle for the heart of a kingdom that is good, the stand against the creeping forces of evil and destruction.

They didn’t have Star Wars—or anything like it, for that matter—but the disciples of Jesus were well-aware of the creeping forces of evil and destruction. They were aware of the fact that God’s good creation was afflicted with some dark corruption deep within, that God’s purposes of righteousness and love were constantly being thwarted by human selfishness and pride. Imagine how disappointing, then, it must have been when they hear Jesus explain through a parable that God’s own kingdom is going to be like a universe where, at least for the time-being, good and evil must coexist, where that dark corruption is somehow allowed to spread and intermingle amidst the growing goodness and joy!

After all, it was so easy—or so they thought—just to lean over to each other as it all played out and whisper about who were the good guys and who were the bad guys. It was so uncomplicated to label who should be allowed to grow in the kingdom and then expel those who shouldn’t. However, Jesus’ foolishness is wiser than human wisdom. As much as the disciples would have liked to uproot the evil at once, as much as the disciples would have liked to go in with light sabers blazing, God has a purpose for letting it grow together for now, like weeds among the wheat.

"The Tares" Sir John Everett Millais (1864)
It occurs to me that this parable about the kingdom still plays out in so many ways today. Are we not like those slaves, running to the householder, who are first surprised by the presence of the weeds and then frustrated by the instruction not to pull them up? We look around at a world that has so much going for it, at a creation that is filled with beauty and goodness, and are perplexed by the ongoing existence of evildoing. Initially Jesus likely used this parable to address the disruptions of wickedness that often occur within the church communities. Sad to say, at any given time it’s usually pretty easy for people to look at their congregation and see so much potential if it weren’t for certain people, and especially if it weren’t for certain pastors!

Jesus’ parable of the weeds among the wheat teaches several important things to his disciples. First of all, it acknowledges that not everyone at every moment is working toward the righteousness of God’s kingdom, not everyone at every moment is producing the fruits of justice and peace. Just as the householder’s enemy goes about sowing bad seed in and among the good, so does the reality of sin take root in and among our actions and intentions. Jesus’ whole ministry can be seen in this light, after all. As he makes his way through the towns and villages of Judah and Galilee, conflict and opposition to him crop up just as much as faith and commitment from new followers do.

Second of all, it outlines some faithful ways to deal with this reality by correcting some of our common responses. One common response is to be so overwhelmed with the complexity of the problems around us that we effectively throw our hands up and say that there really is no such thing as evil, that everything is just ambiguous shades of neutral, depending on where you stand. In doing so, we rationalize the weeds as beautiful, too, and the truth is they’re not beautiful at all. The weed to which scholars think this particular parable is referring, darnel, was actually mildly poisonous. If it was ground together with the wheat at the end of harvest and used for baking, it would render the food inedible. While it would be helpful if all evildoing were as obviously repulsive as Darth Vader’s visage, the reality is that it’s not always so. That doesn’t mean it isn’t harmful, and it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be vigilant against it.

Another response we have is the desire to take matters into our own hands and immediately eradicate all evil at its root. In our rush to label the good guys and the bad guys, to create communities that are completely pure, we come up with solutions that are a little too cavalier, a little too drastic for the issue at hand. For example, we may look at the rise of immigrant children at the southwestern border and we surmise that immigrants are nothing but weeds, evildoers who have broken the law. Therefore we say, turn them away immediately, for their presence here disturbs our good wheat. Or, on the other hand, we view that same situation and conclude that borders and immigration laws are evil! Therefore, rip them out, for they are preventing the wheat from prospering! In the situation at our country’s border, as in just about every scene of conflict in the world and congregation, Jesus suggests that a faithful response is much more nuanced and measured. Good and evil often are intertwined in complicated ways. Indeed, they are truly intertwined within our own lives! When we’re confronted with the presence of evil, it is best to follow the instructions given to the slaves and continue to tend to the field in ways that are good for the wheat. That is, we sow seeds of righteousness and Christlike compassion to everyone and let the Spirit nurture the growth.


migrant minors in Texas
One last response we often have in this situation is to reach the conclusion that this is just how it’s always going to be, that we are destined to live in a universe which will always be haunted by the Imperial Forces, that eternity will stretch on and on with one Episode after another. For true Star Wars fans, that many be a dream scenario (more Episodes!), but for those struggling with life among real weeds, it leads to despair. Therefore Jesus emphatically says this view is false. The householder loves his field and wants it to produce good, and no amount of weediness will get in his way. At times, it may certainly seem that God is distant and uninvolved, that God has let the garden get so overgrown and filled with nastiness that God must not care, but that is not the case. For, as Jesus explains in the parable, there will be a final showdown, a telling of the truth and a setting things to rights.

Indeed, the idea that evil will always spoil the good is so false, so detrimental to our well-being, that Jesus decides show us so on the cross. There, in his death, Jesus demonstrated God’s full commitment to a final harvest of good wheat from all of us. There, one grain of wheat surrounded by nothing but wicked weeds, he offers up his life with the hope that God will still make it right in the end…for you, for me, and for all the folks we label good guys and those we label as bad guys. The cross is the place where the groaning world may plant its hope with the promise it may grow. That particular death, more than anything else, assures us of whose love will triumph in the end.
As we wait for that time, then, brothers and sisters, when the growth of that love finally reaches its full conclusion…as we wait for God’s own patience with evildoing to run out…patience and prayer are required of us. With the Holy Spirit bearing witness within us that we are children of God, we continue to sow seeds of righteousness and love. The sufferings of this present time—profound though they may be—are not worth comparing to the glory of that final harvest (Romans 8:18).

We read his Word and let the Lord nurture the wheat that does grow within and among us. We take the bread of forgiveness and drink the wine of compassion. Then from the border-towns of Mexico to the avenues of comfortable suburbia, from the wreckage in Ukrainian wheatfields to the service sites in Richmond where youth are using summer vacation to serve the homeless and hungry, we gather with our Lord and with each other.

And even as it all plays out in drama and suspense before us, we lean in to him with hearts that question “Where is this all going?” just to hear him whisper so assuredly to us, over and over: “My child, I am risen!

 

Thanks be to God!


 

The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.  

Sunday, July 13, 2014

The Fifth Sunday after Pentecost [Proper 10A] - July 13, 2014 (Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23)


 
Does anyone here remember secret decoder rings? I’m sad to say that I never actually had one, myself, but I knew all about them growing up. Secret decoder rings (or devices) were simple little gizmos—usually they were plastic—that food companies would hide in boxes of their product—usually it was cereal or snack foods. You’d open the box of cereal and fish around down in there to find it. I think technically you were supposed to pour the cereal out and patiently let the decoder ring fall into your bowl whenever it naturally did so, but what kid does that? Anyway, the point was that the company would send out secret messages that you couldn’t decipher and understand unless you had that secret decoder ring. The secret decoder ring was the key to figuring out what was being said. I don’t think many companies use secret decoder rings anymore, which is too bad. I guess we’ve gone more high tech now. Maybe cereal would instead need to come with a secret log-in password to a website. Bor-ing.

But why am I talking about secret decoder rings? Is it because most of us probably feel we need one to understand these rambling sermons? Maybe we should put one in the doughnut box every Sunday. Find that thing and the sermons will finally make sense!

"The Sower" (Vincent Van Gogh)
In all seriousness, that’s how I’ve always thought of this parable of the sower who goes out to sow some seeds all over the place. This parable is like the secret decoder ring of all the other parables. What’s a parable? A parable is a short-ish story or scenario involving commonplace images which Jesus tells teach a lesson. In a way, they are kind of like Jesus’ sermon illustrations. This one is like a decoder ring lesson because once we understand what Jesus is saying with this lesson, then we can start to understand all of the rest of the lessons. In fact, I think that’s why Jesus tells it first, before any other parable. It’s also probably why Matthew, Mark, and Luke, the three gospel writers who include this parable, all are so careful to include Jesus’ own explanation of it. It is like actually wants us to fish through the cereal box right at the start and find the clue that will help us grasp his teachings. That is, not only does this parable introduce Jesus’ listeners to the concept of the parable, but because in a lot of ways it is the parable about parables.

So, just what is the parable trying to say? If we didn’t have Jesus’ own explanation of it, it would be much more difficult for us to decipher that—as if part of the secret decoder ring had fallen apart. In fact, only a very small handful of Jesus’ parables come with Jesus’ explanations in the New Testament. The point of the story is that a sower goes out casting seed fairly vigorously and somewhat recklessly. Rather than carefully confining his sowing to one area where he knows there is good soil, he broadcasts it far and wide. In fact, he casts the seed so wantonly that some doesn’t even make it onto soil at all. It ends up on the path. That seed never really has a chance. Birds come and eat it. Other seed falls into rocky soil that has not properly been prepared for growing things. Some falls among thorns, which prove to be too much competition for the young seedlings. Eventually some of the seed does fall in the good soil, but there is a surprise there, too: not every seed produces the same amount of grain.

Thanks to the explanation of this parable that Jesus gives in private with his disciples, we know this is not a lesson about how to grow a garden. If it is that, then it’s clear Jesus doesn’t know how to grow a garden. That is a very wasteful, careless way to go about it. No, this parable, as it turns out, is a lesson about how Jesus is going to spread God’s Word and how it will grow—or, as the case may be, fail to grow—in the lives of those who hear him. The different soils are metaphors for different types of people in the various life circumstances they may find themselves at any given time. Sometimes people are like the path, where the word of God never really has a chance to grow. It can’t even begin to take root. The Word also experiences difficulties in reaching its fulfillment of producing righteousness in the lives of those who are like rocky or thorny soil.

But, lo and behold, the Word does sometimes land in the lives where things are, for whatever reason, well-prepared to hear what Jesus teaches and faith takes root and prospers. Maybe the soil has been prepared by careful attention to devotional practices. Maybe the soil has been tilled under and made ready because they’re experienced a particular tragedy in their life and they’re hungry for a fresh perspective. Maybe they just got a good night of sleep. Who knows? But the Word takes root and grows. Sometimes that growth results in a bumper crop. Sometimes it results in a more modest yield. But the growth is always somewhat mysterious and never really up to the expert planting ability of the sower himself.  Let anyone with ears, listen! 
 
And that right there is how this parable is the decoder ring. It is like Jesus is saying: “I’m going to tell all kinds of stories and preach all kinds of sermons and perform all kinds of deeds of power and sometimes it’s just not going to seem to make a difference to people. They’ve clearly got those ears, but it’s going to go in one and out the other.” This parable explains, more or less, why these differences in reactions occurs even to us. Sometimes we cultivate great worship attendance patterns and sometimes we read up on our Bible and we get all involved in other faith practices and we still just don’t get it. Either things don’t make good sense on some days or nothing appears to have much effect on us. Sometimes hearing Jesus’ own lessons, teachings, and miracles doesn’t produce faith in us. We don’t grasp the story that’s behind the parable’s story, or the point that is behind the miracle. At other times we find we do understand these life-giving things. Faith grows, but maybe only thirty or twenty-fold.

Does any of this mean that God is not real or that God is not active in the life of the universe? Does it mean that God has withheld God’s Word from us? Not at all! But it does mean that in a world still shrouded by sin, even God’s Word can encounter challenges in producing what it is given to produce. With this decoder ring we can start to understand, “a-Ha! Because of that strange sowing technique, Jesus includes all people—even me!—in his kingdom, and sometimes that good news will cause me to grow and change and give thanks, but at other times people—even I—will scratch their heads and wonder what in the world is going on.”

I think we could go one step farther, however, and say that this parable of the sower is not just the key to understanding the other parables. It is, in fact, the key to understanding how God works, and what kind of God God is. Like the sower in the parable, God is overly generous with his life-giving Word. God does not pick and choose who gets to receive the love made known in Christ. God does not go out and find only the good soil and drop his grace there. God broadcasts that stuff everywhere. All over the place. It may seem like a waste of time to us, but does an eternal God really need to worry about wastefulness? It may seem like a misuse of resources to us, but doesn’t the Source of all Goodness, the one who created the resource in the first place, get to decide how God wants to use the Word?

Yes, this is how our God operates, generously bestowing that Word of life everywhere God wants, over all of creation. In teaching, in preaching, in healing, in prayer…God is at work in myriad ways and myriad places with the confidence that one little seed will grow somewhere and produce many more times than that in faithfulness. Eventually the way God casts this Word will lead his Son to die on the cross in order to have his Word take root in the hearts of his people. He will cast that kernel of grace and righteousness on the most godforsaken, bloody, lifeless piece of ground. Come to think of it, there were thorns there, too. He will cast his whole life there in the hope that anyone who ever appens to be that kind of soil, too—anyone who feels parched and desolate from the turmoil of sin and death—will still have a chance to rise with Jesus and be included in God’s kingdom.

It stands to reason, then, if the secret decoder tells us how people receive God’s Word and that this is how God works in all things—spreading his Word and his grace and his love so liberally—then that is how the church should be, too. We are the ones who go out and spread this message in our lives. We know we’re not supposed to keep it in the seed bag to ourselves. And we’re really not supposed to carefully pick and choose who we think is worthy of receiving it, either, which is what I’m afraid any of us can be guilty of at times.  Good soil, you see, isn’t always apparent on the surface. In fact, we can pretty much say that good soil is almost never apparent just by looking at someone’s surface. The point is that we’re never really in charge of those people’s growth in faith in the end, anyway. Our job is to hear the Word spoken and sung, to be fed at the table and washed at the font, and then spread God’s Word of love and joy to all people following the example of our Lord Jesus Christ who in this morning’s text sees so many people with ears to hear that he steps out into a boat on the shore and delivers the message.

I think you all understand this concept more fully that you might realize. This morning, for example, your backs rest against one of the seeds of faith and love that you’ve been sowing. You’ve also been sewing, you see: Quilts for LWF! Over a hundred of them, carefully stitched by dedicated volunteers over the past several months. They will be flown to various distant parts of the planet and placed in the hands of villagers and urban residents who need them.

Now I hate to break it to you, but some of them will be distributed and received…and then never used as they’re intended. Some may not even be used at all. Some folks will receive them and cut them up for clothes, or maybe even tossed aside. Others might use them for shelter. Some for a floor covering, others for warmth. But in the midst of all that, I bet more than one newborn baby will be wrapped in one of these quilts you’ve made today. And that’s pretty amazing. Hundred-fold yield.

The point is, you know you’ve not made these quilts with the thought that you will hand-select those you deem worthy to receive them. You’re simply making them, blessing them, and handing them over to the soils of the world and trusting in the providence of God’s care and the Spirit’s growth as they go.

May it be so with all your demonstrations of faith and service, your Sunday School teaching and confirmation mentoring, with all your efforts to share your faith, with all the conversations of compassion and care you have privately with those you know. You’ve been given the Word, and you know it has, from time to time, grown in you. Well, now you have the secret decoder ring, too! Get to spreading the Word.

 

Thanks be to God!

 


The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

Sunday, June 22, 2014

The Second Sunday after Pentecost [Proper 7A] - June 22, 2014 (Matthew 10:24-39 and Romans 6:1b-11)


 
When Jesus tells his disciples that they should not be afraid because God cares for them so much that even the hairs of their heads are counted, I have to think that assurance is a lot more comforting to some people than it is for others! In fact, that statement means less and less to me with each passing year.

On the other hand, Jesus mercifully Jesus balances that statement out with the one about no sparrow falling to earth without God’s notice. In ancient times, sparrows were the cheapest and most abundant source of meat. Relatively easy to trap and kill, they were sold for a fraction of a daily wage even though they really didn’t provide much nourishment. Yet, Jesus remarks, if the One who created the universe wants to and is able to keep track of the deaths of even the least valuable living thing, economically-speaking, then imagine how much more attention will God pay to the life of a being created in God’s image!
Whether or not the disciples ended up finding these statements particularly encouraging or comforting is not known. I suspect they did, which is why Matthew took care to write them down. Regardless, Jesus certainly intended for them to be, and although we don’t eat songbirds in our culture I assume the same spirit of that comfort and encouragement goes for us as well.

And that’s all well and good. We all probably like feeling comforted and encouraged as much as the next guy or girl, but it begs the question: why would Jesus say something to comfort and encourage his disciples in the first place? What is going on between Jesus and his disciples that would make such dramatic declarations of God’s care necessary? Does Jesus say these things simply because he knows that there is a good chance each of us will deal with some sort of hardship in our life, be it cancer, or mental illness, or the betrayal of a spouse? It is because Jesus knows that we all suffer as a result of the terrible inequalities in this world and our widespread inability to discuss them lovingly and find level-headed ways to resolve them?

Would Jesus say these particular words, for example, to the thousands of immigrant children and youth warehoused right now at the border with Mexico who are desperately seeking a life beyond the grip of crippling poverty and crime—that they actually are more valuable than sparrows? Or, perhaps, is Jesus intending these words for the vulnerable families on the American side of the border whose relatively peaceful way of life is threatened by an ill-guarded border and an influx of illegal newcomers? Could he somehow intend them for both?

Truth be told, I suppose Jesus would and does want each and every person in harm’s way to be assured of God’s presence and protection, but these particular words of comfort about the hairs on our heads and the price of sparrows are not about just any type of suffering, however great it may be. Jesus has words elsewhere for those situations. These words, rather, are intended for those who will suffer on account of their faith in and witness to him. They are spoken to those who will be sent out to proclaim in word and deed the mercy and peace of God’s kingdom as it is being made known in Jesus Christ. Think of them as pep rally words before the big game or the speech from the general before the troops head into combat.

All of the words this morning from Jesus remind us that there is a cost to being one of his disciples. It’s easy to forget that—or gloss over it—in this day and age, and especially in this country where freedom of religious expression is basically protected. When I think of the costs of my own discipleship, my mind might wander to the portion of my income that goes to support the church or other charitable organizations, or maybe the evenings I have meetings and am pulled away from family.

Viewed this way, I’m afraid I might reducing Christian faith to little more than a way to self-fulfillment and inner peace, kind of like a hobby—as if Jesus came to bring about way of thinking that leads to a more balanced, more holistic life. While there is nothing wrong with any of those things, pep talks like the one Jesus gives his disciples this morning are stark reminders that following Jesus is not about self-fulfillment at all. It is always first and foremost about the kingdom of God and finding our place in it. Following Jesus, or “walking in newness of life,” as Paul calls it, is about the embodiment of God’s love for the world in Jesus Christ. It is about standing in all instances as a representative of a new world order which values mercy over sacrifice, forgiveness over revenge, and giving over receiving. Some of us may at long last find that those kinds of things lead to self-fulfillment, but that is not their point. Their point—and the disciple’s task—is to let folks know that God loves the world and therefore stands against all that would tear it apart. Jesus, the teacher, knows that his followers will be met with rejection and maybe even persecution for the message they bring. Why? Because he himself is met with even worse…and the disciple is not above the teacher.

Being buried with Jesus in our own baptism and rising to walk with him involves the death of and reorientation of a lot more things than we realize. Walking the Christian way is about learning and re-learning that over and over again. It is about letting the Spirit take stock of our lives and having that love of Christ renew our vision and re-form our decisions.

In fact, that is what this talk about family relationships is about, and why so much of Jesus’ discussion about discipleship uses language we typically associate with family. In Jesus’ time, family bonds were, hands-down, the most important mark of one’s identity. Family determined everything about one’s sense of well-being and his or her place in society in a way that is difficult for us to grasp today. In fact, family associations did not have much to do with love or affection. Family was everyone’s primary allegiance and place of loyalty, regardless of how you personally felt about them. This was the case even when those family arrangements were unfair or abusive, especially to women and widows or orphaned children. The decision to follow Jesus, then, usually challenged and often broke those allegiances. It gave believers a new identity—and a new freedom—that took precedence over all others.

I remember some baptisms we performed in my internship congregation in Cairo, Egypt. One afternoon we baptized some 30-odd Sudanese and Somali refugees who had undergone weeks of baptismal preparation not from people in our congregation within the two African congregations who shared the building with us. After the ceremony, one woman shyly presented my supervisor and me with some handmade gifts she had woven from simple fibers. The note, scrawled in broken English, which accompanied the gifts revealed that she had originally been a member of another faith, but that now she was so thankful to have found a true family that loved her with the love of Jesus. Her humble gifts were actually heartfelt “thank yous” to us for welcoming her in. I was proud of them and wanted to share the news, but my supervisor told me not to mention a word of it to anyone. In that country, that woman could have been sought out and killed for her decision to be baptized. It would have quite literally set her against her mother-in-law. Or her father. Or someone else in her family.

Baptismal font, Bornholm, Sweden
We would never have done anything to put that woman in harm’s way, but hers was a decision, you see, not of self-fulfillment, not of peace with everyone in her family group, but a decision to stand for a kingdom that was not yet fully welcome everywhere, a decision for a family of acceptance and forgiveness.

On the other side of that same coin, I remember a conversation I had with a man at our most recent Synod Assembly at Roanoke College. He freely shared with those of us in his discussion group that he looked forward every week to Sunday, not because of the music in worship or because what he heard preached and taught edified his life, but because, in his words, it was the only time he got to see people he considered family.

Into the midst of so much turmoil and uncertainty goes this family of Jesus, imperfect and wounded though we often are, and distant though we may sometimes feel from another. Among the borders with Mexico as well as here safe in the heart of Virginia…against the violence-mongering mafia families of southern Italy… around the dinner tables Henrico County that are riven by strife as well as those that are pictures of harmony…anywhere a sparrow falls can appear this kingdom of Jesus, and we are empowered to weave our unworthy gifts of thanks and praise with the one thread that will actually hold the world together: the kind of love that dies on a cross.

We are sent to these places and others like it dismantling systems and groups that with that word of love. And when we worry about the hairs on our heads and the costs it will involve, the complete and utter loss of our lives, let us never forget that the one who gives us this pep talk—the one whose watery name we bear on our heads—has decided to comfort us with more than just words. He has comforted us with his own death. So that in the end, and as we follow, we will not simply find peace and self-fulfillment. We will find something far better: we will find ourselves with our brothers and sisters standing on the side of the one kingdom where death no longer has dominion. That is, we will find life.

 

Thanks be to God!


 

The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

Sunday, June 15, 2014

The Holy Trinity [Year A] - June 15, 2014 (Genesis 1:1--2:4a)


 
I don’t think I’ve ever come across anyone who isn’t, in some way, fascinated with the world around them. For some, the focus of interest may be the stars and planets and the mathematics of the heavens, how complex physics formulas help us learn about an ever-expanding universe. For others that fascination might be centered on the complete opposite end of things: it’s the inner workings of the atom or the biological cell that really get them thinking.

Some might find those kinds of things boring or too mind-boggling to ponder but they do find themselves captivated by the love of a pet…or the view of the Shenandoah Valley from the Skyline Drive…or the twinkling of lightning bugs over the backyard in early June. And just look at the platypus! It has the body of an otter, the tail of a beaver, and the mouth of a duck and it lays eggs! And it stings! As someone once said, it’s made up of leftover parts. Pretty fascinating.

We could go on and on and on with our lists of things about the natural world that astound and perplex us before we could even start with the things about human creativity and ingenuity that we find fascinating: The Pyramids of Giza. The Sistine Chapel. Shakespeare’s plays. Ethiopian long-distance runners. Apollo 11. Those are just a few of the well-publicized, extreme examples, but there are ones we encounter every day, as well. The kindness of strangers. The healing of old wounds. The sharing of stories that somehow inspire and encourage us to conquer fears and overcome obstacles. Stepping back momentarily from the grind of the day-to-day provides the soul with wonder and the mind with plenty to contemplate.

Ancient peoples were no different. Life may have been a little simpler, a little slower, and a lot less digital way back when, but early civilizations bore the same types of wonder about the world around them, where they came from and what the point of life was. In fact, they had stories about it all, stories that made space for belief and faith about the meaning of existence. In the midst of all these competing—and, to be honest, downright depressing—stories arose two stories from one group of people who had a radically different understanding of why things were the way they were. Unlike all the other stories that all the other peoples were telling, theirs told of one God that created everything with order and meaning. Creation was no accident or by-product of cosmic warfare between rival deities.

In both versions the ancient Hebrews had—the one we hear today  and the one that directly follows it—creation was a careful, thought-out process. There was purpose and sequence. Things built upon each other. The God who was responsible for it all was intimately involved from word one all the way until things reached completion. And unlike the versions of creation that other peoples told, in the Hebrews’ stories God actually gave of himself as the creation occurred. At each step along the way, this God declared with certitude what you and I never could deduce on our own, but which is so important: this creation is good. It is not random or meaningless. It is not without value. Everything from the atoms to the Andromeda chain is the work of a loving and gracious Creator.

Humans, which were the crowning piece of this God’s creative work, were not just declared good. They were pronounced very good. Male and female together, humans occupied a place in the order of creation that no other creature did. The Creator would not step back entirely once Creation was complete. In fact, creation would never really be complete all at the beginning, which is something the Hebrew people steadfastly maintained. It was and is an ongoing process, and God has made us in God’s own image that we may steward it and maintain it (“be fruitful and multiply!”) into the future.

Our challenge today, faced with so many more factual calculations about the age of the universe or how things technically got started is not to view these stories in the beginning of Scripture as pure scientific fact or hard historical evidence but rather in the way they were intended: stories that communicate something far more important than science and history.  One can convey truth through things other than the scientific theory, and God didn’t give God’s people these stories in order to answer questions like “how” and “what” in the first place. That is, their primary concern is not to communicate how we all got here or what creation is made of. Rather, God has given us these stories to tell us the bigger truths like “why” and “who”—why things are the way they are and why we can sense so much beauty and wonder in it all. They tell us who we are as creatures, and that we are good and very good, and why humans do seem to occupy a special place in the midst of it. Male and female together, we are “a little lower than God and crowned…with glory and honor” (Psalm 8).

More than anything, however, we learn from Scripture who is behind and in the midst of all this. We discover that all along it has been the work of a very unique God, a God who never removes himself from creation and who loves it deeply. This God loves it so deeply, in fact, that this God becomes a part of it at one point as one of these image-bearing humans in order to put things back together the way God initially planned it.

For that’s the other main issue with creation and our understanding of it. As good as we hear that it is and as fascinating as we find it—all the beautiful creepy crawling things and the birds of the air—we can also see and sense that it is not quite perfect. Deep down we know that it is broken and that we, especially, have made a mess of it…that we’ve made a terrible mess of each other. We have the slave trade and school shootings and skin cancer. We act in dreadful fashion towards our fellow creatures, become complacent towards the things that need to be changed, and when we make a mistake we utter “I’m only human!” forgetting that to be truly human actually means to be very good, crowned with glory and honor.

It is only through this love in Jesus of Nazareth that we begin to understand just how good and perfect we were designed to be. In the person of Jesus, the God who creates descends in order to save and restore us. Made of the very stuff of God and yet also sharing our skin, Jesus comes to take up a part in the very creation that has become such a mess, not withholding the divine power even from hanging on a cross. The love that is poured out between God the Father Creator and God the Son Jesus is then bestowed upon the rest of humankind so that we may actually share it with each other and help complete the work that God began so long ago.

This power, this life-giving love between Father and Son, is what we come to know as the Spirit, and it turns out we see the Spirit at the beginning, too, as God’s breath of love swirl and sweep over the waters to bring everything into existence, however it scientifically may have happened.

Furthermore, we know that if God can hang on a cross to redeem you and me, then God will also be present for the length of time, and long after all of this we see has come and gone, and not even a brick of the Great Pyramids even remain, this God who is One and Three will remain, and we, somehow, with him.

Standing back and beholding all of creation’s grand story is certain to produce awe and endless fascination—the wonders of things like lightning bugs and the hummingbird migration patterns…the complexity of Bach Brandenburg Concertos and the Hubble Telescope…the potency of honeybee pollination efforts and Dizzy Gillespie’s cheeks…the sacrifices of Normandy and Tiananmen Square…the power of war to maim and stunt as well as the power of forgiveness to heal and renew…the treasures of parental love and childlike trust…the beauty of human families created by conception and those born by adoption...

Standing back and beholding it, the person of faith may feel inept at understanding or scientifically proving really much of anything about how it all fits together. To be sure, the person of Christian faith may continue propose impressive and plausible theories for how it all comes about and what it all is made of. And that is well and good. But do not forget that the person of faith can also still praise and give thanks for the “why” and the “who” of this Holy Trinity, this churning relationship of Love-Within-Itself:

That we have been created in the image of God.

That we have been redeemed by the Son of God.

That we each may take part in God’s purposes in our own unique way thanks to the Spirit of God.

And by that same Spirit we may, in time, echo the story the ancient Hebrews gave us: Lord Almighty, you are good. You are very, very good.

 

Thanks be to God!

 
Symbol for the Holy Trinity, Stained glass
St. Paul Lutheran Church (Bremen, IN)

 

The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

Sunday, June 8, 2014

The Day of Pentecost [Year A] - June 8, 2014 (1 Corinthians 12:3b-13)


 
Happy Birthday, Church!

How old are you today, anyway? Have you hit the old 2-0-0-0 yet? Truth be known, we’ve kind of stopped counting—partly because every year is but a second in God’s sight, but mainly because Christ makes you a new creation, over and over. That is, it’s kind of like you are new each day, constantly renewing yourself like a Phoenix or in the way a forest fire makes way for new growth to spring up in its path. Nevertheless, it’s easy to remember Pentecost as the day you officially came into existence. Just as Easter is a celebration of our Lord’s resurrection from the darkness of the tomb, Pentecost is remembrance of new life, too—the new life the Spirit brings. It was shortly after Jesus’ triumph over death when you burst forth with power from the tomb of confusion and doubt, the Holy Spirit giving birth to you among the disciples in Jerusalem.

So, here we are to wish you—to wish us—a Happy Birthday.

a congregation in Africa
Look at us! We’re still gathered here today, just as diverse as we’ve always been—some of us full of faith and vitality, fired up and ready to do something for God, others of us feeling a little worn around our edges, needing replenishment. Some of us here are soaking in the time-tested liturgy and relishing the hymns, while others of us are still timidly testing the waters of communal religious practices, skeptical of doctrine and dogma. Some of us are here because we love Sundays and the chance to gather with the saints, and others of us are here just because of the doughnuts.

Whatever the reason, dear Church, God’s Spirit has blown and grown among us once again and brought us here on this first day of the week. Don’t let the apparent lack of diversity in areas like race or nationality within this congregation blind us to the other ways in which we are truly different from each other! Each of us here, for example, has his or her own story and his or her own unique personality. Each of us here has a distinct combination of talents and skills. Each of your members in this very congregation has come to know you and God a little bit differently, and we all contain within us a slightly different spark of that Spirit’s ability to give life to the world around us. We are a diverse bunch even before we factor in all the other congregations across the planet who are meeting and worshiping right now, all in the name of Jesus, who is Lord.

Sometimes all these differences, church, really pull us—and therefore you—apart. Rather than bringing us closer in unity to each other, these gifts, as the apostle Paul calls them, often fracture our unity. This has mainly happened in two ways.

building a church with marshmallows and toothpicks
The first way is that we start to value certain gifts and activities over others, essentially giving more power and control to people who do certain things or have certain titles. Just think of the ways over the years that we’ve elevated the gifts of the clergy. So many us are prone to think that people like pastors and bishops, diaconal ministers and music ministers have more of the Spirit’s gifts than anyone else in the congregation, or that their gifts are better suited for your ministry. Gifts and activities like preaching or singing a solo or developing a Bible study are for some reason favored over the gifts of patience or good listening or activities like cutting the church grass and reconciling the church checking account. Service that is visible on Sunday morning is elevated above the services that goes on behind the scenes and out in the world Monday through Saturday.

We’ve also looked down upon those who bear some gifts. Women have for a long time been overlooked, especially for their leadership gifts, as have people of color, those and who speak difference languages than we do, and those we label “disabled.” The gifts and services of those who are not as economically well-off often get by-passed or downplayed, too. In short, we let the divisions present in worldly communities creep into the work we do as part of you, and as a result, people often get hurt and, unfortunately, blame that hurt on God.

gifts of quilt-making
Overall, our valuing of certain gifts and services over others and our valuing of certain people over others has really diminished the amount of work you’ve been able to get done in the world. Help us to remember, as Paul says in his letter to you years and years ago,“for in the one Spirit we were all baptized into one body—Jews or Greeks, slaves or free.” Help us to remember that “to each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good,” not principally for our own self-betterment and definitely not to the detriment of others whom you’ve gathered in your embrace.

The other main way all our diversity in gifts and abilities pulls you apart, dear church, occurs when we downplay our gifts too much. This, you know, is a particular problem in a culture like ours where we are so accustomed to being consumers and spectators rather than contributors and participants. Whether we realize it or not, we come to worship in the same frame of mind that we attend sporting events or theater shows, expecting to be entertained, expecting mainly to “feel something” while we’re here. We file in to our pews and wait for the pastor and the musicians to put on a show, and when we’re not entertained or when we end up not feeling something during worship we leave somehow disappointed. We fall into the trap of thinking that we’re primarily supposed to “get something out of church,” full well forgetting that we’re not here to be an audience at all.

Your audience, O Church, is not we, the people who gather. Your audience—our audience—is God, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

a church in Norway
We, by contrast, are the ones who have come to share our gifts and our voices and our prayers and our services in praise of the Most High. We are the one whom the Spirit gathers to sacrifice time and energy to perform an offering of time and talent for the Lord who has named and claimed us all in his death on the cross. If anyone is be “getting anything out of church” it should be God or the world who is being served by our hands.

In fact, dear Church, I thought of you this week, as I watched a kindergarten chorus presentation. I stood in the back of the elementary school gym as they all streamed in, a bunch of 5 and 6 year olds wearing brightly-colored t-shirts corresponding to their different classrooms—red, yellow, green, blue. It took them a while to get organized on the risers, and for a while I thought they’d never get started. There was a moderate level of confusion, and several of us were likely snickering under our breath: could they pull this off?

My goodness they were squirmy. It was like they were filled with new wine. Some kids looked downright unhappy with the whole ordeal. Here and there I noticed quite a bit of pushing and shoving going on, grumpy faces, kids’ stepping on each other’s toes, intruding in other’s personal space. With no adults immediately nearby to mediate conflict the children were left to themselves to sort it out. Most of them spent more time waving to moms and dads out in the audience than paying attention to where the director was asking them to stand.

Hand motions went along with almost every song. That was cute, but borderline disastrous at times. You could tell that kind of coordination was still a stretch for some of them. I watched several kids unknowingly clock the person next to them as they stretched their hands out in some gesture. Those who had been selected to deliver a spoken line to introduce a song often stood far too quickly or softly to be understood. Some sounded like they were trying to swallow the microphone: “GeorgeWashingtonwasourfirstpresidentHewasborninVirginiain1732.”


All in all it was a little chaotic, but, you know what? It was amazing. And in the end, it we “got a lot out of it.” We received what they were trying to give us. The kids really weren’t putting on the program for themselves. I’m sure some of them enjoyed doing it, but that wasn’t the point, now, was it? The point of all their practice and performing, was to give something to us. We were delighted. We were, you may say, fed.

So, beloved Church, as we venture into a new year of grace, may we see ourselves more like that kindergarten choir, diverse and different, but gathered into one body through our baptism into Christ. May we see ourselves as those who are performing not only in worship on Sunday but on every day through the week. For, truth be told, a whole world is watching…watching to see if we can pull it off.

And, since on birthdays gifts are in order, let us we dedicate our gifts and services once more to you, the gifts that the same Spirit gave us—the singing and the prophesying, the healing and wisdom, the services of grass-mowing and budget-balancing, and occasionally even those of preaching and Bible study leading. Use them for common good, O Church, not primarily for ourselves. We re-commit them to your service with the hopes that the Spirit will, once again, take our squirminess and make it amazing. As we step up to the task of proclaiming to the world what God’s Son has done, we pray the Spirit will take our inarticulate, incoherent murmurings and give us clarity of voice.

And as we try to stand next to each other, we pray that the Spirit take our childish grumpiness, our ugliness, and make us beautiful.

 

O Holy Spirit, take all our kindergarten-like chaos and give it order.

Make us one.

Make us holy.

Make us catholic.

And make us apostolic.

Jew, Greek, slave and free—let the Spirit of Christ breathe again and make us…Church.

 

With all our love,

signed:

ourselves, the people of God.

                                                                       


 

P.S. Save me a doughnut!

 

 

 

The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

Sunday, May 18, 2014

The Fifth Sunday of Easter [Year A] - May 18, 2014 (Acts 7:55-60 and 1 Peter 2:2-10)


 
Today is Confirmation Sunday. For those of you who may be new to our Lutheran tradition, this is the day where our high school youth stand before the congregation and make public profession of their faith. For those of you who have been Lutheran since before you can remember…this is the day where our high school youth stand before the congregation and make public profession of their faith. It is not a graduation “into” adulthood in the church, although we Lutherans can often slip into that way of thinking. The technical term for confirmation is “affirmation of baptism,” because everything they and we say and do today is actually a response to the promises God made to them in their baptism—the promise to love you without reserve, the promise to forgive you of your sin through the mercy of Jesus Christ, the promise to be there for you at all times, even after you die.

Confirmands, when you were baptized, your parents and godparents made promises to raise them with the knowledge that God had said these things to you. And so now, today, we arrive at that point where you will stand before the congregation and say publicly, “These promises are for me.” Almost everything your parents and your congregation have done in fulfilling their end of the baptism promises was, in a sense, to get you ready for this moment when you will say “these are my people.” As Peter’s letter puts it this morning, today, in this moment, you’re agreeing with the belief that “once you were not a people, but now—through union with Christ in your baptism—you are God’s people; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy.” You’re agreeing to the belief that God’s grace has claimed you out of no merit of your own and set you free to serve him. That makes it a public profession of faith.

Is this the first time you’ve somehow publicly professed your faith in God who is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit? I doubt it. In fact, in some way, shape or form we’ve watched you do it before, even though you may not have realized that’s what you were doing or that people were watching you while you did it. This may have been at a youth group event or in Sunday School or before a football game or when you’re just hanging with your friends. To be quite honest, every time we face this font or this cross on a Sunday morning and confess our sins or say a Creed out loud we are making some kind of public profession of faith.

Will today be the last time you’ll make public profession of your faith? Well, we certainly hope it isn’t. While it’s good to choose this day and make a big deal out of it, while it’s helpful to have a day when you’ll put on the white robe and the red boutonniere and stand in front of us and say, “I am one of this royal priesthood”—let’s get real for a minute—the real public professions of faith will come when you leave this place. When Monday comes, are people going to know where you’ve placed your trust and hope? The mercy you’ve been shown by this God—will you somehow show it to others? This unconditional love you’ve experienced from this God—will you practice it with others? Those are the public professions of faith that God empowers us all to make.

However, we need to be very careful here. As good as it is to stand up and say from time to time, “These are my people and this is my God,” none of this is never supposed to be about us. Our faith—no matter how strong or weak it is—is never the most important thing about this moment…or about any moment, for that matter. The key point of any profession of faith is not our bravery or what we’re doing but about what God is doing in the world. We can lift up the promises we make as we respond to God’s love and mercy, but our identity, our purpose, is always based in the promises God makes to us.

We see an extreme but prime example of how a public profession of faith gives glory to God and not to the person professing it this in our first lesson this morning. It’s one of Scripture’s most chilling and most daring witnesses to Christ. You can think of it as Stephen’s confirmation, that moment in his life when his witness to the love of God was more brilliant and bold than any other. To give you some background, Stephen was one of the church’s first deacons. (Incidentally, “deacon” is essentially another word for “diaconal minister,” which is our Christy Huffman’s official job title). Back in the old, old days of the church, a deacon was a special servant who brought food to and tended to the needs of those the church was serving, maybe a little like our LAMBs Basket and HHOPE volunteers. The Christian faith had grown to the point that they decided they needed to have some people set aside to do those specific tasks, lest it get too confusing. Stephen, however, was also very gifted in preaching the Word, and people started to listen to him so much that people who didn’t trust Jesus’ followers thought it would be better if he were silenced. Even though Stephen and the others preached and embodied God’s love for all people, they felt threatened by them because it would upset their hold on power. They brought him before a council and basically asked him to recant his faith.


"The Stoning of Saint Stephen" Rembrandt (1625)
Instead, Stephen put on a white robe and a red carnation boutonniere and recited the Apostles’ Creed.  Actually, he didn’t quite do that, but he stood up and recited a very eloquent description of his faith. At the end of it, his opponents get so angry that they stone him to death. Stephen becomes the first martyr of the Christian faith. His confirmation is his point of death. In dying, he points to the power of the God who claimed him and loved him and set him aside as deacon. Notice how even as he dies, as the stones fly in at his breaking body, he chooses to let God’s promises, rather than his own bravery, shine through. It is still about God and not about Stephen. “Lord,” he says, “do not hold this sin against them.” Right up to the end he chooses to emphasize God’s mercy, not his own courage.

The account of Stephen is profound enough right there, but what makes it even more profound is that we’re told one of the people there at Stephen’s stoning was a man named Saul. Saul hates the followers of Jesus and even approves of Stephen’s killing, but later, even after Stephen’s profession of faith, goes on to realize that he, too, is claimed by God in Christ and empowered to be a witness. Paul goes on to be one of the church’s greatest leaders and witnesses.

No one here hopes that you ever end up having the type of public profession of faith that Stephen does. No one here prays that you will have to undergo a painful, public death on account of your faith in God’s promises. However, we do hope that the Lord will lead you into situations where you can testify to his glory, where you will be able to say with actions and sometimes even with your words that you were once no person but now you are one of God’s people…that once you had no mercy, but in Christ you have all the mercy you’ll ever need. We pray that you will be strengthened in your faith in such a way that others—maybe even other Sauls—will not primarily see you but through you that God is a forgiving, loving God and will want to know more about this Jesus who is the way, the truth and the life.

The book One Hundred Years of Solitude tells the story of a little town named Macondo that sits somewhere in the remote swamps of Colombia, South America. At the beginning of the novel this isolated little town is an idyllic kind of place where everyone basically gets along. At one point, however, a strange insomnia plague sweeps through the town. For weeks on end, no one can sleep.  At first, the people of Macondo are kind of happy with it, because there was so much work that needed to get done and people were happy to do the work. They sit around and tell stories when they’re done with that.

However, after a while, they begin to realize that the lack of sleep was causing their memory to fade. Their brains are getting so fatigued—even though they really can’t feel it—that they are starting to forget things. Pretty soon, they realize they are starting to forget even the most basic things, like how to feed their livestock and how to repair things that got broken. The memory problem gets kind of dire and at some point one town resident realizes that unless they get over the insomnia disease, they are all going to forget even the most basic things they need to survive. They get worried, and so to help them live, to help them make sense of their surroundings as their memories deteriorate, they write down labels for everything. They also put up two signs put signs up in the town: “At the beginning of the road into the swamp they put up a sign that said MACONDO and another larger on one on the main street that said, GOD EXISTS.”[1]

Their memory was disappearing, their energy was waning, but the things they wanted to know and remember most—the things they thought would help them survive—were their location and that God did exist. It wouldn’t be always be obvious and discernable from looking around at the world that God exists, so they knew they’d need a reminder. And it’s true: when the stones of violence and general meanness are raining down, it’s hard to intuit that there is, in fact, a God.

So, while we don’t pray that you may face a stoning over your profession of faith, our prayer is that you will be one of those signs. We pray that with your life you will become one of those simple and profound sings that stands in the midst of the world…a world that works and plays so hard most of the time that it loses sight of its identity and that there is even a Creator of it. This world has some kind of insomnia, but we have come to remember that, in fact, there is one…and this God does not merely exist but also loves us and, in spite of our forgetfulness, makes us his people. In your actions and even your words, may you be given hundreds of opportunities to be another sign that proclaims not yourself, and not the purity of your own faith, but rather the God who gives us Christ who is the way, the truth, and the life.

 

Thanks be to God!

 


The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.




[1] Gabriel Garcia Marquez. One Hundred Years of Solitude. Harper Perennial Modern Classics, 2006. P47