A stewardship sermon preached at St. Stephen Lutheran Church, Urbandale, Iowa. dedicated to sinners who, as I do, regard most stewardship sermons as semi-pelagian legalism.
Exodus 36:2-8
Moses then called Bezalel and Oholiab and everyone skilful to whom the LORD had given skill, everyone whose heart was stirred to come to do the work; and they received from Moses all the freewill-offerings that the Israelites had brought for doing the work on the sanctuary. They still kept bringing him freewill-offerings every morning, so that all the artisans who were doing every sort of task on the sanctuary came, each from the task being performed, and said to Moses, “The people are bringing much more than enough for doing the work that the LORD has commanded us to do.” So Moses gave command, and word was proclaimed throughout the camp: “No man or woman is to make anything else as an offering for the sanctuary.” So the people were restrained from bringing; for what they had already brought was more than enough to do all the work.
Grace to you and peace my friends, from God our Father and our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.
The Old Testament reading today is one you probably have never heard before. It never comes up in our three-year cycle of readings. And even if it had, you probably would have tuned it out, because it sits in the middle of a long section detailing all the architectural requirements for the Tabernacle, lists of spiced anointing oils, and jewels to put in the priests’ vestments, of how the draperies should be spun from goat hair and how many loops should be placed on each side of a curtain. Be that as it may, it’s still a curious little story, especially for a Sunday when we’re thinking about stewardship.
The Israelites were in the wilderness after God had brought them out of slavery in Egypt. God had taken care of the Pharaoh’s pursuing armies by drowning them in the sea. And because the Israelites were hungry and food in the desert is scarce, God sent manna for them to eat, settling it on the ground with the dew each morning. Moses had gone up Mt. Sinai where God had given him the Ten Commandments and, according to my Bible, about 20 more pages of laws for the Israelites to follow, including all the instructions for how to build the big tent called the Tabernacle where God was going to take up residence. And if that’s not enough, watch out folks, because you’ll be getting chapter and verse of laws ad infinitum from the book of Leviticus in about four pages.
But right here at this moment in the story the needs for the Tabernacle have been laid out and the Israelites have responded with utter generosity to meet those needs. The Israelites had taken lots of gold with them when they left Egypt, most of it plundered from the Egyptians. And they turn it all over to the goldsmiths to be hammered into lamp stands and ornaments for the interior of the tent and for the gold leaf on the Ark of the Covenant that would one day be pulled fictionally out of the ground by Indiana Jones. The Israelites provided all the jewels needed for decorations. The women wove and dyed the cloth for the hangings. And the builders at Holy Tent Construction, Incorporated, were overwhelmed. It was too much too much. The foremen on the project, Bezalel and Oholiab, came to Moses to say, “Our guys can’t do their work. The donations are getting in the way.” Now there’s a picture for you at a worship service dedicated to the issue of stewardship: People who give so much of themselves that someone has to say to them, “Pull back for God’s sake!”
What was it that got those Israelites to be the kind of people who give and give and give? Was it the Ten Commandments that did it? Or how about a divine shopping list for jewels and gold, cedar logs and goat hair? Was that it? Not at all. Just like a preacher standing in the pulpit on a Stewardship Sunday telling you to give more to the mission of the church won’t get you to give what’s needed. That’s because what’s needed is not another demand for you to shape up, get with the program, straighten up and fly right, be all you can be or just do it. If these kinds of demands, requests or simple suggestions could change you into the extreme giver we see in Exodus, it would have happened long ago in your life and much further back in the history of us possession-hugging and treasure-troving sinners. All we would have ever needed would have been Moses, a wagging finger and your mother’s icy, scolding stare. And you know how two of those three things work with squabbling siblings. They may take the edge off the fighting, but they won’t turn you into someone who loves unconditionally. What Moses, the law and another Stewardship sermon will get you is that rich young ruler who goes away dejected after Jesus tells him to sell everything and give it to the poor. The Israelites could give and give and give, because God had given them hearts for it. On the other hand, the rich young ruler had a heart for laws and religious hoo-haw and spiritual exercises, but wanted to keep his most central identifying mark: his control and autonomy. He wanted to own his own heart.
But those Israelites had had their ancient desert-wandering hearts smitten by a God who had given them the one and only thing needed to turn them into the people who lavished their goods and attention on the building of the Tabernacle. God had given them his choice. God had elected them, chosen them, pegged them for something big. God had pulled them out of a far-off land and yanked them out of slavery with a promise to give them a future. It was a promise that began with their earliest parents in the Garden as God gave the sinful Adam and Eve and that brother-killing Cain some divine protection in the midst of their sinful lives. It was a promise that came to life in Sarah’s wizened old womb and that gave that 90-year-old woman and her husband a son. It was a promise given to that cheating, conniving son, Jacob, when he wrestled with God at the Jabbock River. It was a promise that appeared before the escaping Israelites in the pillar of cloud by day and pillar of fire by night. It was a promise that saw them through the sea to the safety of the other side. It was a promise gently settling on the ground in the form of manna in the wilderness. It was a promise to bring order, safety and security to their lives in the shape of the Commandments. And it would be a promise embodied in a land set apart for a people who would give witness to the God who is faithful to them even when they wander into the deepest prodigality. The rich young ruler couldn’t give it all up, because he owned his heart and kept himself autonomous. The Israelites could do it, because their hearts didn’t belong to themselves. Their hearts had been gripped by the hand of the eternal lover, provider and savior of the godless, the sinful, the broken, the you and the me.
Back in 1517, Martin Luther, the guy whose name is on this church building, posted the 95 Theses on the door of the castle church in Wittenberg, Germany. The Theses were a disputation, a series of logical statements written to ask questions about whether doing more could get you in good with God. The first and most important of the theses says this: When our Lord and master, Jesus Christ, bids us to repent, he requires an entire life of repentance. What Luther meant was the exact thing we have before us today. The life of repentance is a life that doesn’t own its own heart because a relationship with God has come about that stakes a claim on that heart. And the only way for that to happen, for you my friends to become the kind of givers that every other awful demand in a stewardship sermon has wanted you to be, is for me to let go of any reminder of the church’s needs, of any advice on how to be more successful Christian givers, and of any motivational Powdermilk Biscuit-style urgings to do what needs to be done. Instead, the only thing for me to do is this: I need to give you the promise that takes hold of your heart.
But, of course, that’s already been done to you. Don’t you know already whose you are? Have you not already had the water poured over you with the words, “I baptize you”? Have you not spoken a confession Sunday after Sunday and heard your pastor say you’re forgiven? Haven’t you swallowed a chunk of the ultimate promise and a slurp of divine mercy in the bread and wine at the altar? If you have, then look into your heart and read the stamped placed there by Christ on the cross. It reads, “Property of Jesus.” And all I need to do is have you look to him and then say to you, “What he said.” But if you have not heard and known this promise, and your heart says, “Mine,” then all there is for me to say to you is what the rich young ruler got from our Lord himself, “Sell all you have and give it to the poor. Wrench your self-owned, autonomous heart out. And when it’s gone, let’s see if there’s room for that promise.”
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Citius, Altius, Fortius?
This sermon was preached on July 28-29, 2012, at Grace Lutheran Church in Des Moines, Iowa, where sinners have ears to hear.
I’m happy to say that my quadrennial experience of becoming an expert at fencing, dressage, field hockey and archery has again arrived. I love watching the Olympics. I remember Peggy Fleming ice skating in the 1968 winter games and have a vague memory of medal ceremonies in Mexico City later that year. I remember Jim McKay telling us about the Israeli hostages in Munich and the glories of Dorothy Hamill in Innsbruck. I missed the US hockey team victory in Lake Placid and was a camp counselor during the Barcelona games. Well, you get the point. I love the Olympics.
The motto of the Olympics is citius, altius, fortius – faster, higher, stronger. I think I love the Olympics most because that motto really fits with how the world seems to work. We get rewarded for greater effort, stronger results, bigger successes. It plays into our inner sense of how things should be. The American archetype is the self-made person. It’s a good thing to pull yourself up by your own boot straps (or your Mary Jane straps, depending on your gender). You can see it just about every other day in “Your 2¢ Worth” in the Des Moines Register where someone complains about all those lazy folks on welfare. And in this silly season of politics let the presidential candidate who doesn’t advocate personal responsibility beware.
In a world where nothing breeds success like success, where the fittest survive, and the strong, beautiful and buff have our adulation, our gospel reading breaks in with a word for those who fail in all those categories. In fact, the motto here seems to be inferius, tardius, dissolutius – lower, slower, weaker. If you are burdened, out of control, failing or dying, this reading is good news for you.
There’s something about times of success, strength and lofty soaring that get us to think we’re hot stuff on a silver platter. I’m going for the gold and deserve to medal. I want others to think highly of my bronzed and buffed body. And when I win, I can look back and regard it as proof of Newtonian physics: For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. I pushed and my Sisyphean stone rolled over the hill. I tugged and the baggage of my history came forward. I asserted myself and the world heeded my demands. None of this, of course, is an argument against not making an effort in life, but it is a caution – caveat sinner. Let the sinner beware, for where you see yourself as the agent of your success, the author of your grand future, or the master of your domain, there is little room for the one who is the agent of creation, the author of eternity and the master over sin, death and the devil.
Our reading from is actually two stories – the first about Jesus feeding the five thousand, the second is about Jesus coming to the disciples in the midst of rough seas – and walking on water, no less. Both parts begin with a missing Jesus and people in need. First we have a bunch of hungry people in a remote place with no chance of cobbling together a meal. Then we have those disciples worried about their safety. We don’t like either situation. We like to be in control. We want to be confident in our ongoing existence. We want solid ground. God, as the source of all things, should bring all those things on, don’t you think? And when the evidence in our lives doesn’t look like that will happen, it’s ground ripe for planting despair and unfaith.
That’s the place the serpent found Eve and her man. The first question the serpent in the garden asked her brought her to question whether God would actually provide. That serpent pitched her a good one: “Did God really say not to eat of the tree? Did God really mean it that you’d die?” That hissing tempter got her to think that it would all be up to her – she needed to act to grab the golden ring and secure her place in the world. It’s an old, old story that is our story. When things go sour and we think God isn’t following the dictates of our will, a ripple of fear starts deep inside. And as it spreads we ask the serpent’s question: Can I actually trust God? If I can’t, I’d better start lifting weights, eating dark green leafy vegetables, managing my calendar and to-do list, and buy a hybrid. When it comes down to it – who you gonna call but yourself? What it comes down to is the central problem for us human beings in our relationship with God: idolatry – looking to the wrong gods. And the first god we turn to is ourselves. If God’s not up to the job, I can go all citius, altius, fortius on you.
It’s not a very hopeful situation. But our gospel reading has another take on this for you. Neither the crowds nor the disciples are left to their own devices. Jesus, God’s Son, the Bread of Life himself, does show up. And when he does, the weak, the slow and the low know where to look for their salvation. They turn to him for food in due season. They rely on him to calm their fears. Think of all the stories you can remember where people met up with Jesus and came away changed. Not a single one of them was a person on the top rung of the ladder. None of them was a success. Certainly none of them had their poop in a group. And some of them – like the paralytic let down through the roof, or blind man by the side of the road – couldn’t even come to Jesus on their own power. And some weren’t even alive. The son of the widow of Nain was being carried to the burying ground and Lazarus lay in his grave, decomposing for four stinking days.
Jesus has little or nothing to give to those who have it all. Not because he doesn’t want to give them what he has, but because they don’t think they need it. But those five thousand in John’s gospel were hungry, so Jesus fed them. The disciples’ boat rocked, so he brought them to shore. There’s always irony and paradox when Jesus shows up. It’s not where the bright sunshine, rainbows and Olympic medals wrap themselves around you that faith springs up strongest. It’s where you’re weak. When you’re lost. When you despair over your ability to manage your days is done. When you are past the end of your rope. When God has closed a door, and all the windows are locked. That is the breeding ground for real faith.
God gives you his son that you might turn to him and find yourself in his presence. Jesus shows up and says, “Hey! It’s me. Relax. I’ve got this in hand. Don’t worry. I’ve got this.” In the next few weeks, you’re going to hear a series of gospel readings about Jesus and bread. He’ll tell you that he’s the bread of life. You’ll hear him called the living bread come down from heaven. And today, you’ve heard the results of partaking in what Jesus brings you. When all of those five thousand had their fill, Jesus told the disciples to gather up the leftovers. They started with five barley loaves and two fish, and they ended up with twelve baskets of food. Where Jesus is, you’ll have more than enough. He is the sign from God that you need not take matters into your own hands. You need not be your own god. And best of all, he is God’s promise that whenever you come to him empty, you will be filled – with mercy, with forgiveness, with a future, with abundance, with more than enough. As he says at the end of Matthew’s gospel: “I will be with you to the end of the age.”
Of course, your lowless, slowness and weakness aren’t virtues in and of themselves. But when you are nothing, Jesus can be everything to you. When you are weak, he can be strong. When you are empty, he can be the fullness and abundance of life he’s promised to give you. If that’s the kind of bread he brings, I say, “Tear me off a chunk. I’m hungry.” Amen.
I’m happy to say that my quadrennial experience of becoming an expert at fencing, dressage, field hockey and archery has again arrived. I love watching the Olympics. I remember Peggy Fleming ice skating in the 1968 winter games and have a vague memory of medal ceremonies in Mexico City later that year. I remember Jim McKay telling us about the Israeli hostages in Munich and the glories of Dorothy Hamill in Innsbruck. I missed the US hockey team victory in Lake Placid and was a camp counselor during the Barcelona games. Well, you get the point. I love the Olympics.
The motto of the Olympics is citius, altius, fortius – faster, higher, stronger. I think I love the Olympics most because that motto really fits with how the world seems to work. We get rewarded for greater effort, stronger results, bigger successes. It plays into our inner sense of how things should be. The American archetype is the self-made person. It’s a good thing to pull yourself up by your own boot straps (or your Mary Jane straps, depending on your gender). You can see it just about every other day in “Your 2¢ Worth” in the Des Moines Register where someone complains about all those lazy folks on welfare. And in this silly season of politics let the presidential candidate who doesn’t advocate personal responsibility beware.
In a world where nothing breeds success like success, where the fittest survive, and the strong, beautiful and buff have our adulation, our gospel reading breaks in with a word for those who fail in all those categories. In fact, the motto here seems to be inferius, tardius, dissolutius – lower, slower, weaker. If you are burdened, out of control, failing or dying, this reading is good news for you.
There’s something about times of success, strength and lofty soaring that get us to think we’re hot stuff on a silver platter. I’m going for the gold and deserve to medal. I want others to think highly of my bronzed and buffed body. And when I win, I can look back and regard it as proof of Newtonian physics: For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. I pushed and my Sisyphean stone rolled over the hill. I tugged and the baggage of my history came forward. I asserted myself and the world heeded my demands. None of this, of course, is an argument against not making an effort in life, but it is a caution – caveat sinner. Let the sinner beware, for where you see yourself as the agent of your success, the author of your grand future, or the master of your domain, there is little room for the one who is the agent of creation, the author of eternity and the master over sin, death and the devil.
Our reading from is actually two stories – the first about Jesus feeding the five thousand, the second is about Jesus coming to the disciples in the midst of rough seas – and walking on water, no less. Both parts begin with a missing Jesus and people in need. First we have a bunch of hungry people in a remote place with no chance of cobbling together a meal. Then we have those disciples worried about their safety. We don’t like either situation. We like to be in control. We want to be confident in our ongoing existence. We want solid ground. God, as the source of all things, should bring all those things on, don’t you think? And when the evidence in our lives doesn’t look like that will happen, it’s ground ripe for planting despair and unfaith.
That’s the place the serpent found Eve and her man. The first question the serpent in the garden asked her brought her to question whether God would actually provide. That serpent pitched her a good one: “Did God really say not to eat of the tree? Did God really mean it that you’d die?” That hissing tempter got her to think that it would all be up to her – she needed to act to grab the golden ring and secure her place in the world. It’s an old, old story that is our story. When things go sour and we think God isn’t following the dictates of our will, a ripple of fear starts deep inside. And as it spreads we ask the serpent’s question: Can I actually trust God? If I can’t, I’d better start lifting weights, eating dark green leafy vegetables, managing my calendar and to-do list, and buy a hybrid. When it comes down to it – who you gonna call but yourself? What it comes down to is the central problem for us human beings in our relationship with God: idolatry – looking to the wrong gods. And the first god we turn to is ourselves. If God’s not up to the job, I can go all citius, altius, fortius on you.
It’s not a very hopeful situation. But our gospel reading has another take on this for you. Neither the crowds nor the disciples are left to their own devices. Jesus, God’s Son, the Bread of Life himself, does show up. And when he does, the weak, the slow and the low know where to look for their salvation. They turn to him for food in due season. They rely on him to calm their fears. Think of all the stories you can remember where people met up with Jesus and came away changed. Not a single one of them was a person on the top rung of the ladder. None of them was a success. Certainly none of them had their poop in a group. And some of them – like the paralytic let down through the roof, or blind man by the side of the road – couldn’t even come to Jesus on their own power. And some weren’t even alive. The son of the widow of Nain was being carried to the burying ground and Lazarus lay in his grave, decomposing for four stinking days.
Jesus has little or nothing to give to those who have it all. Not because he doesn’t want to give them what he has, but because they don’t think they need it. But those five thousand in John’s gospel were hungry, so Jesus fed them. The disciples’ boat rocked, so he brought them to shore. There’s always irony and paradox when Jesus shows up. It’s not where the bright sunshine, rainbows and Olympic medals wrap themselves around you that faith springs up strongest. It’s where you’re weak. When you’re lost. When you despair over your ability to manage your days is done. When you are past the end of your rope. When God has closed a door, and all the windows are locked. That is the breeding ground for real faith.
God gives you his son that you might turn to him and find yourself in his presence. Jesus shows up and says, “Hey! It’s me. Relax. I’ve got this in hand. Don’t worry. I’ve got this.” In the next few weeks, you’re going to hear a series of gospel readings about Jesus and bread. He’ll tell you that he’s the bread of life. You’ll hear him called the living bread come down from heaven. And today, you’ve heard the results of partaking in what Jesus brings you. When all of those five thousand had their fill, Jesus told the disciples to gather up the leftovers. They started with five barley loaves and two fish, and they ended up with twelve baskets of food. Where Jesus is, you’ll have more than enough. He is the sign from God that you need not take matters into your own hands. You need not be your own god. And best of all, he is God’s promise that whenever you come to him empty, you will be filled – with mercy, with forgiveness, with a future, with abundance, with more than enough. As he says at the end of Matthew’s gospel: “I will be with you to the end of the age.”
Of course, your lowless, slowness and weakness aren’t virtues in and of themselves. But when you are nothing, Jesus can be everything to you. When you are weak, he can be strong. When you are empty, he can be the fullness and abundance of life he’s promised to give you. If that’s the kind of bread he brings, I say, “Tear me off a chunk. I’m hungry.” Amen.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
The Pastoral Call, the Call Committee, and the Lutheran Confessions
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 Preaching 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 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 were to survey a random sample of a congregation to find out what people think is crucial in their pastor’s calling, they would 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 the congregation’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.
Any congregation's call committee has before it an initial task of discerning the congregational context for that gospel work – the essence of the pastoral call. The committee assesses the congregation’s various activities, sorts through priorities and opportunities, and drafts 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.
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 Preaching 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 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 were to survey a random sample of a congregation to find out what people think is crucial in their pastor’s calling, they would 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 the congregation’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.
Any congregation's call committee has before it an initial task of discerning the congregational context for that gospel work – the essence of the pastoral call. The committee assesses the congregation’s various activities, sorts through priorities and opportunities, and drafts 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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)