This piece was written to provide guidance to the call committee in the congregation where my family and I are members.
Introduction
Service on a call committee is one of the most crucial arenas of congregational service – and one of the most difficult. What can compound the difficulty is the lack of clarity about what a pastor’s calling really is. The culture around us demands allowance for a wide variety of views about religious matters, and it is no surprise that this would be reflected even on a committee that represents those the congregation regards as both faithful and savvy. The committee will hear many voices and diverse visions for pastoral ministry. The Lutheran theological tradition, grounded in the work of Martin Luther and other evangelical reformers, is a trustworthy compass for them on their call process path.
Because each Lutheran congregation includes a statement of fealty to the Lutheran Confessions in its constitution and because all Lutheran pastors vow to uphold the Confessions at their ordinations, it is important that we understand what the Confessions say about that calling. Such knowledge can serve both the call committee and the pastoral candidate by defining the parameters of the call, even as it educates the wider congregation in understanding what its own call to ministry is.
Ministry and the Language of the Confessions
The Lutheran Confessions are a set of 16th century documents drawn up by the evangelical reformers – particularly Martin Luther. The 1530 Augsburg Confession is the primary guiding document for Lutherans, and its core articles for understanding the pastoral calling are the first eight. They use theological language to tell the same story of salvation we find in the Bible: why we need to be saved and how God accomplishes it.
The Augsburg Confession (AC) begins by speaking about who God is (Article I) and what’s gone wrong with our relationship with God (Article II): Sin has such a hold on human beings that we are captive to ourselves and “by nature” can neither fear nor trust God. In order to free us from this captivity, God takes on flesh in the person of Jesus. The AC recounts what our Creeds say about what Jesus does for us: He died, rose, ascended to God and sends the Spirit to yank us into a life of freedom (Article III).
From that point on, everything in the AC centers on Jesus. He is the beginning and end of every conversation, the focus of every topic, and the one who drives all our activity in the church. To trust Christ to accomplish all the work of salvation without even the simplest contribution of our own is what brings salvation (Article IV) and identifies both the church and individual Christians (Articles VII and VIII). The AC calls that “justification by faith” and argues that, while our own sin-tainted works can’t do the trick (even our best “powers, merits, or works”), such trust in Christ’s work is the thing that saves and releases us.
Then comes a crucial article in understanding what is and is not the pastor’s calling. If Article IV is about justification by faith, Article V asks, “Where in the world can we ever get that saving faith?” It comes in the Office of Preaching, that is, in the proclamation of God’s promise in Word and Sacrament wherever it happens and whoever does it. The Holy Spirit makes faith happen when both our own ina-bility to trust God and Christ’s gracious gift to us are proclaimed.
The implication for a call committee is that this Office of ministry belongs to God and not to a congregation or pastor. It is God doing the work of salvation through God’s ministry. Congregations and pastors are simply the means by which God can deliver the goods. In other words, because God wants to be sure we hear the saving Word of Christ, churches and pastors are given as divine “set-asides” (that’s what being “holy” means). Their sole purpose is to be a guaranteed location where people who are captive to sin can be sure to hear a freeing Word that will create and sustain faith.
When God’s Word brings faith, people who trust God’s promise in Christ begin to see the world and their neighbors in a different light. The AC calls this the “New Obedience” (Article VI). Faithful people want to seek after others’ welfare and see to the good care of the creation. The Augsburg Confession doesn’t make a distinction about serving in the church or in the world, which means the gospel doesn’t necessarily call us to greater religious activity in the church but instead to service where our neighbors are in need (although that service may very well be in delivery of the gospel in the church's ministries).
Implications for a Call Committee
If a call committee surveyed a random sample of a congregation to find out what people think is crucial in their pastor’s calling, they will hear a list of places in the congregation’s life where members have connected to the gospel: in community, music, ordered and creative worship, small groups, youth and family ministry, or adult education. Because the pastor is likely to have a hand in many or even all of those things, people who value them will see the pastor’s calling through that lens.
At my congregation, for instance, the top five ministry tasks the call committee has compiled are the reflection of a congregation with some truly healthy and faithful priorities, and a sign of Faith’s history of vital ministry. And the list of tasks reveals both a community of people committed to what the gospel does and congregational leaders who are diligent facilitators. Even so, what lies behind all these tasks and churchly activities is the gospel itself – the thing that our Lutheran Confessions say happens when our sin is understood and Christ’s benefits are proclaimed.
All the ministry tasks we list are the means by which God’s ministry in the gospel takes place: Music makes the gospel heard. Young people in confirmation learn about the promise given to them in baptism. People in a crisis have Stephen Ministers who visit. The Altar Guild sets up the Lord’s Supper and the Bell Choirs rehearse in order to deliver good news to sinners. The Church Council makes sure our staff members are insured so they can concentrate on gospel work. It all happens in order to reach the same outcome: saving faith, first, and then freedom for faithful service in the world.
It is easy to confuse the means by which the gospel is delivered with the actual salvation God through them. The culture around us is mighty good at putting lots of good things other than Christ in front of us as essentials. This is why the first and most faithful agenda item for both a call committee and the pastor being called is to know what the gospel is and is not. Even the best things we strive after (like being better parents, gaining a stronger knowledge of the Bible’s content, or becoming better financial stewards) are not the gospel. The proclamation of Jesus Christ alone as the one who saves sinners like us is the gospel.
My congregation's call committee has already done a splendid job discerning the congregational context for that gospel work – the essence of the pastoral call. The committee has assessed the congregation’s various activities, sorted through priorities and opportunities, and drafted an orderly description of the congregation’s identity, history and hoped-for future. None of those things are the gospel, though. The call committee must be clear about the central proclamation of the gospel and understand the need for its proclamation in our midst, the call committee works to find a pastor whose clarity about Christ’s work shines brightly and who has other secondary gifts for helping us all make these faithful avenues for the gospel’s delivery happen in my congregation.
After that point, a call committee moves into the ultimate task of discernment: interviewing potential pastors. Before any other discussions of a pastor’s gifts and talents, the primary task of a call committee in an interview is to explore whether any candidate for a pastoral call to its congregation is able to do three things: First, can this pastor speak with clarity, passion and confidence about Christ’s work in his or her own life? Second, can this pastor articulate how God’s demands and promises function to bring us faith in any passage of scripture? Finally, can this pastor discern the places in our community and in our lives that are ripe for hearing the gospel, so that faith might grow in us and move us to serve? (Once they recommend a pastor for the call, these are also questions whose answers we ought to expect the call committee to articulate to us in their recommendation.)
Conclusion
During the Reformation, Martin Luther gave a name to asking these kinds of questions. He called it “judging doctrine” (and regarded it as the primary task of lay people in the church). When it is done, a congregation’s leaders become faithful stewards of the rich gospel treasure entrusted to them and they ensure that God’s work continues among them beyond the tenure of any single pastor. What’s more, in taking on this responsibility they too become part of the ultimate life-out-of-death story of God creating us and making us new, of Christ captivating us with his nail-scarred embrace, of the Spirit spurring us to faith and service.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Home by Another Way
This Epiphany sermon was preached on Matthew 2:1-2 on January 10, 2012, in chapel at Grand View University, Des Moines, Iowa.
There’s a great old James Taylor song about our wise guys from the East coming to visit Jesus. It’s called “Home by Another Way.” I don’t know what his religious leanings are, but I think he’s on to something about the story in our reading today. He sings, “A king who would slaughter the innocents will not cut a deal for you. Then warned in a dream of King Herod’s scheme, they went home by another way.”
The warning isn’t just for the Magi, it’s for us, too. There’s danger in heading back King Herod’s way. He’s the epitome of power and glory, and once you head down that road there’s no escaping him. That’s the dark underbelly of falling prey to the allure of glory and success as a way to measure yourself and especially as a way to get yourself home to God. Once you step onto that path, it’s a never-ending string of demands that, in the end, are going to kill you. If I glory in the response to my preaching, I’ll only ever be as good as my last sermon. Tim Tebow is only as good as his last game, or even his last pass. You’re only as good as your collective GPA. And there’s always the next thing. You’ve gotta hold up the glorious standard. It’s what lay behind King Herod’s fear. The appearance of another king born in Bethlehem meant he had to work harder to maintain his grip on his future. The easiest way to do that is to eliminate your opponent by killing the innocents in Bethlehem and conniving to kill the three wise men. Even if he’d done it, it though, the demand to keep the illusion of control going would have hounded him until his dying day. Striving, working, fighting – they’re no way to get home to God.
But the three magi going home by another way. The way home is not the visible glory of success or adherence to the Law or performance of any good works, for there is no one who is truly successful, obedient to the Law or absolutely good than Christ. You haven’t got it in you. But the other way home is a strange path and most often unchosen path, because it leads to the cross. It’s the path of the one who says, "I am the way, the truth and the life." You see, God calls you home by an unexpected route. It starts with the unlikely event of God appearing as a real baby, flesh and bone. In Jesus succumbing to the Law's accusation already in his baptism. In his hanging out with sinners. On Golgotha where he who no sin became sin for you. And in the utterly unforeseen event on that third day outside Jerusalem. Where your life is upside down and where you find your cross, you will find yourself linked to Christ. Where you die with him, you will rise with him.
That's your new map home. Your way home to God isn’t through prosperity, NFL touchdowns and end zone prayers, or even in achieving an A in my Ethics course. Instead it leads you down the Christ road. And you’re not alone in the walk down to the cross and to your home with God, for God himself walks with you in Christ Jesus and he provides fellow walkers – other believers who hold your hand as you wander down into ultimates like death, salvation, resurrection and the forgiveness of your all sins.
As a reminder today, that Christ is your way, your path, your other way home, I’m going to ask you to leave at the end of the service not by the doors at the back there. Instead, I’d like you to leave by this door up front. Like Christ’s path that leads down into the cross and into the fellowship of the saints, this way out goes down into the kitchen and out into the fellowship hall and, eventually out into the world. Have a great trip home. Bon voyage. Amen.
There’s a great old James Taylor song about our wise guys from the East coming to visit Jesus. It’s called “Home by Another Way.” I don’t know what his religious leanings are, but I think he’s on to something about the story in our reading today. He sings, “A king who would slaughter the innocents will not cut a deal for you. Then warned in a dream of King Herod’s scheme, they went home by another way.”
The warning isn’t just for the Magi, it’s for us, too. There’s danger in heading back King Herod’s way. He’s the epitome of power and glory, and once you head down that road there’s no escaping him. That’s the dark underbelly of falling prey to the allure of glory and success as a way to measure yourself and especially as a way to get yourself home to God. Once you step onto that path, it’s a never-ending string of demands that, in the end, are going to kill you. If I glory in the response to my preaching, I’ll only ever be as good as my last sermon. Tim Tebow is only as good as his last game, or even his last pass. You’re only as good as your collective GPA. And there’s always the next thing. You’ve gotta hold up the glorious standard. It’s what lay behind King Herod’s fear. The appearance of another king born in Bethlehem meant he had to work harder to maintain his grip on his future. The easiest way to do that is to eliminate your opponent by killing the innocents in Bethlehem and conniving to kill the three wise men. Even if he’d done it, it though, the demand to keep the illusion of control going would have hounded him until his dying day. Striving, working, fighting – they’re no way to get home to God.
But the three magi going home by another way. The way home is not the visible glory of success or adherence to the Law or performance of any good works, for there is no one who is truly successful, obedient to the Law or absolutely good than Christ. You haven’t got it in you. But the other way home is a strange path and most often unchosen path, because it leads to the cross. It’s the path of the one who says, "I am the way, the truth and the life." You see, God calls you home by an unexpected route. It starts with the unlikely event of God appearing as a real baby, flesh and bone. In Jesus succumbing to the Law's accusation already in his baptism. In his hanging out with sinners. On Golgotha where he who no sin became sin for you. And in the utterly unforeseen event on that third day outside Jerusalem. Where your life is upside down and where you find your cross, you will find yourself linked to Christ. Where you die with him, you will rise with him.
That's your new map home. Your way home to God isn’t through prosperity, NFL touchdowns and end zone prayers, or even in achieving an A in my Ethics course. Instead it leads you down the Christ road. And you’re not alone in the walk down to the cross and to your home with God, for God himself walks with you in Christ Jesus and he provides fellow walkers – other believers who hold your hand as you wander down into ultimates like death, salvation, resurrection and the forgiveness of your all sins.
As a reminder today, that Christ is your way, your path, your other way home, I’m going to ask you to leave at the end of the service not by the doors at the back there. Instead, I’d like you to leave by this door up front. Like Christ’s path that leads down into the cross and into the fellowship of the saints, this way out goes down into the kitchen and out into the fellowship hall and, eventually out into the world. Have a great trip home. Bon voyage. Amen.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Tura Satana and Lina Sandell
| Tura Satana |
Grand View University chapel sermon based on Matthew 11:28-30 and Romans 8:31-39
Public Radio this morning included a tribute to the actress Tura Satana who died last week. Just in case you didn’t know it, Tura Satana was the star of Russ Meyer’s low-budget 1965 exploitation movie Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! It’s the story of three strippers-slash-gogo dancers on a crime spree with three souped up cars. Tura Satana was also in The Haunted World of El Superbeasto and The Astro-Zombies and its two sequels. All this is to say that Tura Satana was no Lina Sandell.
Lina Sandell wrote the text of our three hymns today [Day by Day, The Numberless Gifts of God's Mercies and Children of the Heavenly Father]. She’s my favorite hymn writer. If I’m not allowed to have Home on the Range sung at my funeral, give me Lina Sandell’s Children of the Heavenly Father. Her hymns stand quite well on their own. They’re sung to lilting Scandanavian melodies. Their language is lucid, their theology is keen-edged, and they’re just plain pretty. But once you learn Lina Sandell’s story, her hymns become true witnesses to the gospel – to the promises proclaimed in our two readings today.
Lina Sandell’s full name was Karolina Wilhelmina Sandell Berg. She was a pastor’s daughter in Sweden who lived over the course of the last three quarters of the 1800s. When she was twelve, she suffered some kind of paralysis and was told she’d never walk again. In the following years, as she was recovering and regaining her ability to walk, she began writing hymns. Even though it was published later in her life, some people think Children of the Heavenly Father, with its confidence in God’s care in the face of adversity, was written during those years. When Sandell was in her 20s, she took a trip with her father from her town of Jönköping to Gotheborg in Sweden. It required a trip on a boat. The boat hit some choppy water, apparently, and when the boat lurched forward Pastor Sandell fell overboard and Lina watched as her father drowned. Not long afterward she faced her mother’s death as well.
This was a woman who knew how hard life can be. She understood deeply the crosses we bear. Yet what is it that allows someone who has experienced such incredible loss to say, “Day by day, your mercies, Lord, attend me.” “Savior, help me bear life’s pain and sorrow till in glory I behold your face.” “Though he giveth or he taketh, God his children ne’er forsaketh.” How can a woman who has watched her dear father sink beneath the waves want to give God numberless praises for what she regards as God’s good mercies?
| Lina Sandell |
Lina Sandell could do it because she had been given a promise from God. It came to her in that Swedish parsonage, sitting at her parents’ feet, hearing of Jesus’ care, his death and resurrection, his claim on sinners lost in a world of sorrow. These words of faith and hope in the face of tragedy and loss can only be spoken by one who has met the Lord at the bottom of those chasms. He was there for her, because he’d already been given to her in anticipation of those days. Lina Sandell went through those things with a vocabulary of faith as a treasure in her heart. The words that come shining through her hymns were something she had already possessed. She had been claimed by the promises given to us in words like those in our two readings: We have a Lord who wants to take on our hardships. We have a God who says, “You. Yes, you! I’m the KrazyGlue God. I’m stuck on you and ain’t nothing from here to eternity that’s going to get me to let you go.”
So how about it, then? Do you have the vocabulary of faith? Do you know the Word and promise of God that will see you through and allow you to still believe and praise God? If not, let me start building your treasury of faith by telling you of our Lord, God’s Son, Jesus Christ. He is the sure and certain sign of God’s mercy and grace toward you. Jesus is the one you can count on. He’s the one who took on everything we human beings could dole out, died, and whom God vindicated by raising him from the dead. When the world cannot and will not forgive, Jesus does. When you’re past the end of your rope, you have a Lord who has the strength to hang on to you. This is God’s promise for you, so that when you face the same kinds of losses as Lina Sandell, you can say with confidence, “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.”
You don’t need to go faster, pussycat, kill, kill. You can rest in the promise now and live, live. Amen.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Olive Grove
This is the hymn text I wrote for Paige and Matt's wedding. It's sung to the tune "Martyrdom" ("As Pants the Hart for Cooling Streams"). The planter in the first verse is Paige's late father who planted tree after tree on his acreage in central South Dakota.
In prairie field an olive grove,
Its wind-blown branches sway,
Its planter’s joy to see it grow,
Foretells our God’s New Day.
A tree once stood in Eden’s bowers,
Its fruit the Lord forbade.
Now we in sin, who took and ate,
Are cast from his rich glade.
On Calv’ry’s hill a tree did bear
The body of the Lord.
He is the shoot from Jesse’s trunk;
His blood for us is poured.
Thus, in God’s love, the sinful branch
Is grafted to his Son,
From whom all hope, all joy, all pow’r,
And life eternal run.
O, God, with love these two entwine
And plant them by your flood
That they might serve and trust and know
Your never-ending good.
© 2010 All rights reserved
In prairie field an olive grove,
Its wind-blown branches sway,
Its planter’s joy to see it grow,
Foretells our God’s New Day.
A tree once stood in Eden’s bowers,
Its fruit the Lord forbade.
Now we in sin, who took and ate,
Are cast from his rich glade.
On Calv’ry’s hill a tree did bear
The body of the Lord.
He is the shoot from Jesse’s trunk;
His blood for us is poured.
Thus, in God’s love, the sinful branch
Is grafted to his Son,
From whom all hope, all joy, all pow’r,
And life eternal run.
O, God, with love these two entwine
And plant them by your flood
That they might serve and trust and know
Your never-ending good.
© 2010 All rights reserved
A Olive Grove Marriage
A wedding sermon for Matt Bock and Paige Wilbur
First Lutheran Church, Sioux Falls, SD
December 18, 2010
They shall be like a tree planted by water,
sending out its roots by the stream.
It shall not fear when heat comes,
and its leaves shall stay green;
in the year of drought it is not anxious,
and it does not cease to bear fruit. (Jeremiah 17:8)
If you take a drive along the two-lane roads of South Dakota, you’ll come to a gravel road every mile – at least East River where the landforms allow roads to follow the six-mile-by-six-mile grid established in homesteading days. West River the roads are a bit more scattershot, just like the people. But pretty much wherever you go between Luverne, Minnesota, and Newcastle, Wyoming, you will find stands of trees that weren’t there when the first folks from back East pushed their way across the prairies.
When they planted their own roots under this wide-open sky, they also planted trees: the cottonwoods that were native species, catalpa that grew quickly and made for good fence posts when you needed barbed-wire boundaries, and later elms and Russian olives. These stands of trees provided protection from the endless, crazy-making wind. When the blizzards would come (and they always would), these trees could mark the line between life and death as they sent the drifts around and past the tarpaper shacks and soddies, dugouts and barns.
When Jeremiah speaks God’s word in the passage just read, he knows the value of a strong, living tree. In fact, such a tree is so important that it becomes the metaphor for what a faithful relationship with God is like: a tree whose roots are sunk deep in the water, thriving, spreading out branches and (as Jesus says in the parable of the mustard seed) making a home for the birds.
Trees keep appearing in scripture. Jeremiah is just one of countless tree lovers and huggers and planters in God’s word, including the tale-teller who gives us the story of the Garden of Eden. In Genesis the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil is the picture of our rebellion in the Fall. God set the tree apart, and our forebears in the Garden said, “Maybe God can’t be trusted. Maybe God’s holding something back. Maybe we ought to branch out and see to things ourselves by laying hold of some of that fruit.”
Now all this talk of trees is quite the goofy thing to focus on at a wedding. Shouldn’t we talk about that crazy little thing called love? Shouldn’t we concentrate on how beautiful you are, Paige, and how hunkaliciously cleaned-up you are, Matt? (Yes, I’ve seen Facebook postings of you on the Governor’s Hunt.) And we could focus on the flowers and the attendants’ dresses (will they ever wear them again?), and the wedding colors á la Brides magazine, and yet that wouldn’t reflect either your faith or your spirited and mature sense of what a marriage is.
It’s true — you’ll never be more beautiful or optimistic about life than today, but the gospel of our Lord just isn’t designed to speak to success and prosperity and glory. God’s word on this, your wedding day, comes to tell you who you are and whose you are, so that on some future day when this day is a warm memory, a photo album and a boxed wedding dress under the bed, and you have come to know the limits of your power and strength, this word about a planted and nourished tree comes to give you hope to cling to.
The gospel today is aimed at a future day when you will be undone by life – maybe by the big sorrows, but more likely by the mundane daily slog and the pressing temptation to center in on yourself and lose sight of the two become one. The tree of Jeremiah will be the ideal that you once had and the mirror to what you can’t find, what you can’t make happen on your own.
That will be the day when you must, must, must zero in on the tree of life, Christ’s cross and the mercy made real and given to you there. That is the tree that provides you true protection, because if you can’t create your own future or muster up a rich life together, your Lord does. What looks like a tree that is your own autonomous self in Jeremiah requires that you look more closely. The tree is only in the barest sense, you. There’s a seam there, where you have been joined to your Lord, for he makes you his own in your baptism, grafts both of you to himself, lets his nourishing sap flow into you. As Paul says, “The life I once had is now hid in Christ.”
That true life promised to you is the thing, the one thing, that surrounds and sustains your coming years, for what flows into you is his deep and abiding forgiveness. And where his forgiveness is present, your past missteps and mistakes and petty peccadilloes can no longer be the markers for who you are. Instead his mercy grants, only and ever, a new and eternal future.
When Christ grafts you to himself, he takes away your pride and ambition as operating principles in your marriage. Those things belong to a life that is no longer yours, and in their place the Lord has given you much more to share with each other. Paul calls them the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. So even before we ask God to bless you, he’s already accomplished it. It’s just like our Lord to know you so well that he provides exactly what you’ll need to grow in your marriage and into eternity. And when you turn toward one another with his same mercy and overflowing with these fruits, it will be a sure and certain sign of your grafting, of your identity as Christ’s people of the cross, a reminder again and again of who you are and whose you are.
In the end, when the last of those prairie groves dies out and the wind moves unhindered across the grasslands and dilapidated out-buildings, this last tree remains to bear you into the New Jerusalem where you will find a place in an eternal grove. Until then, Paige and Matt, spread out your branches, be fruitful, multiply (and I don’t mean your times tables), bask in the life that flows in you. You shall not be moved, because you belong to Christ, and him alone. Amen.
First Lutheran Church, Sioux Falls, SD
December 18, 2010
They shall be like a tree planted by water,
sending out its roots by the stream.
It shall not fear when heat comes,
and its leaves shall stay green;
in the year of drought it is not anxious,
and it does not cease to bear fruit. (Jeremiah 17:8)
If you take a drive along the two-lane roads of South Dakota, you’ll come to a gravel road every mile – at least East River where the landforms allow roads to follow the six-mile-by-six-mile grid established in homesteading days. West River the roads are a bit more scattershot, just like the people. But pretty much wherever you go between Luverne, Minnesota, and Newcastle, Wyoming, you will find stands of trees that weren’t there when the first folks from back East pushed their way across the prairies.
When they planted their own roots under this wide-open sky, they also planted trees: the cottonwoods that were native species, catalpa that grew quickly and made for good fence posts when you needed barbed-wire boundaries, and later elms and Russian olives. These stands of trees provided protection from the endless, crazy-making wind. When the blizzards would come (and they always would), these trees could mark the line between life and death as they sent the drifts around and past the tarpaper shacks and soddies, dugouts and barns.
When Jeremiah speaks God’s word in the passage just read, he knows the value of a strong, living tree. In fact, such a tree is so important that it becomes the metaphor for what a faithful relationship with God is like: a tree whose roots are sunk deep in the water, thriving, spreading out branches and (as Jesus says in the parable of the mustard seed) making a home for the birds.
Trees keep appearing in scripture. Jeremiah is just one of countless tree lovers and huggers and planters in God’s word, including the tale-teller who gives us the story of the Garden of Eden. In Genesis the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil is the picture of our rebellion in the Fall. God set the tree apart, and our forebears in the Garden said, “Maybe God can’t be trusted. Maybe God’s holding something back. Maybe we ought to branch out and see to things ourselves by laying hold of some of that fruit.”
Now all this talk of trees is quite the goofy thing to focus on at a wedding. Shouldn’t we talk about that crazy little thing called love? Shouldn’t we concentrate on how beautiful you are, Paige, and how hunkaliciously cleaned-up you are, Matt? (Yes, I’ve seen Facebook postings of you on the Governor’s Hunt.) And we could focus on the flowers and the attendants’ dresses (will they ever wear them again?), and the wedding colors á la Brides magazine, and yet that wouldn’t reflect either your faith or your spirited and mature sense of what a marriage is.
It’s true — you’ll never be more beautiful or optimistic about life than today, but the gospel of our Lord just isn’t designed to speak to success and prosperity and glory. God’s word on this, your wedding day, comes to tell you who you are and whose you are, so that on some future day when this day is a warm memory, a photo album and a boxed wedding dress under the bed, and you have come to know the limits of your power and strength, this word about a planted and nourished tree comes to give you hope to cling to.
The gospel today is aimed at a future day when you will be undone by life – maybe by the big sorrows, but more likely by the mundane daily slog and the pressing temptation to center in on yourself and lose sight of the two become one. The tree of Jeremiah will be the ideal that you once had and the mirror to what you can’t find, what you can’t make happen on your own.
That will be the day when you must, must, must zero in on the tree of life, Christ’s cross and the mercy made real and given to you there. That is the tree that provides you true protection, because if you can’t create your own future or muster up a rich life together, your Lord does. What looks like a tree that is your own autonomous self in Jeremiah requires that you look more closely. The tree is only in the barest sense, you. There’s a seam there, where you have been joined to your Lord, for he makes you his own in your baptism, grafts both of you to himself, lets his nourishing sap flow into you. As Paul says, “The life I once had is now hid in Christ.”
That true life promised to you is the thing, the one thing, that surrounds and sustains your coming years, for what flows into you is his deep and abiding forgiveness. And where his forgiveness is present, your past missteps and mistakes and petty peccadilloes can no longer be the markers for who you are. Instead his mercy grants, only and ever, a new and eternal future.
When Christ grafts you to himself, he takes away your pride and ambition as operating principles in your marriage. Those things belong to a life that is no longer yours, and in their place the Lord has given you much more to share with each other. Paul calls them the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. So even before we ask God to bless you, he’s already accomplished it. It’s just like our Lord to know you so well that he provides exactly what you’ll need to grow in your marriage and into eternity. And when you turn toward one another with his same mercy and overflowing with these fruits, it will be a sure and certain sign of your grafting, of your identity as Christ’s people of the cross, a reminder again and again of who you are and whose you are.
In the end, when the last of those prairie groves dies out and the wind moves unhindered across the grasslands and dilapidated out-buildings, this last tree remains to bear you into the New Jerusalem where you will find a place in an eternal grove. Until then, Paige and Matt, spread out your branches, be fruitful, multiply (and I don’t mean your times tables), bask in the life that flows in you. You shall not be moved, because you belong to Christ, and him alone. Amen.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Judgment and mercy for real sinners
Malachi 4:1-2a and Luke 21:5-19
It’s that time of year, a few short weeks before Advent begins, when the assigned Bible readings serve up the terror of the end times. I’d rather preach on Jesus saying no to divorce than to have to deal with the threat of arrest and persecution when the authorities sense the presence of Christ in me. I would so very much prefer to avoid Malachi’s warning about the arrogant being burnt up and the evildoers being cut down like Iowa corn stalks reduced to field stubble and no-till acreage. But those passages of God’s Word have been read now. They hang in the air, forcing themselves on us. Now they won’t let us go until God has a chance to speak through them. If God’s Word won’t give us any other option, we might as well go after these passages and see if the Holy Spirit isn’t actually speaking in them.
The prophet Malachi’s words are a dire warning: For the arrogant and evildoers, that is, for sinners like you and me, the future holds very little hope. It’s going to be worse for us than what a menopausal woman means when she says, “Is it hot in here, or is it just me?” No, there’s a burning-up time a-coming. Just a few verses before our passage, Malachi says, “Who can endure the day of his coming, and who can stand when he appears? For he is like a refiner’s fire and like fullers’ soap.” The refiner’s fire is what a metal smith uses to burn out all the impurities in silver ore or gold ore, so that the only thing left is the purest of metals. Fullers’ soap is full of caustic alkali and in ancient times was used to purify wool to its ultimate whiteness before it could be used for cloth. The smelter burns. Alkali burns. And the Lord himself burns up all the evil he touches.
How is it that I am to be included among the arrogant, the evildoers and the sinful? Surely God would not move against me in such a violent, no-second-chances way! Yet I am included, and so are you. The sin and evil that the prophet rails against grows in the fertile ground of our hearts, for the Lord demands righteousness of his human creatures and, if there’s one thing we’re not, it’s righteous. We are not all God has made us to be. Who among us doesn’t know the foibles and peccadilloes we so slyly cover over daily, the corner-cutting, the getting by with good-enough? When we look at ourselves honestly, who among us has not committed a long list of sins, big and small, sins of commission and sins of omission? “I was hungry and you did not feed me,” Jesus says in Matthew 25, “I was thirsty and you gave me no drink. I was sick and in prison and you did not visit me.”
And when we hear the prophet speak these harsh words against us, it reveals something even worse. Not only do we sin, but when God sends a messenger to speak the truth to us, we react by becoming indignant. We refuse to confess our unwillingness to obey this almighty God, to confess our constant desire to go our own way, but we pile sin upon sin by questioning God’s judgment and will. “Surely God couldn’t judge someone like me who has such good intentions. God’s the one with the problem. And if it’s not God, then it’s God’s word or his messenger. For certainly the God of love would not turn away from someone who deserves divine favor like I do!” Ah, there’s the rub. Do you see how our very reaction to God’s judgment in Malachi reveals our core? For we, like our forebears in the Garden, have eaten of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. We have demanded our place in God’s judgment seat, where we will be the determiners of our own future and fate, where we will be the arbiters of our own salvation, where we gather a lifetime of evidence to justify ourselves. As Psalm 14 says, “They have all gone astray, they are all alike perverse; there is no one who does good, no, not one.” And as Paul says in Romans, “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”
I will often ask students in my courses if sinners get to go to heaven. The kids who have some church background will invariably say, “Of course, sinners go to heaven. A loving God won’t turn them away.” But the students who have little connection to Christianity know better. Their sense of God’s judgment is closer to the view of Malachi and of the rest of God’s word in scripture. These students have heard the rumors that God is a God who judges, who separates good from evil, and who desires righteousness not sin. The almighty God will brook no sin, allow no evil, make room for no self-seeking hearts in his glorious, eternal kingdom. God reserves his throne of judgment for the sentence he doles out. The jig is up: We sinners with our arrogance, our evil doing and lack of doing, our utter unwillingness and inability to focus on anything but our own will, we stand condemned and have a future as eternal field stubble.
Is there no way out? Is there no small bit of allowance from God? Won’t God recognize some two or three atoms of sparkling goodness that remain? We’d certainly like that, but here’s the deal. God has taken on flesh in the person of Jesus Christ. He is crucified and risen. And it all happens because there is no other way. God has done the saving deed, because human beings (you and me included) will not change, will not grasp God’s righteousness, and will always try to substitute our own paltry shadowy substitute self-righteousness in its place. In the coming month before Christmas and during the Christmas season itself, we will hear that God comes in Christ for you. If there were something you could already have done or some evidence you could present to God to affect his judgment on you, there would have been no need for Christ. And his excruciating death on Good Friday would be useless, except as a particularly awful role model for how to behave people treat you poorly.
Our Lord Jesus Christ is good news indeed. But he’s good news for sinners worthy of the name. In the gospel reading, Jesus says lots of people will parade themselves before you as spectacular examples of righteous, religious behavior. Some of those people will trot out a conservative view of righteous behavior. Others will send out a religious pop-up ad trumpeting a liberal view of righteous behavior. And yet our readings push back, saying no zealot knows the truth. The arrogant are headed to the refiner’s fire. Those who are cocksure of their worthiness have a burning alkaline fullers’ soap waiting.
But those who confess their sin, their inability to do and achieve righteousness, and their core desire to go it alone, these have another word that God stands ready to speak. In 1518, some six months after he posted the Ninety-Five Theses, Martin Luther was told to defend his teaching at a meeting of his monastic order. In his disputation to his fellow Augustinians, he said that only those who despair of their own ability to gain righteousness on their own are worthy to receive the grace of Christ. With that we come near to the rich, true good news hidden in the cracks and crevices of these harsh readings. Deuteronomy says, “See now that I, even I, am he; there is no god besides me. I kill and I make alive; I wound and I heal; and no one can deliver from my hand.” The hammer of God comes down. The gavel of the divine judge bangs on his bench. The defendant is declared guilty, so that for Christ’s sake, the guilty party might be freed. The judgment comes so that you and I, sinners all, might confess or, as Jesus says in the gospel reading, that you might have an opportunity to testify.
One summer I worked at one of our Bible camps in South Dakota. Along with the new batch of fifth and sixth grader that descended on us each week that summer, the South Dakota State Hospital and School brought a bus-load of developmentally-disabled adults to be a part of our camp community. Each cabin of seven or eight kids had one of those wonderful, memorable people living with us. One week my group of boys welcomed 30-something Robert Schieffelbein to live with us. I remember Robert even though I can’t recall even one of the younger campers in that group. And what sticks with me about Robert Schieffelbein is that every time we invited him to join in on some camp activity he said, “I can’t do it. I can’t do it, buddy.” We’d say, “C’mon Robert.” He’d say, “I can’t do it, buddy.”
Robert’s words are the words of confession, his testimony. “I can’t do it.” And they are the first words of our own confession. We come before God to say, “I can’t do it. I can’t do it, divine buddy.” And then we point to the one who has promised to take us sinners on. The prophet Malachi promises, “But for you who revere my name the sun of righteousness shall rise, with healing in its wings.” To revere God’s name is to be able to name the one whom God established in heaven and on earth to rescue us sinners, the “we-can’t-do-it” folks. When Mark starts off his gospel, he says, “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the son of God.” He’s saying that this good news starts, has its source, and completely stems from Jesus. But who in the world will hear about Jesus and regard it as good news? For whom will Jesus be such good news that they fear no worldly authority or virulent accusation? What kind of person can’t resist the kind of savior Jesus is? On whom does this sun of righteousness rise? Who finds healing in Christ’s outstretched, nail-marked wings? It’s sinners. It’s the ones who bear the badge openly, who confess, “I can’t do it, buddy, but Jesus does.”
While Luther was in hiding at the Wartburg Castle after the Diet of Worms in 1521, Philip Melanchthon, his fellow professor at the University of Wittenberg, wrote to him to ask how he could become a better preacher. Luther responded, “Become a sinner, a real sinner, not a sham sinner – one who knows the depth and breadth of your sin.” And Luther famously said, “Then sin boldly, and trust all the more boldly in Christ your savior.” So, if we ask if sinners in general go to heaven, the answer will always be, “No. Ain’t no room for that nastiness in the new Jerusalem.” But if we ask about real, particular and bold sinners who are up-front about their sin and unabashed about their Lord, then the answer is, “You can’t do it, buddy. Yet Christ does it for you.”
These are the ones for whom the prophet Isaiah speaks, when he announces the word of the Lord, saying, “But be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating; for I am about to create Jerusalem as a joy, and its people as a delight.” Those who wish to stand before God’s judgment seat will only hear a sentence of condemnation, yet those who come fragile and broken to God’s mercy seat, claiming Christ’s mercy, shall hear this good news: The kingdom has been prepared from the foundation of the world, and this kingdom is now yours. Whatever calamity afflicts you, whatever disaster lies in your path, whatever betrayal breaks you, whatever portents indicate otherwise, the gospel of Jesus Christ, God’s only Son, stands sure for you: You, sinner, are forgiven, claimed and restored already and eternally. Amen.
It’s that time of year, a few short weeks before Advent begins, when the assigned Bible readings serve up the terror of the end times. I’d rather preach on Jesus saying no to divorce than to have to deal with the threat of arrest and persecution when the authorities sense the presence of Christ in me. I would so very much prefer to avoid Malachi’s warning about the arrogant being burnt up and the evildoers being cut down like Iowa corn stalks reduced to field stubble and no-till acreage. But those passages of God’s Word have been read now. They hang in the air, forcing themselves on us. Now they won’t let us go until God has a chance to speak through them. If God’s Word won’t give us any other option, we might as well go after these passages and see if the Holy Spirit isn’t actually speaking in them.
The prophet Malachi’s words are a dire warning: For the arrogant and evildoers, that is, for sinners like you and me, the future holds very little hope. It’s going to be worse for us than what a menopausal woman means when she says, “Is it hot in here, or is it just me?” No, there’s a burning-up time a-coming. Just a few verses before our passage, Malachi says, “Who can endure the day of his coming, and who can stand when he appears? For he is like a refiner’s fire and like fullers’ soap.” The refiner’s fire is what a metal smith uses to burn out all the impurities in silver ore or gold ore, so that the only thing left is the purest of metals. Fullers’ soap is full of caustic alkali and in ancient times was used to purify wool to its ultimate whiteness before it could be used for cloth. The smelter burns. Alkali burns. And the Lord himself burns up all the evil he touches.
How is it that I am to be included among the arrogant, the evildoers and the sinful? Surely God would not move against me in such a violent, no-second-chances way! Yet I am included, and so are you. The sin and evil that the prophet rails against grows in the fertile ground of our hearts, for the Lord demands righteousness of his human creatures and, if there’s one thing we’re not, it’s righteous. We are not all God has made us to be. Who among us doesn’t know the foibles and peccadilloes we so slyly cover over daily, the corner-cutting, the getting by with good-enough? When we look at ourselves honestly, who among us has not committed a long list of sins, big and small, sins of commission and sins of omission? “I was hungry and you did not feed me,” Jesus says in Matthew 25, “I was thirsty and you gave me no drink. I was sick and in prison and you did not visit me.”
And when we hear the prophet speak these harsh words against us, it reveals something even worse. Not only do we sin, but when God sends a messenger to speak the truth to us, we react by becoming indignant. We refuse to confess our unwillingness to obey this almighty God, to confess our constant desire to go our own way, but we pile sin upon sin by questioning God’s judgment and will. “Surely God couldn’t judge someone like me who has such good intentions. God’s the one with the problem. And if it’s not God, then it’s God’s word or his messenger. For certainly the God of love would not turn away from someone who deserves divine favor like I do!” Ah, there’s the rub. Do you see how our very reaction to God’s judgment in Malachi reveals our core? For we, like our forebears in the Garden, have eaten of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. We have demanded our place in God’s judgment seat, where we will be the determiners of our own future and fate, where we will be the arbiters of our own salvation, where we gather a lifetime of evidence to justify ourselves. As Psalm 14 says, “They have all gone astray, they are all alike perverse; there is no one who does good, no, not one.” And as Paul says in Romans, “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”
I will often ask students in my courses if sinners get to go to heaven. The kids who have some church background will invariably say, “Of course, sinners go to heaven. A loving God won’t turn them away.” But the students who have little connection to Christianity know better. Their sense of God’s judgment is closer to the view of Malachi and of the rest of God’s word in scripture. These students have heard the rumors that God is a God who judges, who separates good from evil, and who desires righteousness not sin. The almighty God will brook no sin, allow no evil, make room for no self-seeking hearts in his glorious, eternal kingdom. God reserves his throne of judgment for the sentence he doles out. The jig is up: We sinners with our arrogance, our evil doing and lack of doing, our utter unwillingness and inability to focus on anything but our own will, we stand condemned and have a future as eternal field stubble.
Is there no way out? Is there no small bit of allowance from God? Won’t God recognize some two or three atoms of sparkling goodness that remain? We’d certainly like that, but here’s the deal. God has taken on flesh in the person of Jesus Christ. He is crucified and risen. And it all happens because there is no other way. God has done the saving deed, because human beings (you and me included) will not change, will not grasp God’s righteousness, and will always try to substitute our own paltry shadowy substitute self-righteousness in its place. In the coming month before Christmas and during the Christmas season itself, we will hear that God comes in Christ for you. If there were something you could already have done or some evidence you could present to God to affect his judgment on you, there would have been no need for Christ. And his excruciating death on Good Friday would be useless, except as a particularly awful role model for how to behave people treat you poorly.
Our Lord Jesus Christ is good news indeed. But he’s good news for sinners worthy of the name. In the gospel reading, Jesus says lots of people will parade themselves before you as spectacular examples of righteous, religious behavior. Some of those people will trot out a conservative view of righteous behavior. Others will send out a religious pop-up ad trumpeting a liberal view of righteous behavior. And yet our readings push back, saying no zealot knows the truth. The arrogant are headed to the refiner’s fire. Those who are cocksure of their worthiness have a burning alkaline fullers’ soap waiting.
But those who confess their sin, their inability to do and achieve righteousness, and their core desire to go it alone, these have another word that God stands ready to speak. In 1518, some six months after he posted the Ninety-Five Theses, Martin Luther was told to defend his teaching at a meeting of his monastic order. In his disputation to his fellow Augustinians, he said that only those who despair of their own ability to gain righteousness on their own are worthy to receive the grace of Christ. With that we come near to the rich, true good news hidden in the cracks and crevices of these harsh readings. Deuteronomy says, “See now that I, even I, am he; there is no god besides me. I kill and I make alive; I wound and I heal; and no one can deliver from my hand.” The hammer of God comes down. The gavel of the divine judge bangs on his bench. The defendant is declared guilty, so that for Christ’s sake, the guilty party might be freed. The judgment comes so that you and I, sinners all, might confess or, as Jesus says in the gospel reading, that you might have an opportunity to testify.
One summer I worked at one of our Bible camps in South Dakota. Along with the new batch of fifth and sixth grader that descended on us each week that summer, the South Dakota State Hospital and School brought a bus-load of developmentally-disabled adults to be a part of our camp community. Each cabin of seven or eight kids had one of those wonderful, memorable people living with us. One week my group of boys welcomed 30-something Robert Schieffelbein to live with us. I remember Robert even though I can’t recall even one of the younger campers in that group. And what sticks with me about Robert Schieffelbein is that every time we invited him to join in on some camp activity he said, “I can’t do it. I can’t do it, buddy.” We’d say, “C’mon Robert.” He’d say, “I can’t do it, buddy.”
Robert’s words are the words of confession, his testimony. “I can’t do it.” And they are the first words of our own confession. We come before God to say, “I can’t do it. I can’t do it, divine buddy.” And then we point to the one who has promised to take us sinners on. The prophet Malachi promises, “But for you who revere my name the sun of righteousness shall rise, with healing in its wings.” To revere God’s name is to be able to name the one whom God established in heaven and on earth to rescue us sinners, the “we-can’t-do-it” folks. When Mark starts off his gospel, he says, “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the son of God.” He’s saying that this good news starts, has its source, and completely stems from Jesus. But who in the world will hear about Jesus and regard it as good news? For whom will Jesus be such good news that they fear no worldly authority or virulent accusation? What kind of person can’t resist the kind of savior Jesus is? On whom does this sun of righteousness rise? Who finds healing in Christ’s outstretched, nail-marked wings? It’s sinners. It’s the ones who bear the badge openly, who confess, “I can’t do it, buddy, but Jesus does.”
While Luther was in hiding at the Wartburg Castle after the Diet of Worms in 1521, Philip Melanchthon, his fellow professor at the University of Wittenberg, wrote to him to ask how he could become a better preacher. Luther responded, “Become a sinner, a real sinner, not a sham sinner – one who knows the depth and breadth of your sin.” And Luther famously said, “Then sin boldly, and trust all the more boldly in Christ your savior.” So, if we ask if sinners in general go to heaven, the answer will always be, “No. Ain’t no room for that nastiness in the new Jerusalem.” But if we ask about real, particular and bold sinners who are up-front about their sin and unabashed about their Lord, then the answer is, “You can’t do it, buddy. Yet Christ does it for you.”
These are the ones for whom the prophet Isaiah speaks, when he announces the word of the Lord, saying, “But be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating; for I am about to create Jerusalem as a joy, and its people as a delight.” Those who wish to stand before God’s judgment seat will only hear a sentence of condemnation, yet those who come fragile and broken to God’s mercy seat, claiming Christ’s mercy, shall hear this good news: The kingdom has been prepared from the foundation of the world, and this kingdom is now yours. Whatever calamity afflicts you, whatever disaster lies in your path, whatever betrayal breaks you, whatever portents indicate otherwise, the gospel of Jesus Christ, God’s only Son, stands sure for you: You, sinner, are forgiven, claimed and restored already and eternally. Amen.
Friday, August 20, 2010
On Being Straightened Out
Our Gospel reading this morning is a tale of bondage and freedom. The bondage and then the release Jesus provides take us into two different ways of living and believing. They move us from a world of glory to the utter reality of Jesus’ cross-shaped new life. And it all hinges on a single word from our Lord.
This crippled-over woman was useless, good-for-nothing in the shape she was in – all curved in on herself. For eighteen years her spine had twisted so far that she was nearly folded up into a package that looked nothing like a human being was supposed to look. They said she had a spirit in her that made this happen, but we ought to remember that’s the language ancient people used to talk about what causes things. While we look to viruses and pathogens as causes of illnesses, people in biblical times didn’t have microscopes or the scientific method. They looked at insurmountable things like illnesses and saw demons and spirits at work – things they had no control over. At any rate, this woman couldn’t stand up straight. This bit of human origami couldn’t unfold herself into a position that would free her to carry on life.
Just before the story of this healing, our gospel writer Luke tells us a bit about how this woman was regarded. Jesus tells the parable of the fig tree. A man who owns a vineyard also has a fig tree planted there. When he comes to pluck a couple figs for his afternoon snack he finds a barren tree. In fact, it’s happened for three years running. So he tells the gardener to cut it down and use the soil for something more productive. Our crippled woman is unproductive. She can’t bear any fruit worthy of the kingdom of God. She can’t tend her household. She can’t serve on the PTA. She can’t dandle grandbabies on her knee. She’s a drag on society. She’s a misplaced fig tree stuck where productive, useful people might better work. And yet, how does the gardener in Jesus’ parable respond? He says, “Hang on another year. Let me work the soil and add a bit of manure as fertilizer. If that doesn’t do the trick, then it might be a good idea to chop the tree down.” Luke shows Jesus doing that very thing to the crippled woman.
All it takes is a word from Jesus to straighten her out: “Woman, you are set free from your ailment.” The ancient Greek word Jesus uses there is apolelusai (apolelusai), and it means to release. Try this with me: Stick out your index finger on one hand and grasp it with your other hand. Now squeeze as tight as you can. Keep squeezing. Tighter. Tighter. For just a bit longer. Now let go. That’s apolelusai – the release of a muscle or tendon that’s being flexed or held tight. What takes us four words to say in English, “you are set free,” is just one word in Greek: apolelusai. To paraphrase “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” one little word subdues her ailment. One little word and this woman was released from the grip of her illness. It’s no surprise that after living all hunched over for eighteen years she did a quick stretch and started praising God for release from her bondage. That woman was no dummy when it comes to the source of her healing. She knew whom to thank and praise, serve and obey.
What is this word from Jesus? What power does it have? His word is simply himself. He gives himself to her, attends to her, lays consoling eyes and powerful hands on her, and claims her as his own. The bent-over woman comes into Jesus’ presence and he transplants her into the good soil of his kingdom. He turns her soil and adds the fertile mix of his coming death and resurrection – which the world regards as pure manure, barnyard leavings. The Word of God himself, Jesus Christ, is added to her dead limbs and spines and, bam!, fruit appears. The woman can’t stop telling people what God has done, and the crowds hear and rejoice.
Did I mention that all this happened on the Sabbath day? Oh, yes, it did. And there’s the rub. Jewish religious law is very clear on this count. It would come to include 39 categories of work that could not be done on God’s day of rest, including carrying, writing, erasing, harvesting, plowing, weaving, cooking, building, tying and thirty others. When Jesus heals the woman, he’s breaking the Sabbath command to rest. And any time you break any of these lesser commandments, you’re also breaking the granddaddy of them all, “You shall have no other gods before me.” By deciding yourself what you can and can’t do on the Sabbath, you’re putting yourself before God who himself commanded the day of rest.
The leader of the synagogue will have no truck with that. He knows the law and knows that it doesn’t give an inch. He lives his entire life within the parameters of this legal system. For him, virtue and piety are the criteria for both future success and God’s good pleasure. If you don’t act as religiously as required, there’s no place for you in God’s kingdom. Jesus blows it all away by assuming his right to bring people into the kingdom when and where he pleases. So the leader of the synagogue calls Jesus on it. And now we get to the crux of the matter.
This story of Jesus healing the woman isn’t really about physical sickness and infirmity (although God does promise to bring healing to all). No, in this story we find the very thing Jesus, the great physician, has come to set right: sin. While the crippled woman had a spine that curved her in on herself, the leader of the synagogue is even more curved in and needs Jesus’ release just as much. Jesus claims all of the creation for his own. He says he wants to “draw all unto himself.” When he says, “I am the way, the truth and the life,” he makes himself the criterion for entry into God’s kingdom. Sinners want nothing to do with that, neither the leader of the synagogue nor we sinners gathered together today. We’d rather be a part of a system where we can determine who’s in and who’s out. So we look to legalities, immutable commands that allow us to rate ourselves and others and, if necessary, work just a little harder to achieve a future for ourselves. Usually that comes down to being virtuous, pious or religious. But when God takes on human flesh and bone in the person of Jesus, he means to end it all. He says, “That religious business of clothing yourself in piety and virtue? Enough! It’s time to stop that folderol.” For the leader of the synagogue, that was too upsetting. Better the ceaseless demands of the law than the danger of letting go.
That rabbi was just as barren as the crippled woman. He too was curved in on himself, constantly looking at his own navel to see if he was good enough, righteous enough, clean enough. If he’d been alive today, he would have fallen prey to the legal scheme of our own day: the advertising and marketing world that demands of you to buy this, accumulate that, wear these, if you want to secure your future. We’re called on to satisfy those demands, and they force us to look inward to see if we’ve achieved the goals they set before us. When Jesus cuts in our dance with the law and insists on being paired up with us for the rest of his divine gala, we object. We say, “I’m not going to polka with you, because God’s orchestra is playing a waltz. The dance goes like this: one, two, three, one, two, three.” But it’s even worse than that. We don’t just refuse to dance, we take our new divine dance partners out behind the dancehall and let the brutes with Budweisers in one hand and brass knuckles in the other teach him what’s what. When Pontius Pilate presents an option for what to do with a lawbreaker like Jesus, our only answer is, “Crucify him!” We’d always rather stick to our schemes of glory, glitz and glamour than succumb to a life where we are nothing and Christ is everything, our all in all.
It sure would be nice if we could just jinn up our courage and muster the wherewithal to simply decide to answer Pilate differently. If only we had it in us. But we don’t. We can’t do it. We and that rabbi are just as stuck as the crippled woman who can’t straighten herself out. If we don’t have it in us, it’s going to take something outside of us. That something isn’t a thing, but a somebody – Jesus, who heals and straightens and makes new. You see he has come for sinners, and not just to restore you to the possibility of doing something good, but to make something new out of the nothing that is you. You know where your life is headed – to a plot of land about seven feet by three feet or to a cardboard container ready to hold some ashes. Created from nothing, you end up as nothing. And yet Christ comes to make something new out of your nothingness. The rabbi refused to let go of his imagined control and came away having been put to shame. The crippled woman knew she had no ability to fix things, to bear fruit or to stand as righteous before God, and she was given new life. The rabbi demanded commandments and obedience, and that’s what he was left with – the judgment of God. The crippled woman ran into God’s promise in Jesus and was made new.
Jesus certainly isn’t polite about these things. In fact, he bids you to run from God to God. That means Christ pulls you away from thinking all of God’s ultimates like salvation, forgiveness and eternal life depend on your fulfilling God’s demands. And he draws you in to his kingdom where it all hinges on his promise to you. And of course, that’s what the Sabbath was always for in the first place. It’s given not just so you can rest your weary bones, but so that your spirit can rest fully and finally in him, the great physician, the divine promise, the Lord of all life. Is this not why we gather together to worship? We worship so we can confess our nothingness, our inability to find any life in virtue, piety and religion, our unwillingness to anything but our own people. We worship together so we can sing, “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.” We gather together together so we, too, might be set free, so that we, too, might know a true and eternal Sabbath. We gather together to be straightened out from looking at our own navels and so that we can begin looking to our neighbor’s need.
So how about about it? Look at your navel now and repeat after me: I confess. And now straighten up and look my way and hear what Jesus has sent me to tell you: You, my fellow sinner, are forgiven in his name. You, dear friend, are given his unbreakable promise of salvation and new life. Where before you were curved in on yourself and good for nothing, now you are unfolded and made new. You now know Christ’s gift of apolelusai. Now you can sing God’s praises with that straightened-out, good-for-lots-of-things woman and the psalmist: “Bless the Lord, O my soul, and do not forget all his benefits – who forgives all your iniquity, who heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the Pit, who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy, who satisfies you with good as long as you live so that your youth is renewed like the eagle's.” Now, you former barren fig trees, let’s see if a little fruit doesn’t start growing on your branches. Amen.
This crippled-over woman was useless, good-for-nothing in the shape she was in – all curved in on herself. For eighteen years her spine had twisted so far that she was nearly folded up into a package that looked nothing like a human being was supposed to look. They said she had a spirit in her that made this happen, but we ought to remember that’s the language ancient people used to talk about what causes things. While we look to viruses and pathogens as causes of illnesses, people in biblical times didn’t have microscopes or the scientific method. They looked at insurmountable things like illnesses and saw demons and spirits at work – things they had no control over. At any rate, this woman couldn’t stand up straight. This bit of human origami couldn’t unfold herself into a position that would free her to carry on life.
Just before the story of this healing, our gospel writer Luke tells us a bit about how this woman was regarded. Jesus tells the parable of the fig tree. A man who owns a vineyard also has a fig tree planted there. When he comes to pluck a couple figs for his afternoon snack he finds a barren tree. In fact, it’s happened for three years running. So he tells the gardener to cut it down and use the soil for something more productive. Our crippled woman is unproductive. She can’t bear any fruit worthy of the kingdom of God. She can’t tend her household. She can’t serve on the PTA. She can’t dandle grandbabies on her knee. She’s a drag on society. She’s a misplaced fig tree stuck where productive, useful people might better work. And yet, how does the gardener in Jesus’ parable respond? He says, “Hang on another year. Let me work the soil and add a bit of manure as fertilizer. If that doesn’t do the trick, then it might be a good idea to chop the tree down.” Luke shows Jesus doing that very thing to the crippled woman.
All it takes is a word from Jesus to straighten her out: “Woman, you are set free from your ailment.” The ancient Greek word Jesus uses there is apolelusai (apolelusai), and it means to release. Try this with me: Stick out your index finger on one hand and grasp it with your other hand. Now squeeze as tight as you can. Keep squeezing. Tighter. Tighter. For just a bit longer. Now let go. That’s apolelusai – the release of a muscle or tendon that’s being flexed or held tight. What takes us four words to say in English, “you are set free,” is just one word in Greek: apolelusai. To paraphrase “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” one little word subdues her ailment. One little word and this woman was released from the grip of her illness. It’s no surprise that after living all hunched over for eighteen years she did a quick stretch and started praising God for release from her bondage. That woman was no dummy when it comes to the source of her healing. She knew whom to thank and praise, serve and obey.
What is this word from Jesus? What power does it have? His word is simply himself. He gives himself to her, attends to her, lays consoling eyes and powerful hands on her, and claims her as his own. The bent-over woman comes into Jesus’ presence and he transplants her into the good soil of his kingdom. He turns her soil and adds the fertile mix of his coming death and resurrection – which the world regards as pure manure, barnyard leavings. The Word of God himself, Jesus Christ, is added to her dead limbs and spines and, bam!, fruit appears. The woman can’t stop telling people what God has done, and the crowds hear and rejoice.
Did I mention that all this happened on the Sabbath day? Oh, yes, it did. And there’s the rub. Jewish religious law is very clear on this count. It would come to include 39 categories of work that could not be done on God’s day of rest, including carrying, writing, erasing, harvesting, plowing, weaving, cooking, building, tying and thirty others. When Jesus heals the woman, he’s breaking the Sabbath command to rest. And any time you break any of these lesser commandments, you’re also breaking the granddaddy of them all, “You shall have no other gods before me.” By deciding yourself what you can and can’t do on the Sabbath, you’re putting yourself before God who himself commanded the day of rest.
The leader of the synagogue will have no truck with that. He knows the law and knows that it doesn’t give an inch. He lives his entire life within the parameters of this legal system. For him, virtue and piety are the criteria for both future success and God’s good pleasure. If you don’t act as religiously as required, there’s no place for you in God’s kingdom. Jesus blows it all away by assuming his right to bring people into the kingdom when and where he pleases. So the leader of the synagogue calls Jesus on it. And now we get to the crux of the matter.
This story of Jesus healing the woman isn’t really about physical sickness and infirmity (although God does promise to bring healing to all). No, in this story we find the very thing Jesus, the great physician, has come to set right: sin. While the crippled woman had a spine that curved her in on herself, the leader of the synagogue is even more curved in and needs Jesus’ release just as much. Jesus claims all of the creation for his own. He says he wants to “draw all unto himself.” When he says, “I am the way, the truth and the life,” he makes himself the criterion for entry into God’s kingdom. Sinners want nothing to do with that, neither the leader of the synagogue nor we sinners gathered together today. We’d rather be a part of a system where we can determine who’s in and who’s out. So we look to legalities, immutable commands that allow us to rate ourselves and others and, if necessary, work just a little harder to achieve a future for ourselves. Usually that comes down to being virtuous, pious or religious. But when God takes on human flesh and bone in the person of Jesus, he means to end it all. He says, “That religious business of clothing yourself in piety and virtue? Enough! It’s time to stop that folderol.” For the leader of the synagogue, that was too upsetting. Better the ceaseless demands of the law than the danger of letting go.
That rabbi was just as barren as the crippled woman. He too was curved in on himself, constantly looking at his own navel to see if he was good enough, righteous enough, clean enough. If he’d been alive today, he would have fallen prey to the legal scheme of our own day: the advertising and marketing world that demands of you to buy this, accumulate that, wear these, if you want to secure your future. We’re called on to satisfy those demands, and they force us to look inward to see if we’ve achieved the goals they set before us. When Jesus cuts in our dance with the law and insists on being paired up with us for the rest of his divine gala, we object. We say, “I’m not going to polka with you, because God’s orchestra is playing a waltz. The dance goes like this: one, two, three, one, two, three.” But it’s even worse than that. We don’t just refuse to dance, we take our new divine dance partners out behind the dancehall and let the brutes with Budweisers in one hand and brass knuckles in the other teach him what’s what. When Pontius Pilate presents an option for what to do with a lawbreaker like Jesus, our only answer is, “Crucify him!” We’d always rather stick to our schemes of glory, glitz and glamour than succumb to a life where we are nothing and Christ is everything, our all in all.
It sure would be nice if we could just jinn up our courage and muster the wherewithal to simply decide to answer Pilate differently. If only we had it in us. But we don’t. We can’t do it. We and that rabbi are just as stuck as the crippled woman who can’t straighten herself out. If we don’t have it in us, it’s going to take something outside of us. That something isn’t a thing, but a somebody – Jesus, who heals and straightens and makes new. You see he has come for sinners, and not just to restore you to the possibility of doing something good, but to make something new out of the nothing that is you. You know where your life is headed – to a plot of land about seven feet by three feet or to a cardboard container ready to hold some ashes. Created from nothing, you end up as nothing. And yet Christ comes to make something new out of your nothingness. The rabbi refused to let go of his imagined control and came away having been put to shame. The crippled woman knew she had no ability to fix things, to bear fruit or to stand as righteous before God, and she was given new life. The rabbi demanded commandments and obedience, and that’s what he was left with – the judgment of God. The crippled woman ran into God’s promise in Jesus and was made new.
Jesus certainly isn’t polite about these things. In fact, he bids you to run from God to God. That means Christ pulls you away from thinking all of God’s ultimates like salvation, forgiveness and eternal life depend on your fulfilling God’s demands. And he draws you in to his kingdom where it all hinges on his promise to you. And of course, that’s what the Sabbath was always for in the first place. It’s given not just so you can rest your weary bones, but so that your spirit can rest fully and finally in him, the great physician, the divine promise, the Lord of all life. Is this not why we gather together to worship? We worship so we can confess our nothingness, our inability to find any life in virtue, piety and religion, our unwillingness to anything but our own people. We worship together so we can sing, “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.” We gather together together so we, too, might be set free, so that we, too, might know a true and eternal Sabbath. We gather together to be straightened out from looking at our own navels and so that we can begin looking to our neighbor’s need.
So how about about it? Look at your navel now and repeat after me: I confess. And now straighten up and look my way and hear what Jesus has sent me to tell you: You, my fellow sinner, are forgiven in his name. You, dear friend, are given his unbreakable promise of salvation and new life. Where before you were curved in on yourself and good for nothing, now you are unfolded and made new. You now know Christ’s gift of apolelusai. Now you can sing God’s praises with that straightened-out, good-for-lots-of-things woman and the psalmist: “Bless the Lord, O my soul, and do not forget all his benefits – who forgives all your iniquity, who heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the Pit, who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy, who satisfies you with good as long as you live so that your youth is renewed like the eagle's.” Now, you former barren fig trees, let’s see if a little fruit doesn’t start growing on your branches. Amen.
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