"Who Do You Say I Am?" August 27, 2023. The Reverend David M. Stoddart.

 

Matthew 16:13-20 

Huston Smith, a renowned historian of religion, once wrote that in the history of the world there are only two individuals whose lives have been so extraordinary that they provoked people to ask not only “Who are you?” but “What are you? What order of being do you belong to?” One was Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, and the other was Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ. And we can certainly see that dynamic in our Gospel today. People struggled to make sense of Jesus, to put him into some category. He was obviously more than just a rabbi or a teacher. Some thought he was a prophet, but even that didn’t seem to suffice. There just were not any pat or easy answers to those questions: Who are you? What are you? And, you know, there still aren’t. There’s a story about a Baptist, a Catholic, and an Episcopalian who died and appeared before the pearly gates of Heaven. Jesus greeted them there and said, “You have to pass an entrance exam, but there’s only one question: Who do you say that I am?” The Baptist immediately stepped forward and confidently asserted, “The Bible says . . .” but Jesus interrupted him: “I know what the Bible says. Who do you say that I am?” The Baptist replied, “Well, I don’t know.” So instantly a trap door opened beneath him and he disappeared. Next, the Catholic stepped forward and began, “The Pope says . . .” but Jesus stopped her: “I don’t care what the Pope says. Who do you say that I am?” And the Catholic stammered, “I don’t know,” and then she fell through the trap door. So then Jesus turned to the Episcopalian and asked, “Who do you say that I am?” And the Episcopalian, looking thoughtful, said, “You are the Christ, the Son of God.” Jesus smiled and was about to open the pearly gates when the Episcopalian continued “but on the other hand  . . .”

Peter, at least in this moment of the story, does not equivocate; he does not hedge his bets. Nor does he offer some rote answer to Jesus’ question. According to Matthew, he is the first person to speak from his heart and say, You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God. It is a turning point in the Gospel. Jesus praises him, names him Rocky, and proclaims that this is the kind of faith he will build his church on. And then he utters the most perplexing words in this passage: he orders his disciples not to tell anyone who he is. If the whole point of the Gospel is to make Jesus known, that seems to make no sense. It seems crazy. But if the whole point of the Gospel is to inspire the kind of faith Simon Peter has, then it makes perfect sense. In fact, it’s brilliant and shows there is a method to Jesus’ madness.

Thinking of how best to convey this, I remember a quotation that one of our church school teachers here used to refer to. It read, “A child is not a vessel to be filled, but a candle to be lit.” There are times, of course, when education does consist primarily of imparting information, filling the vessel, but when we are talking about spiritual formation, that is not the case. True faith is not taught, it is caught. What we try to do in church school is create an environment where children can know the presence of God and experience Jesus Christ, the Son of God. There is no substitute for that kind of encounter, which lights the candle and puts a child into direct contact with the Holy One.

But that’s not just true for children. All of us here could memorize the Nicene Creed and still not have faith. We could know the Prayer Book Catechism by heart, we could read volumes of systematic theology, and still not be able to answer the question Jesus puts to us today, Who do you say that I am? Like Peter, we have to experience that truth ourselves, or to put it better, God has to reveal it to us in a personal way. The Church can point us to it; our families and friends can encourage it; worship can open us up to receive it so that ultimately each one of us can know for ourselves that Jesus is the human face of God, and that in him all the fullness of God is pleased to dwell.

What the New Testament shows is a community, a Church, filled with people who know that, and as a result have been set free and set on fire. As Paul writes in Romans today, they have been transformed by the renewing of their minds. They are empowered by the Spirit of Christ to use their many different gifts in ways that reveal God to the world around them. The early Church did not grow in love, grace, and numbers because they memorized rote phrases about Jesus, the Son of God and made others do the same. The early Church grew in love, grace, and numbers because they experienced Jesus, the Son of God, and helped others do the same. Evangelism in the Church should never involve bullying people into belief, coercing them to accept certain propositions about Jesus or be damned; it should express itself in being a welcoming community where people can catch the faith, experience the Risen Christ, and be changed for the better. One of the most moving letters I ever received came from a parishioner who arrived at the parish wounded and uncertain. Some years later, when she was a strong and active participant in that community, she wrote to me and said, “When I first came to this church, I did not believe that Jesus is alive. Now I do.”

Such faith, like Peter’s faith, is a gift, something not revealed by flesh and blood, but by God. Whatever faith we have, whatever experience of Christ we have, is also a gift. It’s a gift that God wants to give to everyone. And as the Bible indicates, it is a gift that is conveyed, nurtured, and expressed in community. At times our faith may blaze brightly, and at other times it may barely be flickering. But by being here with each other, remaining faithful in prayer and worship, and serving others, we allow God to keep the flame burning and, when necessary, to relight the candle. That way each one of us can know Jesus Christ, the Son of the living God ― not in theory, not second-hand, but for ourselves.

On Learning and Growth. August 20, 2023. The Reverend Kathleen M. Sturges

 

Matthew 15: (10-20), 21-28

Can Jesus act like a jerk sometimes? And is it even ok to ask that question? I think so because our God can handle all of our questions. And, believe it or not, I mean no disrespect. It’s just that Jesus’ interaction with the Canaanite woman in our reading from Matthew’s gospel seems to beg the question.

“Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon!” shouts a desperate woman in the crowd. And how does Jesus respond? With silence. He ignores her. So she persists and continues to shout until the disciples find her cries so annoying that they ask Jesus to send her away. To which Jesus replies, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel”  Meaning, “I’m not here for foreigners like her, just the Jews.” (That doesn’t sound like Jesus, does it? But, wait, it gets worse!) Following that comment the woman pushes through the crowd, kneels before Jesus and directly pleads, “Lord, help me.” But again, Jesus responds uncharacteristically saying, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

At which point I want to cry, “Who is this Jesus and what has he done with my Lord and Savior?!?!” Where is the Jesus who regularly crosses boundaries to spend time with outsiders? Jesus who seems to always, except in this instance, be moved with compassion in the face of suffering and need. It seems almost inconceivable that Jesus could be so rude and callous -  ignoring, dismissing, and ultimately insulting the woman by likening her to a dog - which, make no mistake about it, in Jesus’ time was considered a slur. 

Many have tried to explain this dismaying behavior. Jesus is just using this interaction as a teachable moment for his disciples. He's giving voice to the prejudice in their hearts in order to teach them these prejudices are wrong. But that's not exactly how the story goes. He ignores the woman before the disciples express any negative reaction to her plea. And even if he were reading their minds, and setting up this conflict on purpose, how is that any better? That means he is just using this desperate woman as an object lesson - subjecting her to humiliation in order to teach his own friends in a sneaky, “gotcha” kind of way. That doesn't put Jesus in a much better light. Nor does the justification that he was simply testing the woman's faith, putting her through the wringer all the while  knowing that she would ultimately pass the test. Where is the compassion in that? That’s just some of the theological gymnastics that people use to try to explain Jesus's behavior because almost everyone agrees that this just doesn’t seem like him.

But what if we were willing to let the story stand on its own without such explanation or justification? What could be going on here? What could Jesus be teaching us? Yes, Jesus is fully God, but he’s also fully human. And one aspect of being human, at least being a healthy human, is to be open to change and growth. Jesus is always challenging his disciples to do just that. Maybe in this encounter it’s his turn to practice what he preaches. Because here we have Jesus doing something problematic. He fails to show compassion to someone in need and his words reveal why. He has a limited view of his own mission, assuming it is only for the people who share his heritage. Could it be that he’s letting his unthinking prejudice limit the ways that he offers grace? For he does, in fact, say something terribly demeaning to a person who comes to him for help. “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

Now I’m sure all of us have been in a situation where someone said something to us and we were so stunned that we couldn’t really respond in the moment. Only later do we come up with what we wish we had said or done, but the opportunity has passed. Given that, I’m always impressed by this woman’s brilliant and immediate retort. “Yes, Lord,” she says, “yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.” Not only does she not back down but her response uses the metaphor of the table – the place where Jesus himself has pushed boundaries in his ministry among the Jews – and calls him to push a little harder in order to make room for her and her daughter. This woman’s defiance and strength is inspiring. So much so that Jesus accepts her correction. He hears it, he learns from it, and he praises her.

Imagine that! A man of authority, one who is hailed as a teacher and leader, says something unkind and offensive. And when the woman he has just disparaged pushes back, he doesn’t get defensive or try to justify himself. Instead, he honors her. He holds her up as an example of faith - the highest praise he can give - and he gives her the help that she had been asking for.

The Canaanite woman is an example for us all. She models persistence and the courage to reject attitudes and behaviors of exclusion. She demands that her voice be heard. She is an example that we can all look to when we see something wrong - an example of how not to give up and how to call people to live up to the moral values they claim to hold.

And Jesus...in his humility he is willing to be an example of a different kind. An example of what to do when we receive a challenge like the challenge from the Canaanite woman. Even though Jesus starts out maybe a little too human for our comfort, what he offers in this encounter is a model on how to switch course. How to hear a challenge, take it in, and let it change us for the better.

Because the good news of Jesus Christ is not about perfection it is about growth. That means that when we are faced by our own mistakes - whether they be failures of compassion or unconscious pre-judgments or the million other ways that we fall short of God’s call to love - we do not have to get defensive. We don’t have to try to justify ourselves or deny the ways that we have caused harm. If Jesus can be open to correction then surely we can be too. If he can change course when confronted with a greater vision of God’s all-encompassing love then that is our path as well. “Follow me,” Jesus says. This is a path that we need not be embarrassed by but instead, with God’s help, embrace.

That's not the End of the Story. August 13, 2023. The Reverend Kathleen M. Sturges

 

Genesis 37:1-4, 12-28, Matthew 14:22-33

Oftentimes, before I go to sleep, I read. My goal is to settle my brain so I typically seek books that are mildly entertaining, low stress, and pretty much forgettable. Why then The Kite Runner ended up on my nightstand years ago I really can’t explain. It’s an excellent book, but it’s in no way a light read which I didn’t quite realize until one night I came upon a scene that caused me to slam the book shut in anger. I was mad - for two reasons. One, I had just read something that was very violent and disturbing. And, two, now I was stuck. It was clear to me that this book was not my typical bedtime reading, nonetheless, I couldn't stop reading it now. If I did, the horrific scene would linger. It would always be the end of the story, at least for me. But given that there were a couple hundred pages to go it was obvious that this was not the end of the story for the character. I resented the fact that the only hope I had of finding some sort of healing or redemption was to keep on reading and follow the tale wherever it might lead until I reached its true end.

The way Joseph’s story ends for us in our reading from Genesis reminded me of that experience. The passage begins innocently enough. We are told that this is a story about the family of Jacob who was the son of Issac, the grandson of Abraham. But guess what? This family of Jacob is off the charts when it comes to dysfunctional! Even before Joseph, who quickly becomes the main character here, is born, Jacob fathers ten sons between his first wife, Leah, and two of his enslaved women, Bilhah and Zilpah. Eventually, Jacob’s second and most beloved wife, Rachel, becomes pregnant and gives birth to Joseph whom Jacob has no qualm in letting everyone know is his absolute favorite child. Clearly, this is a recipe for disaster. A disaster which we hear about when one day spoiled, tattletale, full-of-himself, seventeen year old Joseph goes to check on his older brothers who are off taking care of the family flock. No surprise, the brothers hate Joseph - so much so that as they watch him approach from a distance they seriously discuss killing him until one brother intervenes by suggesting that throwing him into an empty pit might be a better option. And so that is what the brothers do, for a time, at least, until they encounter a caravan of traders to whom they sell their brother. Now granted, Joseph may not be dead, but for all intents and purposes his life is over as we see him captured, enslaved, and carted away to the foreign and hostile land of Egypt. The Word of the Lord.

Thanks be to God…? I have to put a question mark there because we’ve got to wonder what we are thanking God for? And we also may wonder, or at least I’ve been wondering, why it is that Joseph’s story ends for us here, when all seems lost? Well, the answer I’ve settled on is that I think the story is trying to show us something profound. That is that no matter who you are or how charmed your life may be there eventually comes a time when you find yourself in a pit, where all seems lost, and the story of your life feels as if it’s over. You lose a loved one, family relations get complicated, things change at work, financial problems develop, an unexpected loss occurs, something happens. And when it does it’s so easy, natural even, to feel like the pit, the struggle, the bad news is the end of the story.

That’s probably how Joseph was feeling as he was tied to the back of a camel and being led down to Egypt. And who could blame him? Because he, like us, can only experience life in a linear fashion. From his perspective he has no future. His life is essentially over. There’s no way for him to know that this is not the end of the story. He can’t see the twists and turns that his future life will take and how, in time, things will actually turn out alright. For those familiar with Joseph’s story, we know that he will eventually get in the good graces of Pharaoh, rise to become the #2 man in Egypt, use his skills to save countless lives, and even reconcile with his family. With that perspective, being able to look back on his life and see the fullness of his story, Joseph will amazingly declare to his brothers, “Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good.” (Genesis 50:20)

Now that is not to say that all of our stories end on such a high note. Some do, but others sadly don’t. Yet, one of our God’s specialties is the ability to redeem. And what I mean by that is that God can make meaning and good from actions that are rooted in sin and tragedy. That doesn’t mean that God swoops into our lives and fixes everything, but that God is present with us through it all and has the power to take any situation that we experience and bring forth from it meaning and good. So no life is ultimately lost. No story is ultimately tragic. No matter how bad things get, that is not the end of the story. I know this to be true because all of our lives, all of our stories are wrapped up in God’s greater story. The true story, that we are created in love, that our lives are held in love, and that one day we will return to the fullness of God’s love and everything will be redeemed. That is the true end to each one of our stories.

And speaking of stories, there’s one out there about an old mariner’s chart that is on display in the British Museum in London. Supposedly it is a map outlining the North American coastline and its adjacent waters. But because it was drawn from a Western European point of view around the year 1525 much of the region was unknown. So, to fill in the gaps, the map maker added some particularly interesting notations. In the empty spaces he wrote, “Here be giants,” “Here be fiery scorpions,” and “Here be dragons.” Roughly 300 years later, the map came into the possession of the British explorer, Sir John Franklin. After looking over the fearful inscriptions, Franklin decided to scratch them out and wrote these words across the map: “Here be God.’”

Like Joseph in the pit, we do not know what the future holds. But like Joseph, we do know the One who holds the future. We know that in whatever future we move into God is there. So no matter where you are or what you’re facing, the story is in no way over. You’re just in the middle of it - and it will get better. You may look into the unknown future and feel like, “there be giants,” “there be dragons,” or “there be pits,” but by trusting the One who holds that future, the One wraps your story up in the greater story of  Love, you can look straight into the unknown and with faith declare, “There be God.”

 

Understanding the Kingdom of Heaven. July 30, 2023. The Reverend Kathleen Sturges

Romans 8:26-39, Matthew 13:31-33,44-52 

“Have you understood all this?” That’s the question Jesus asks at the end of his rapid fire parables about the kingdom of heaven. And the response he gets is a definitive “Yes.” But I question that certainty. Because parables are not by nature truth statements that you hear one time and all of a sudden “get it.” Instead they are stories that invite the listener to explore, to wonder, to see things from different perspectives. Given that, Jesus’ question seems like a bit of a set up. He even seems to goad his listeners into a knee-jerk affirmative answer by making his query on the heels of the rather alarming wrap up, “So it will be at the end of the age. The angels will come out and separate the evil from the righteous and throw them into the furnace of fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth…Have you understood all this?”

No pressure. There’s not that much riding on your understanding of the kingdom of heaven, only eternal torment. But if you are not sure that you belong among the righteous, feel free to admit it. Come on. Of course his listeners are going t0 claim understanding - they’re scared! And almost universally, when we get scared, what we do is we cling to certainty. Curiosity and learning are all well and good when we feel safe and comfortable, but when we feel threatened all of that goes out the window. We want security. We want to feel safe. We want certainty.

Which leads to all sorts of trouble in both our common and private lives. Take any hot-button issue of our time: climate, immigration, abortion, racism. Or think about issues in your own life that cause conflict. Dig deep and likely you’ll find a common theme: Fear. We get scared. Something is being threatened - our sense of order or safety or way of life or identity. Bottom line, when we feel threatened we don’t want thoughtful, nuanced dialogue. We don’t want parables that make us lean in and ponder, and consider things from a new point of view. We don’t want that because it feels like there is too much at stake, like it was for Jesus’ listeners. So we seek certainty. We grab onto whatever position lines up with our pre-existing notions, convince ourselves that we’ve been right all along and demand that it’s others who need to change. We hold onto certainty for all it’s worth because it feels safe, secure, familiar.

Surely Jesus knows this about us. Likely that’s the point of his question. He’s exposing our human tendency to latch on to baseless certainty in the face of fear. But as he does this he’s also challenging that very instinct through the parables he has just told.

Do you get the irony? All of the stories about what the kingdom of heaven is like are the opposite of certainty. They are all about surprise, hiddenness, and the violation of expectations. A mustard seed that is barely the size of a head of a pin grows into a massive bush. Yeast mixed in with flour isn’t noticed until it transforms the dough into something that can feed a multitude. The treasure hidden in a field has an unexpected twist of deception. The finder keeps the discovery quiet until he can buy the field for himself. And then there's the parable of the pearl. A jewel that is created by a shellfish, something God has declared unclean. And not only that, this thing of beauty starts out as an irritation. When we finally get to the parable of the fish perhaps we shouldn't be surprised about the net that gathers everything in its way - good and bad are all jumbled together.

That seems to be Jesus's understanding of the kingdom. It's messy. It's hidden. It's surprising. It may even include people we think don't belong. In other words, it's anything but predictable and certain. Jesus doesn't come to make us feel safe and secure. He doesn't come to proclaim a reign in which God organizes everything in its proper place and we get to understand all the “hows” and “whys" and never feel confused or shaken or out of our depth. When Jesus asks us if we understand we aren't supposed to say “Yes.” Instead we're supposed to practice the work of the scribes that Jesus references at the end of our reading. The “scribe who has been trained for the kingdom…who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old.”

New and old together is a metaphor of growth, of learning, of change. We value the old, the familiar, the things we already know. And God also calls us to value the new, the unexpected. To be open to what God is doing now which may be something different from before. This is hard for any of us to practice but especially when we feel scared, when what’s comfortable and familiar is threatened. Nonetheless, this is our call as followers of Christ and life in the kingdom of heaven.

Verna Dozier, a leading African American Episcopal theologian of the 2oth century put it this way, the “Kingdom of God…calls us to risk. We always see through a glass darkly and that is what faith is about. I will live by the best I can discern today. Tomorrow I may find out I was wrong. Since I do not live by being right, I am not destroyed by being wrong.”

Since we, as followers of Christ, do not live by being right or certain or having everything figured out, we are not destroyed by being wrong or surprised or unsure. In fact, when we do get it wrong, when life feels insecure, we when we are scared we can take that as our cue to turn to the only thing that is ultimately safe and sure and true as promised to us in our reading from the book of Romans.

For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

The love of God is our security. The love of God is our certainty. When that is certain we do not need to claim perfect understanding. Instead, we can be open to the surprises, the hiddenness, the upending of expectations that is a part of God’s kingdom. Because not even death, nor rulers, nor threats of the uncertain can do us any real harm. Nothing can separate us from the love of God. Of that we can be certain.

Tending Your Garden. July 23, 2023. The Reverend David M. Stoddart.

Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

I am confronted by this parable every time I walk outside my house. I live in a small cul-de-sac, and at the entrance of the cul-de-sac are two houses, right across the street from each other. They both have three big, rectangular raised beds in the front yard. The ones on the left look immaculate: I have no idea what the plants are, but they’re beautiful and well-maintained. The ones on the right are completely overgrown and unkempt. I enjoy looking at the gardens on the left. The owner obviously weeds them. But then I look at the wild ones on the right and wonder: maybe God likes those better. For while God has the wisdom and the wherewithal to weed properly, according to Jesus, God prefers not to weed at all.

Now of course, today's Gospel is not about plants. It is a provocative parable that hits hard on several different levels, but central to all of them is this metaphor of weeding. In the story, the workers are eager to weed the fields. But the Master is not. And if we let that idea of weeding sink in a bit, we can see why the Master might want to avoid it. In our long history as human beings, we have not always been good at weeding. For one thing, we often have trouble identifying what is a weed and what is not: often a weed has just been anything or anyone we don’t like. And when we decide we are going to weed out what we don’t like, what we deem bad or undesirable, the results often range from the hurtful to the horrific. There are social groups, cliques, and clubs that try to drive out those who don’t “fit in.” In fact, whole societies can do that by targeting minorities that the majority either dislikes or distrusts. This impulse to weed has led to such atrocities as  ethnic cleansing in the Balkans, genocide in Rwanda, and, of course, the Holocaust. And, sadly, there are voices out there in our own nation which speak the language of weeding people out in reference to immigrants, Muslims, political opponents, and others. Just last week, for example, the founder of the America First Movement spoke at a rally in Florida and said – this is a direct quotation – these words about Jews: “They will go down. We have God on our side and they will go down with their Satanic master. They have no future in America. The enemies of Christ have no future in this world.” 

That is truly terrible and needs to be acknowledged as such. But I wonder if this parable can help us to dig deep and look at the roots of the problem. So often the brokenness in the world around us reflects the brokenness inside of us. And the reality is that each one of us is a mixed field, with both wheat and weeds growing. And people can be pretty ruthless about weeding out the things about themselves they don’t like – or at least, trying to weed them out. And these are not necessarily sins at all. How many people, for example, go to great lengths to rid themselves of what they see as physical defects, even to the point of damaging their bodies and their health? I have listened to some gay people describe to me how they tried to uproot their sexuality because they feared that God or their families or their society would not accept it. But in trying to uproot it, they just inflicted tremendous emotional harm on themselves. And even when we talk about things that are sinful, this urge to weed them out can become destructive. If someone with an anger problem, for example, just gets angry at herself for being angry and tries to forcefully suppress or eliminate that anger, the result is often guilt, self-loathing – and even more anger. The Master in this parable has the wisdom to see that trying to weed out parts of ourselves that we don’t like for whatever reason often causes more harm than good. And it doesn’t take profound psychological insight to see that when people cannot love and accept themselves as they are, they all too easily project that lack of love and acceptance out into the world around them. Viciously trying to weed out the undesirable within us can quickly lead to viciously trying to weed out the undesirable around us.

This is not the way of Christ. We certainly want to protect ourselves and others from getting harmed. But the Gospel calls us to take a different approach than weeding. Jesus’ way of loving begins by accepting people where they are and as they are. And we have a great example of this in the apostle Paul. Paul has plenty of weeds in his field. One of them is particularly hard for him: he calls it a thorn in his flesh. We have no idea what this is. It could be a personality trait, it could be a bad habit, it could be a moral failing, it could be a physical condition – we just don’t know. What we do know is that Paul wants to get rid of it, and asks God to root it out. And God says no: God won’t do that kind of weeding. Instead God calls Paul to peace and acceptance, assuring him that my power is made perfect in weakness. Maybe God knows that rooting this weed out from Paul’s life would hurt him too much. Or maybe God in her wisdom knows that this thorn is not a weed at all, but something that will ultimately help Paul grow in love. Whatever it may be, God’s approach to it is loving and merciful.

This is one of the things I have always admired about 12 step programs. Addiction is awful and destructive, but those programs do not try to weed out addiction. Their approach is rather one of acceptance and surrender: acceptance that they are addicts, and surrender to God’s love. That love working through that program can lead to freedom from the power of addiction, but it doesn’t get rid of the addiction itself. I have spoken with people who have been in the program for decades and they will say, “I’m in recovery, I’m sober, I’m clean — but I’m still an addict.” 

That is the way of Christ: not violently trying to uproot what we perceive to be weeds, but allowing the love of God to do what God knows is best. That doesn’t give us quick, easy fixes, and it may not eliminate things we wish were not there, but it does help us avoid hurting ourselves or others in a puritanical quest to get rid of anything we don’t like. So when we feel the need to weed, maybe we can take it out on our plants and limit it to our gardens. And we can let God do the ultimate weeding which only God has the wisdom and the wherewithal to do right.

Delight in the Sowing of Seeds. July 16, 2023. The Reverend Kathleen M. Sturges

 

Isaiah 55:10-13, Matthew 13:1-9,18-23

This past week at our Summer Celebration Vacation Bible School kids and adults alike had an amazing time celebrating how stellar and out of this world Jesus’ light is in our lives. But today’s gospel reading brings us back down to earth as Jesus tells us a story about a sower who went out to sow and ended up throwing seeds rather recklessly on all types of ground. Some seeds fell on hard-trodden pathways, others ended up on rocky terrain, still others amongst the thorns, while some actually landed on fertile soil. The story is popularly known as The Parable of the Sower even though I think we naturally tend to hear it not as the parable of the sower at all, but as the parable of the judgment of the soil - because that’s where our focus usually goes. We slide into judgment mode oh so easily as we determine what soil is good and what soil is bad. And of course, we don’t just judge when it comes to this story but in ways too numerous to count. In fact, my guess is that since the time you awoke this morning you’ve made countless judgements. Maybe you judged that the milk in the refrigerator had gone bad so you threw it out instead of pouring it on your cereal. Or maybe you judged that a driver on the way to church today made a bad move. Or perhaps you judged that it would be a good idea to bring a wrap with you this morning because the a/c in the church can be rather cold. We are predisposed to judge which is not necessarily a bad thing. In so many ways it helps us survive and thrive. However, sometimes our judging tendencies don’t serve us so well.

Take Jesus’ story, for example. Maybe it’s not about judgment but about joy. Since again and again in the midst of this thorny and rocky and good world of ours the sower is still sowing seeds. Every day God scatters the word of the kingdom, as Jesus calls it, recklessly, indiscriminately out into all the nooks and crannies of our lives. No one, no place, no situation goes lacking. God’s Word goes everywhere - because the Word is not something just found in church. It’s not something that is locked up in a spiritual ivory tower. I believe the Word of the Lord is anything that brings good news to the poor and comfort to those who mourn. The Word of the Lord is whatever heals the brokenhearted. Whatever opens prison doors. Whatever proclaims the pure goodness and radical love of God.

Surely God’s Word is scattered all around us, joyfully scrawled throughout the world. That good Word was certainly revealed in the faces of the kids who were here at Summer Celebration as well as in the lives that were served by our food pantry. But way beyond that, the life-giving Word of the Lord can equally be experienced in the kindness of strangers, the generosity of others, in the sacrifices people make to work for justice and peace. The Word of the Lord is written on the broken tablets of our hearts. It is falling like rain in the tears of the forgiven. It is harnessed in the laughter of children. God’s Word is everything and anything that brings hope, healing, life.

And as Isaiah, in our first reading, tells us God’s Word does what it intends to do without even the slightest bit of soil management on our part. Amazing, isn’t it? Because, again, Jesus’ story is a parable not about the judgment of the soil but rather The Parable of the Sower. So perhaps to focus on the rich and rather silly image of how God extravagantly sows the Word of the kingdom is to experience this parable with joy instead of judgment.

Because isn’t life too short, too sacred, and too important to skimp on joy? Isn’t the world just too precarious to turn our backs on joy? I think so. And Isaiah backs me up on this because the Hebrew word that is commonly interpreted as “purpose” in his prophecy can also be translated as “delight.” So shall my word be that goes out from my mouth, says Isaish speaking for God, it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I DELIGHT.

It seems to me that the word “delight" might be more accurate given the playful imagery that follows. For you shall go out in joy, and be led back in peace; the mountains and the hills before you shall burst into song, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands. What a fantastical, joy-filled, playful image that is. It’s like a biblical Cirque du Soleil. Imagine the delight of God seen in the singing hills and the clapping trees.

Yet we live in such serious times. Some would even say fearful times - times of political unrest, of rising violence, of climate disasters and the like. With all that going on in our world we might wonder what place is there for joy? And I imagine that there were some in the time of Isaiah who felt the same way, who judged this singing-hills-and-clapping-trees business as lacking in decorum. Especially since this prophecy was originally directed toward a people who were eking out an existence as exiles in Babylon - a displaced people who had lost everything they had ever known. I wonder if these whimsical verses seemed like sending a circus clown into a refugee camp?

But it’s not like Isaiah didn’t get the gravity of the situation. It’s not that Isaiah couldn’t judge right from wrong - he was a prophet, after all. But sometimes the job of a prophet is not to judge but to point God’s people to joy. To remind us that our God delights in us.

Which makes me wonder…what would it be like rather than judging the supposed imperfections of our lives to instead experience the joy of being blessed with life itself and made in the image of God? What would it be like rather than judging the person standing at the side of the road with a cardboard sign to instead experience the joy of seeing Christ’s own face in theirs? What would it be like rather than judging the political leanings of every person and organization to instead experience the joy of God’s kingdom imperfectly and unevenly breaking in on us all? Honestly, I don’t know for sure but I’m willing to give it a try. Because, I don’t know about you, but I want to choose joy - and leave the business of judgment, in whatever form that may take, up to God and God alone. For today is the day that the sower is scattering the healing, hopeful, life-giving Word onto every terrain this world has to offer. And that Word will surely accomplish all in which God delights and not return empty.

The Lessons of Experience. July 09, 2023. The Reverend David M. Stoddart

 

Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30 

When Mo. Kathleen began her sermon last week by asking how many people like taking tests, I was tempted to raise my hand and say. “Ooh! Ooh! Me!” Not because I enjoy taking tests per se, but because I love doing well on tests. During my school days, if I aced an exam, it made me feel accomplished, as if I had actually mastered the subject I was studying. But what if the subject is God? I spent years in college and in seminary studying God, or rather, studying things that are at least somehow related to God. I took many classes in religion, theology, Scripture, and church history. I did well on many exams. I mastered the material: I even earned a “Master of Divinity” degree. Think about that for a second: Master of Divinity. As if! I came away from my formal education with a lot of knowledge, and knowledge is a good thing. But as much as I loved learning it, it left me hungry. There was something elusive in my studies, something that always seemed to escape me. I knew a lot about what other people said about God. I knew a lot about what other people thought about Jesus. But knowing about someone is not the same as knowing someone. And there is only one way to know God.

I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and intelligent and have revealed them to infants. As a young adult, I slowly came to understand what countless people have long understood, what anyone, even the most uneducated person can understand: we can only know God by experiencing God’s love. No amount of education, no degrees, fancy titles, or honors can substitute for simply realizing that we are held in God’s love, unconditionally and forever. I am reminded of St. Thomas Aquinas, perhaps the most influential theologian in Christian history. He authored many books, commentaries, and treatises, including tomes of theology so vast in scope that they were called Summas – they summed up everything. But Aquinas had a powerful and personal experience of God towards the end of his life, an epiphany that led him to stop writing completely. When asked why he refused to take up the pen again, he said simply, “All that I have written now seems like straw to me.” You have hidden these things from the wise and intelligent and have revealed them to infants.

Now, I am a big proponent of education. We are continually called to learn more about the ways of God, ourselves, and the world we live in. As faithful people, we should be rigorous thinkers who use our minds to the best of our abilities. But all of that will only make sense when we are grounded firmly in the experiential knowledge of God. The starting point must be the experience of God’s love, mercy, and grace. When we are not anchored in that experience, when we become focused instead on ideas, concepts, doctrines, traditions, and rules, then a troubling thing happens: we become less concerned about being loving, and more concerned about being right. And when Christians become more focused on being right than on being loving, we get into lots of problems.

For example, the need to be right has for centuries caused Christians to twist themselves into pretzels trying to explain why a God of love would damn to eternal torment anyone who is not a baptized church member. The very idea of that is obscene, and the thinking behind it is preposterous, but people have advocated for it because we have to be right and that means other people have to be wrong. That has not only poisoned our relationships with people who belong to other religions or to no religion: it has poisoned our relationship with each other, as our long history of condemning and excommunicating each other demonstrates. And this need to be right also impacts the way we interact with the society around us. Just recently, we have all seen in the news that some of our fellow believers have decided that, in the name of Jesus, the One who loves and welcomes everyone, they will refuse service to gay customers just because they’re gay.

And then we read this Gospel passage today, and I hear Jesus saying, “Stop! Just stop! You’re so focused on proving that you’re right, so intent on finding ways of hurting each other. Enough.” It’s a heavy burden always trying to prove that we’re right, a heavy burden always trying to justify ourselves. And it is so unnecessary. And so Jesus says today, Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

Those heavy burdens he is referring to are religious burdens, all the stuff we feel like we have to do, all the things we feel like we have to believe, to get it right and be okay with God. He says to drop all that and take on a light burden instead: know that God will forever love us and show mercy to us, and then be set free to love and show mercy in return. We don’t need to earn degrees in theology, we don’t need to be heroes of virtue. We just need to be humble enough, open enough, to receive the love God so freely pours out on every single one of us.

And Jesus will help us do that. It’s his yoke that we are called to take up. And a yoke by definition links us with another. His yoke is easy because he is our yoke partner and he’s shouldering the load with us. When we need help loving, he’ll help us. When we fail to love, he will forgive us. When we need to feel love, he will shower love on us. How do we know? Well, we can read about it in books or listen to other people tell us about it, but that’s all just second-hand knowledge. The only way to really know it is to experience it ourselves. And everyone here can. If we have already experienced that love, we can know it even more deeply. And if we’ve never experienced it, we can taste it for the first time. All we need to do is ask for it, ask for it sincerely, letting go of our pride and our ego and our need to be right. And then wait for Christ to come. Christ may come through another person; through a sudden inspiration; through an inward warming of our hearts; in any number of ways. But Christ will come to us, yoke himself to us, and lead us on the path that begins and ends in love. This is how we will not know about him, but know him — the only way to know him — through letting him love us.