Part of that vision. July 21, 2019 The Rev. David M. Stoddart

Amos 8:1-12

Phillips Brooks is now remembered primarily as the author of “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” but he was an Episcopal priest, and in his lifetime (he died in 1893) he was renowned as a great preacher. And he famously said that “preaching is truth delivered through personality.” That’s a very incarnational statement, acknowledging that God must of necessity speak through the beauties and limitations of human personality. And if that’s true in preaching, it is also true in prophecy. God reveals Godself through the personalities of particular prophets. And those personalities vary quite a bit: Ezekiel was a mystical visionary;  Second Isaiah was a hopeful and embracing person; Hosea’s writing shows a warm and compassionate nature. But then there’s Amos. He was not a warm, fuzzy guy. His was a fierce and angry personality. which can make hearing his words difficult: I will turn your feasts into mourning, and all your songs into lamentation; I will bring sackcloth on all loins, and baldness on every head — you know it’s bad when a prophet starts talking about people going bald!

Perhaps God needed an angry prophet at that moment: Amos wrote in the 8th century B.C.E., at a time when Israel was fat and happy: it was militarily secure and its economy was booming. It may have taken someone like Amos to get people’s attention. But while God spoke through Amos’ angry personality, we need to make sure we don’t make the basic mistake of assuming that God has the same personality. God may speak through an angry person, but that doesn’t mean that God herself is angry: God is not like us that way. And, perhaps more importantly, we should not ignore the message because we don’t like the messenger. What we need to do is to hear the truth being expressed through that personality. Amos may have preached it with ferocity, but what is the truth he is conveying? What is God actually saying through this man?

Well, God is speaking to the people of Israel and saying, “You people act religious. You worship on the sabbath day and offer all the right sacrifices at all the right times — and then you immediately go back to taking advantage of the poor. You’ve rigged a system where the rich get richer and the poor get cheated: you trample on the needy,  and bring to ruin the poor of the land . . . buying the poor for silver and the needy for a pair of sandals.  And you think that God doesn’t see and doesn’t care. But God does see and God does care.”

That’s not an easy message to hear, in part because it is a social message. In some ways, it’s easier to hear about personal sins because I have more control over them, there are ways I can repent and change my behavior. But when God addresses the sins of our society, it can feel overwhelming. There is just so much. Poverty is a crushing reality in our country: around 40 million people live in poverty. You can work 60 hours a week at minimum wage and still not make enough to feed a family, pay rent, and buy health insurance. Racism is real, and it’s not just limited to a few bad apples: it’s systemic, ingrained into our culture. Sexual discrimination, homophobia, xenophobia, and anti-Semitism are unfortunately alive and well. According to the FBI, hate crimes are not only on the rise, but they remain under reported — the problem is worse than we think. In the face of such news, we might be tempted to block it all out — except that God won’t let us block it all out.

And as hard as hearing God address these issues may be, it would be far worse not to hear God at all. And that is the ultimate problem that Amos raises. If the people will not listen, then the worst thing that can happen to them is not fire and brimstone, not lamentation and baldness: the worst thing that can happen is famine — not a famine of food, but a famine of hearing the word of the Lord. If we don’t listen, Amos says, eventually there will be nothing to listen to.

This is the problem in the Gospel today. Every time this passage comes up, I have a dozen people say to me at the door that Martha gets a bum rap, and that they’re on her side: she’s doing all the work and Mary’s just being lazy. Apparently, many people feel this way. You may have heard of Lenten Madness, the church’s version of the NCAA basketball tournament, with 64 saints in brackets vying to win the Golden Halo. Do you know who won this year? Martha! And, hey, Martha’s great in many ways, but good people, in this story, the bottom line is that Martha is not listening! And no amount of busyness makes up for that. All of our actions must ultimately be grounded on hearing the word of God spoken to us. Otherwise, we are just spinning our wheels.

The Church is primarily a listening community. Week by week, we come together to hear the story, to listen as God speaks to us through Scripture, sermons, liturgy, hymns, prayers, and each other. We just spent a week of Summer Celebration, using music, crafts, drama, dancing, and everything at our disposal to help children hear that God is good. And if we are at all faithful, if we are at all attentive, we will hear that God cares about the poor, the powerless, the marginalized, and the needy. And we will hear that God has a dream and a vision of a world where love and justice prevail for all people — and we are all part of that dream, part of that vision. How that will impact us, individually and corporately, is unpredictable. It may lead us to volunteer in the Food Pantry, or get involved in advocacy work for the disadvantaged, or devote more time and energy to racial reconciliation. What we hear on Sundays may influence the way we spend money and the way we vote. And how it changes me may be different than how it changes you. The one thing that is true for all of us is that we are called to listen. The only reason we read from the Bible, the only reason we conclude each reading by saying, “The Word of the Lord,” is that we believe and trust that God wants to speak to God’s people, that God will speak to anyone and to everyone who has ears to hear. May we be among those people who hear.

So be it. Amen.

Mercifully neighbored. July 14, 2019 The Rev. Kathleen M. Sturges

Luke 10:25-37 

Charlottesville isn’t the only place it has happened. Back in 1996 it was Ann Arbor, Michigan. White supremacists held a rally and in response hundreds of people gathered to protest. In that case, though, the two groups were kept separate. Still the atmosphere was tense. And at some point during the rally a middle-aged, white man wearing a Confederate flag t-shirt and sporting a Nazi SS tattoo on his arm was spotted amongst the anti-KKK protesters. A woman with a megaphone cried out, “There’s a Klansman in the crowd!” And the man began to run. Some in the group shouted, “Kill the Nazi!” The man was quickly knocked to the ground, pummeled with kicks and blows. Watching this violence 18 year old Keshia Thomas, an African-American high school student said to herself, “This isn’t right.” And without any thought to her own safety or consideration of who this man was or what he thought of her, she threw herself on top of the stranger shielding him from the blows until he was taken to safety. Keshia’s act of courage and mercy was caught on film and later upon reflection the photographer was quoted as saying, "She put herself at physical risk to protect someone who, in my opinion, would not have done the same for her.” And then he marveled, “Who does that in this world?"

Who does that? A neighbor does that - at least the type of neighbor that Jesus talks about in his story of the Good Samaritan. It all begins one day with a lawyer who asks Jesus, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” It’s a question that probably all of us have asked at one time or another. We may have phrased it a bit differently like, “Where is God?” or “What is the meaning of life?” or maybe, “What is God’s will for me?” But at the heart of all these questions is the quest to know the truth about life and God and purpose.

Now it’s probably no surprise that instead of answering the question with pat answer Jesus responds with his own query. Throwing the question back to the lawyer, who in Jesus’ day was more like a religious scholar than a modern day attorney, Jesus basically asks, “What do you think?” And this lawyer/scholar answers by quoting scripture, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.” It’s a perfect, A+ answer. Jesus has nothing to add to it but simply, “Do this, and you will live.”

But the lawyer is not satisfied. He already knew this in his head. Surely there must be more. So he presses the point and asks, “Who is my neighbor?” Jesus responds by telling what has become the familiar story of how one day a man was accosted by robbers, who not only took his valuables but also stripped, beat, and left him for dead on the side of the road. Thankfully, though, someone soon passed by and saw him lying there suffering and in need. But this one didn’t stop. In fact, he avoided him altogether by going to the other side of the road and  continued on his way. After some time, another man came along, saw his need but also opted not to get involved. Finally a third person approached, a Samaritan. He saw the wounded man just as the others did, but there was something more. Jesus says that when the Samaritan saw this man, unlike the others, he was “moved with pity.” The original Greek literally reads, “moved in the bowels” - nowadays we might say something like, “he felt it in his gut.” And when we feel things that deep there’s a knowing that goes along with it. The Samaritan knew the humanity of the suffering one. He recognized that there was, there is a bond that exists between us all that is greater and deeper than anything else which made it possible to look past the fact that this man was likely a Jew. Someone who looked down on his kind. Someone who, if roles had been reversed, probably would not have offered compassion to him. All that faded away as the Samaritan saw him and was moved with that kind of connecting compassion. There was no way he could pass on by. Instead he drew near with mercy and care. 

The lawyer asks, “Who is my neighbor?” But at the end of the story the question that Jesus asks is not “Who is” but “Who was” a neighbor? And once again the lawyer gets the answer right. The neighbor was the one who showed mercy. The one who was not afraid, or distracted, or busy, or had a hundred other excuses. The neighbor was the one who saw the other in need and drew near.

When Keshia Thomas was later asked why she intervened, what made her put herself at risk in order to protect the white man from the assault she said that it was because of her faith. And because she saw him - she saw him as a human being, a human being in need which transcended all of their differences. "I knew what it was like to be hurt," she said. "The many times that that happened, I wish someone would have stood up for me...violence is violence - nobody deserves to be hurt.” That day Keshia Thomas drew near and was a true and merciful neighbor.

Jesus tells us to go and do likewise. To take all the right answers that we have in our heads about love and mercy and grace and put them in our bodies. To act them out in our lives. To really see the others around us - not just the ones that are like us that we bump into day to day but also the ones that we know are suffering in this world and who may seem completely different from us.  Go and do likewise. See and be moved with pity and compassion. Draw near. Be a true and merciful neighbor.

We can do this because we have already been neighbored in just that way. For ultimately Jesus’ story about the Good Samaritan is not so much about us but about God. God who really sees us. Who is moved with pity and compassion. Who draws near to us with unconditional love. Saving us with mercy and grace. God is our neighbor. And as we know this truth in our heads and live it out in our lives we will not only inherit eternal life in some distant future, but we will inhabit that life together - right here and right now.   

As a guest. July 7, 2019 The Rev. David M. Stoddart.

Luke 10:1-11, 16-20

The week before last, I was with our youth community in eastern Kentucky, working with the Christian Appalachian Project. My particular crew had been assigned to a family that lived in a doublewide trailer up on a hillside: our job was to build a deck and handicapped-accessible ramp. And we did it: everyone worked very hard to complete that project in a week. But as satisfying as that was, building it was not the highlight of the week for me. On Tuesday, the husband and wife invited us in for dessert: the woman, who suffers from bad legs and mobility problems, had made us two cobblers: strawberry cobbler and peach cobbler. They were delicious — a real treat. Well, the next day, the husband told us that they had made some beans for us for lunch, so we went inside and found a lot more than beans: there was a beef and potato stew, hot pasta, pasta salad, fried bologna, corn, corn on the cob, cornbread, and, yes, beans, along with cake for dessert. It was amazing: we gladly ditched our sandwiches and dug in. And the last day was even better: they made us a brunch that was nothing less than a feast: fried eggs, egg casserole, bacon, sausage biscuits, gravy, chocolate gravy, pears. We were all gathered around this little table, and the dishes of food were literally piled on top of each other. It was obviously a poor family, and struggling, like many people in that part of the country. Putting on a spread like that had to be sacrificial for them, but they clearly wanted to offer us that kind of hospitality. And as we ate those meals, we weren’t just a bunch of privileged and affluent people riding into town to help them out: we were their guests, receiving from them as much as we were giving to them. I think eating those meals was the most important thing we did all week.

You ever notice how much time Jesus spends eating? He’s always going to dinner parties: his first miracle in John’s Gospel is turning water into wine at a wedding banquet. And, significantly, in all the stories of Jesus eating, he is always a guest. He’s even a guest at the Last Supper, where someone else makes the meal.  And of all the instructions he could have given to his followers when he sent them out two by two, these are the simple instructions given in our Gospel today: Whenever you enter a town and its people welcome you, eat what is set before you; cure the sick who are there, and say to them, ‘The kingdom of God has come near to you.’” Eat what is set before you. Be a guest. Receive hospitality. This is at the heart of Jesus’ own ministry, and it is at the heart of all true evangelism.

I once heard a preacher from another tradition say that our job as Christians is to conquer the world for Christ, and that phrase made me wince. Too many Christians over the centuries have had an imperialistic outlook, bound and determined to convert unbelievers  and make them members of the church . . . or else. But there is no talk of conquest in this passage. The followers of Jesus are not told to convert anyone or persuade anyone to join anything. They are not to be arrogant or domineering in any way. Instead, like Jesus, they are told to be vulnerable and to rely on the hospitality of strangers. Their mission is to walk alongside people, to eat with them, to be friends with them, to care for them. This is the way God’s love is made known to the world . . . which is why we so often miss it.

 I remember when I first learned that lesson as a newly-ordained priest. I was visiting an elderly parishioner, a woman who was pretty isolated and who rarely got any visitors. So I arrived, and she offered me refreshments, and I firmly said no, nothing for me, thank you. And in my mind, I was thinking, “You’re not supposed to serve me, I’m here to serve you. I’m the minister, and I will be the one doing the ministering.” I am embarrassed to think how I must have come across, but I vividly remember the look of disappointment on her face when I told her I didn’t want anything.  At the end of our visit, as I was leaving, I happened to glance in the kitchen and saw a tray with cookies, cake, and tea, all prepared for me — hospitality that I rejected. A missed opportunity. I never made that mistake again.

This is how the reign of God is experienced: in our common humanity, in moments of shared hospitality. Christ comes among us gently and humbly, as a guest. There is a great image from the book of Revelation which I love. Christ says, Listen! I am standing at the door, knocking; if you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to you and eat with you, and you with me (Rev. 3:20).

So is the message here, “Go let people cook for you!”? Well, yes, sometimes. But it also goes deeper than that. If we are going to be Christ in this world, to be Spirit-filled channels of love, if we are going to experience that love and share that love, then we need to drop our egos and let down our defenses. We don’t always need to be the strong ones and we don’t always have to have all the answers. We just need to be humble enough to give and receive love. I’ve been thinking about that a lot as I have been recovering from throat surgery. Mother Kathleen, Emily, and others  have had to step in and help, and they have done so beautifully. Allowing that to happen has not always been easy, but it has been grace-filled. So often it’s when we are most vulnerable that the Holy Spirit is able to flow most strongly.

I would paraphrase the words of Jesus in our Gospel today like this: Wherever you go this week, meet people where they’re at, and love them for who they are. When they have gifts to offer you, receive them. When you have gifts to share, share them. Trust that when we walk alongside others with good will, God’s love is at work and the peace of God will prevail. Know that when we love like Christ — humbly, vulnerably — the kingdom of God is expanded, and we will all experience the quiet power of that kingdom to heal us and make us whole.

The grace made known to us. June 30, 2019 The Rev. Kathleen M. Sturges

Luke 9:51-62

  

Today at the 9:30 service we are celebrating a baptism which is always a wonderful event. But honestly, there was a time when I didn’t necessarily think so. Back before I became a priest I questioned the rationale of baptizing infants or young children. It seemed a bit ridiculous to me that a child who had no idea about what was going on, who hadn’t professed any belief in God, who, except for being cute, really hadn’t done anything at all in his or her life was baptized into the Christian faith. But because my focus was so much on what I perceived as the worthiness of the one being baptized I totally missed seeing what was really going on. For the wonder and truly awesome nature of baptism is not found in the person who is getting baptized but in the God in whose name we baptize. A God who is love. And that love is never in question. There’s nothing we can do to earn or deserve it. In fact, when it comes to love there is no earning or deserving. Love just is. And God loves so much that each and every one of us - no matter our age, our understanding, our abilities - are all invited to come and be baptized in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit so that from that moment forward we can grow even more fully in relationship with God. For in baptism a deep and irrevocable bond that is created which is witnessed to in word and deed as the priest anoints the newly baptized with oil while declaring, “You are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ’s own for ever.” Wow. That is amazing grace.

But how does that stack up when we set it against our reading this morning from the gospel of Luke when Jesus encounters some would-be followers? Skimming the surface of the story it may be hard to see that generous grace at work. Like when Jesus says to one person along the way, “Follow me.” The response is a yes but it includes a request to first go back and bury his father - which sounds reasonable enough to me. Yet Jesus replies, “Let the dead bury their own dead.” And to another who’s ready to go, right after he says goodbye to his household, Jesus declares, “No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the Kingdom of God.” Now if this means that disciples are expected to turn their backs on those they love and follow Jesus with a never failing faith, one without any doubt, hesitation, or question then I imagine that we all are sunk.

But perhaps there’s more to it than that. What if Jesus isn’t saying that life in Christ is an either/or proposition - either follow me or live your life - but rather a both/and experience. I believe that’s what’s going on here. Notice that both potential followers ask to take care of other business before following Jesus. Both say something like, “Sure, I'll follow you, but first let me go and do something else.” That’s the issue here. The “but first” tendency we all have in our response to following Jesus. Am I the only one who sometimes thinks or prays something along the line of, “Yes, Lord, I will follow, I will pray, I will give, I will serve, I will forgive, I will whatever, but first I need to get a job, pay the bills, do the laundry, raise the kids, make this move, get to retirement...” You fill in the blank. The problem comes when we treat being a disciple as one among many chores of life. Another thing to do. Something to fit in between other demands and responsibilities. But this approach is deeply flawed and couldn’t be further from the truth. For life in Christ is all encompassing, full-time, 24/7. There’s no way it can be compartmentalized or divided. So it really shouldn’t surprise us when Jesus refuses to accept the “Sure I’ll follow you, but first let me…” approach. I wonder what Jesus would have said if he had heard, “Yes, I will follow you and I will go bury my father.” Or “I will follow you and bid my family goodbye.” For the call to follow is a call to a way of life, a way of being, of loving, of serving, of sacrificing in the midst of engaging in all the ordinary tasks of life.

Which, quite frankly, is easy to preach but much harder to do. And as an example of that we need to look no further than to the very beginning of our reading. Jesus is journeying towards Jerusalem. He sends messengers on ahead to the next village so that preparations can be made. But, we are told, the villagers do not receive Jesus. Indignant, James and John, not just any old run-of-the-mill followers, but part of the inner circle of disciples, boldly ask Jesus, “Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?” To which Jesus answers with a rebuke. We do not know what the actual words were, but we do know that Jesus’ whole life and mission speaks that rebuke - a rebuke of the impulse we all have at times to lash out and hurt others when we feel hurt or threatened. Now I don’t want to judge, but I think it’s safe to say that James and John epically failed here. Yet Jesus doesn’t tell them to hit the road. Get lost. That they are no longer fit for the Kingdom of God. Instead they continue on, together, on the journey, the journey that leads to Jerusalem where Jesus will reveal to them and to us the truly amazing grace of God’s good news - that love is greater than hate, and life is greater than death.

It is into the fullness of that love and that life that we are all called to live and to follow - knowing and trusting that even when we experience our own epic failures the love of God will never fail us, never turn us away. That is the grace made known to us in baptism. We are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own for ever.