I Was Blind But Now I See Preached on March 26th, 2017 At the Wollaston Congregational Church Scripture: John 9:1-41 Recently I have been reading the book “All the Light We Cannot See” by Anthony Doerr. Perhaps you’ve read it too. When I read our gospel story for today, I noticed certain parallels with the book. It dawned on me that both our Bible story and the book concern blind people who learn to see and sighted people who do not see. The book tells the story of two children, growing into young adulthood in Europe during World War II. The girl, Marie Laure, is French and lives in Paris with her father until the age of 12. Marie Laure becomes blind at the age of 6 and her father has to help her to find her way about in their community. He is a skilled wood carver and so he creates a perfectly scaled model of their area of Paris. Marie Laure uses this model to “feel” her way around the streets and buildings of their neighborhood. She learns braille, and for each birthday her father provides a new book for her to read. Marie Laure loves stories, such as “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea”, that expand her view of the world. But when the Nazis arrive in Paris, Marie Laure and her dad have to flee to Saint Malo on the Brittany coast. They take refuge in Marie Laure’s great uncle’s home, a peculiar tall house with an attic full of old radio equipment. Suddenly Marie Laure is in a completely strange place and has to begin to learn her way around all over again. A boy of around the same age, Werner Pfennig, is growing up in an orphanage in the mining town of Zollverein, Germany, cared for by a French nun, Frau Elena. With his sister, Jutta, Werner scavenges electronic parts from the nearby dump and reconstructs a radio. In the evenings they cuddle together to listen to broadcasts. Their world is opened up by a regular broadcast from France hosted by an older man who teaches the wonder of science for young listeners. But the relationship of the two siblings begins to fall apart when Werner’s skill and intelligence are noticed by a Nazi officer. When the Nazis forbid Germans to listen to foreign broadcasts Werner smashes the radio that he and his sister retrieved. Jutta sees the propaganda and the grooming of Werner for what it is. She is frustrated by his cooperation with the Nazis and angry that he has destroyed their precious radio. And so she refuses to say good bye, as he is taken away to be trained at an abusive boarding school for the Nazi military elite. At the age of 16, as the Nazis become more desperate to win the war, Werner is advanced into military operations that detect enemy radio broadcasts. Meanwhile Marie Laure finds a clarity of purpose becoming involved in the French resistance. Her uncle, who has isolated himself due to PTSD following WWI, is convinced to use his secret radio equipment to transmit information for the resistance. As the story line progresses, the reader begins to see how Werner’s story and Marie Laure’s story will intersect in Saint Malo. I would love to go on telling you about this fascinating story. But, I will say that it was a revelation for me to re-examine this book in the light of today’s gospel reading. So now let’s turn to the Bible story. Again, in John’s gospel, Jesus is pitched against caricatured versions of the Jewish Pharisees. These larger than life “religious authorities” are determined to keep the Jesus people out of their community. The setting for the story is a community that is plagued with anxiety, over who is out and who is in: boundaries and rules. Let’s remind ourselves --- this is important --- this story is written around the year 100 CE, for followers of Jesus at a time when Jewish followers of Jesus were expelled from synagogues. The Rabbinic Jews and the Jesus followers are separating. We are hearing one side of the argument: the Christian side. But we have something to learn from this story of Jesus restoring the sight of a blind man. We begin to ask the question, who has true vision, and who is actually blind? Jesus and the disciples randomly meet a blind man as they are walking along the road. In any system of anxiety there is what is called “an identified patient”. Like a “problem child” in an anxious family system. In this case the identified patient is the blind man, dependent on the good will of others for survival. The disciples play right into the anxiety of the system, and they ask Jesus whose sin caused his blindness. Yes, you heard correctly. They are looking for someone to blame. Jesus corrects them right away. It’s is no one’s fault. We have the opportunity to do the work of God here. And so he immediately sets about restoring the sight of the man. So the man is healed. The neighbors can’t get their heads around it, although he repeatedly tells them “I am the man.” They have lost their identified patient! Next they get the religious authorities involved. What an outrage, having these good works being done in the community, on the Sabbath, by this rebellious person! This is a clear indicator that this miracle worker is from the outside. But the newly sighted man is growing in his understanding of Jesus, saying “he is a prophet.” Now the parents of the newly sighted man are summoned, but they’re fearful of being expelled from the community. When asked about the miracle, they simply deflect back to their son. And so the newly sighted man is brought back in for questioning. He’s getting frustrated by now, but his is clearer about who Jesus is, and says, "Here is the amazing thing! You do not know where he comes from, and yet he opened my eyes.” To put it another way, Jesus’ actions attest to who he is. The religious authorities would keep people “in” or “out” of the community, based on being with or without “sin”. Jesus sees only opportunities to do the work of God. The sighted man cannot open the eyes of the authorities, and so he is thrown out of the community. At the beginning of the story the blind man received his sight, but now he has experiences the clarity of knowing Jesus. This is the point where Jesus comes to find him! The Light of the World has come into the community and this man is the only one to have seen it. The physically sighted authorities are blind to Jesus’ presence. They are too caught up in their system of exclusion and purity. So first we have Marie Laure and Werner, caught up in the anxious system of the Nazis. It’s a system that hinges on who is “in” and who is “out”. It restricts group members, monitors all their activities and forbids any kind of free thought for the young conscripts, such as Werner. In the case of the Nazis, the Jews were seen as the identified patient, or scapegoat. In the case of our Bible story, we have the formerly blind man, who is caught up in an exaggeratedly anxious system, to demonstrate that Jesus is the light of the world. And now, I want to tell you about a time when I was caught up in an anxious religious system. My first year in college. Before I left for school I decided that I wanted a change from the traditional church services offered by my home church. I wanted something “livelier” and more compelling. And so I connected with a Christian group on campus. From the outset I was uncomfortable with the group’s approach. Most members talked in terms of when they “became a Christian” which tripped me up a bit. I didn’t have a conversion story, and that seemed to be a problem. Never the less I persevered, and agreed to host a weekly lunchtime prayer group and attend their Bible studies. The main focus of the group’s ministry was “non-Christians” as a blanket group. There was no acknowledgement of Jews, Muslims, Atheists or Hindus, although all of these groups were present on campus. Non-Christians were the identified patient along with so called liberal/lukewarm Christians. The anxious mission of the group was to convert all the non-Christians to true Christianity so that they would be “saved”. Salvation was supposed to be free and available to all who turned to Jesus, as personal Lord and Savior. But in my experience, it came with baggage: preoccupation with right belief and sin. The group convinced me that my personal sin was the reason Jesus suffered and died on the cross. My sin. In weekly Wednesday evening worship, the group sang “praise songs”, and many wept with gratitude for Jesus giving his life for their sins. But this salvation didn’t make me feel whole and acceptable. It put me in a constant state of anxiety. The insistence on unworthiness, made me feel I would never be good enough for God. Don’t get me wrong, there were kind, loving people in this group, who moderated the behavior and narrative. But it wasn’t working for me. How did I escape that anxious system and yet still remain a follower of Jesus? How were my eyes finally opened, to what was a potentially abusive system? The gentle pull of love, I think, as I met my husband and he helped me understand that this style of belief and worship wasn’t true to me. It also came over years, setting aside anxiety about right belief and sin, so that I could open myself to a clearer vision of who Jesus is. The bottom line: Jesus came and found me. So how do we escape anxious systems of belief, those systems who say who is “in” and who is “out”, those systems that focus on an identified patient or group. How do we enable those who are blind to become sighted, with a clarity of vision for who Jesus is? Most of all, I think we need to know we, you and I, are wholly and unreservedly beloved and acceptable in God’s eyes. Jesus, the Light of the World, came to find us and to show us that. And then, very simply, we need to open our hearts to all the others who are beloved and acceptable to God too. No exceptions. Amen
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For What do you Thirst? Preached on March 19th, 2017 Are you thirsty? For fresh, clear, cool water? Have the songs we have sung and the prayers we have said given you a thirst? They should have done. Let me give you something to drink – you thirsty ones. You who are thirsting to be known by name. You who are thirsting to be loved and to belong. You who are thirsting for meaning in your life. You who are thirsting for someone you can trust. You who are thirsting for reconciliation and for forgiveness. You who are thirsting to be restored to community. But now let me tell you a story … Years ago I was drawing water from the village well, in the heat of the day. It was noontime. I know, I know. The time to draw water is in the cool of the morning. But back then, I … I just couldn’t. Back then I just didn’t. Back then I was the talk of the town, by those village gossips. And by that I mean all the women, who gathered each day to draw water. The men used to say carrying water is women’s work. I guess it still is in some parts. But the women knew how to turn a hard situation into a better one. The chatter and the gossip would be the reward for this morning chore well done. The teen daughters tagged along to listen in. Whose son was of age, which parents were looking for a new daughter in law? The little ones came along to scamper and play with one another in the muddy earth around the well. And the women came for the exchange of the latest news. For one who has been married 5 times already, that made me a prime target. They didn’t know what it was like and they didn’t care. They only wanted fodder for their gossip and entertainment. They had no idea what it felt like to be married as a teenager, and then left destitute. With my children taken by his family, being raised under their roof, miles away. What is a woman to do, when the only option for survival is … well you know? Men come and go along this trail from Galilee to Judea and there is just one way a woman alone can make a living. Then one of the regulars wanted me for his own, that sounded a little better than things as they were. And so the cycle started again: the beatings, the leaving. Fodder for more gossip. Back then I went to the well in the morning. When I did that, all the chatter would suddenly stop. It was a silence that you could hear. They’d stare, or look away. Silently following me with their eyes while I drew the water. I couldn’t stand it any longer. That is why I began to draw water at noon in the heat. That one day was most peculiar. There was a Jewish man sitting at the well, all alone. Well, if Samaritan women were going to give me the cold shoulder, certainly a Jewish man – a Rabbi too – would not give me a second glance. But this one was different. And also a little pathetic. Sitting there alone, thirsty in the heat. I could tell he had walked miles. But with no bucket. What’s with that? Where was his entourage, his students and disciples. Shouldn’t they be taking care of him? “Give me a drink” he says. What? First of all, he shouldn’t even be talking to me. “How is it that you, a Jew are asking me a Samaritan woman for a drink?” I say. (Jews and Samaritans didn’t share things back then.) He says something about “living water.” Yes, water is necessary for life, we know that. But without a bucket where I am supposed to put the water for him? This is our ancestor Jacob’s well, where he watered his animals and provided for his family. Surely this man here is not great than our ancestor, Jacob? But next this man is telling me that he has water to give me! That’s an about turn. Wasn’t I supposed to be the one drawing the water? This water, the water he is offering sounds like some kind of magical water: "Everyone who drinks of water from this well will be thirsty again, but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life." OK: this is the water I need. The water that means I do not have to come out in the heat of the day. The water that stops the gossip and meanness. The water that restores me to the community. The water that gives me a new life. The water that makes me whole again. “Sir,” I say, “give me this water, that I may never be thirsty again, give me this water so I never need to come here to draw water!” So here’s the kicker. He says “go call your husband and come back.” Right, the one who is sleeping off last night’s revelry in my house right now … my husband? I don’t think so, I barely even know his name. I don’t think he would take so kindly to stories of living waters. I’d earn myself a black eye, if I stirred that one at this hour. “I have no husband,” I say. I feel ashamed, and look down. But this man’s kindly eyes meet mine. “I know” he says gently, “I know about the five husbands, the one you have now who is not your husband. I know you are shunned by the other village women. I know you are abused by many of the men who pass by.” Wow! This man is a prophet I am sure. He talks about worshiping God, the Father. He says it doesn’t matter where, no need for temple or mountain. He talks about worshiping in spirit and in truth. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds good! “I know the Messiah is coming!” I tell him. I don’t know why I just blurt it out. “I am the one” he replies. At this point I’m not really surprised. I just have to go and tell the village, this is too much for them all to miss. I must rouse them from their siestas, this man is just amazing. I’m so excited I forget my shame, I forget that they have ignored me for so long. They can’t miss this good news. They have to know. So I hurry to tell them and to bring them to him. “Come see a man who told me everything I have ever done!” I cry. Of course, they come. They forget my shame too, in the excitement. They crowd around, wanting to learn from him, calling out questions. Each vying to have him stay in their homes, and least a couple of nights. And an amazing thing happened. I became like a kind of prophet! Yes, me. I had brought them the good news of this man’s presence, the one with the living water. I had drunk deeply and thirstily of that water And it restored me: to community, to new life, it washed away my shame. I am whole. And now, I am one who gives water to the thirsty people. Living water. So tell me, are you thirsty? Can I give you a drink? Come, receive the living water, and never be thirsty again! Amen Who do you Want to be When you Grow Up? Preached at Wollaston Congregational Church On March 12th, 2017 Scripture: John 3:1-17 Who do you want to be when you grow up? Beyoncé… Steve Jobs or Bill Gates … JK Rowling … Michael Jordan … Ellen De Generes? Celebrities and those who have “made it” in their field, are often held up as great role models. But, is there a person you know personally who is your model of a life well lived? Maybe a teacher, coach, grandparent, or friend. How does that person look to you? What values do they reflect? Perhaps, integrity or authenticity, spirituality, compassion? My guess is that this person is not an anxious presence in your life, probably the reverse. My guess is that this person lives authentically: their values are reflected in their actions. My guess is that this person is unhurried, and rarely reactive, that their responses are careful and measured. One person I remember as a model to me is Hannah, a woman who had children around the same time I did. Hannah stood head and shoulders above the other moms who used to get together. This is not because she was high achieving. She wasn’t balancing a stellar career with the responsibilities of parenting at the time. She just seemed to know how to mother, not only her own children but those of others too including the children she fostered. Hannah may well have studied child development and parental skills, but that isn’t what impressed me most. It was her presence. It was her low, soothing voice, her graceful way of moving through the world. It was her ability to remain calm when the children acted up. Meeting their struggles and frustrations with compassion. It was her clarity about when to step up and get involved, in church or in school, and when to step back and let others take responsibility. One time in particular, Hannah bailed me out of a situation I had managed poorly. We were with our daughters’ Girl Scout troop on a hiking expedition one early March day. I think it was right around this time of year. The girls were maybe in 5th or 6th grade at the time. We had hiked in snow shoes up a steep icy path, to the foot of the Mount Washington trail. Many of the girls had removed their snow shoes as they were not ideal for the conditions. Then one girl realized she needed to get her shoes back on again. I tried to help. We could hardly bear to take of our gloves in the stinging icy wind, but adjusting the snow shoes needed nimble fingers. The buckles and straps we now stiff, difficult to fasten, in the cold. The girl had had it with the hike and with the shoes. She sobbed, as she stood, unhelpful, wanting me to put her snow shoes on for her. “Put your foot in the shoe, Grace!” My voice was raised. “I can’t!” She sobbed. “Then I can’t help you …” I said. I stormed off to the other moms, who were resting on a rock. “Grace is just so whiny, she won’t even try to put her snow shoe on. I can’t help her!” I said in frustration. Hannah empathized with me, but a few minutes later I saw her with Grace, gently encouraging her. The snow shoe was soon on. I had a lot to learn from that encounter. I felt embarrassed that Hannah had handled what I had not done well. But I also had a model, someone I could see had an attitude I could aspire to. Hannah is someone I want to be when I grow up. In our gospel story today Nicodemus comes to Jesus under the cover of night. For some reason he doesn’t want anyone to know he is seeking out the guidance of the teacher. As a leader of the Judean Pharisees, maybe he thinks it would be dangerous for him to be seen with Jesus. But, perhaps, also he is also embarrassed and uncomfortable. Jesus has made an impression on Nicodemus, a religious leader, one who is supposed to be an expert in religion. In Jesus, Nicodemus recognizes an authenticity and a relationship with God that can not be denied. Even at this early stage in Jesus’ ministry the signs, such as turning water into wine at the wedding in Cana, show the divine presence in this man. Nicodemus has seen signs and wonders, but Jesus challenges him to perceive the Reign of God. Nicodemus has seen discrete actions and miracles, but Jesus challenges him to see the whole big picture. To do that Nicodemus needs to take on a new perspective. He cannot see God’s realm coming into the world, from the place where he is standing. He needs to give up his posture and prestige as leader of the Judean Pharisees, and become as a newborn. Jesus says to him that all people must be born anew, to see God’s realm. Father Richard Rohr is a Franciscan priest and the founder of the Center for Action and Contemplation in Albuquerque He is also author of the book “Falling Upward.” In his writing Father Rohr describes the concept of the “second half of life” first introduced by Carl Jung. I think that this is what Jesus is getting at here. [1] For Nicodemus to perceive the Reign of God, as it is coming into the world, in Jesus, he needs to enter the second half of life, or the “second naiveté”. The ones in this stage of life are humble: they’re beyond the “I’m in control” self-delusion. They have moved beyond the need to be constantly busy and productive. They’ve got there by crisis (health or loss), or by simple devotion and maturity. Nicodemus and the Pharisees portrayed in John’s gospel are continually concerned with purity codes. Richard Rohr says “first half of life religion is almost always about various types of purity codes. [These are the] – ‘thou shalt nots’ to keep us up, clear, clean, and together, like good Boy or Girl Scouts.” It is not wrong to be in the first half of life, it is actually necessary! Father Rohr says there are two major tasks in life. “The first is to build a strong ego ‘container’ or identity; the second is to find the contents that container was meant to hold.” We need to practice keeping the rules before we can determine when we need to let them go. We need to have the experience of productivity, so that we can recognize when it has a goal in itself. For myself, I needed to learn that insistence on self-reliance and a cheerful attitude for a Girl Scout was OK at the bottom of the mountain. But it was not OK for me to use these principles to vent my own frustration. I needed to become the adult in the situation, and show compassion for a cold and scared pre-teen up on the mountain. Growing into the second half of life means becoming a real grownup. It means making peace with the certainty of death. People who achieve this level of maturity begin to value the things of faith that seemed childish or ridiculous in the past. They embrace the stories and symbols for their deeper truth and meaning. Father Rohr also says “[the second half of life] is not always a chronological matter – I've met 11 year-old children in cancer wards who are in the second half of life, and I have met 68 year-old men like me who are still in the first half of life.” The second half of life is not necessarily about being old. This Lenten time, we are walking the way of faith. We are seeking spiritual growth, perhaps we will even be born anew. Jesus doesn’t give Nicodemus a road map for this process. Perhaps he just needs to let the idea sit with him for a while. Father Rohr tells us that the path to the second half of life often involves a crisis, such as a loss or upheaval in one’s life. That certainly rings true with the factors that most often propel people to begin attending a church. The four D’s: death, divorce, displacement, disaster. But Father Rohr also mentions getting there by simple devotion and maturity. I would suggest that self-awareness and emulation of our chosen model might help us along the way. I still want to be Hannah when I grow up. There are others too:
So, who do you want to be when you grow up? What will it take for you to be born anew? How will you perceive things in a new light, perhaps through a different lens, a different perspective. This is the task of our Lenten journey. May it be so. Amen [1] Richard Rohr, Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life, (Jossey-Bass, San Francisco CA, 2011) Ash Wednesday Homily Preached at the Good Shepherd Lutheran Church On March 1st, 2017 Scripture: Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21 When I was a child I liked anything that gave me a tangible connection with what I learned in church and Sunday school. And I often recruited my poor brother to participate in my re-enactments. One favorite was Jesus’ miracle feeding of the multitudes from 5 small loaves and 2 fishes. I insisted that we feasted on solid, sad unleavened “loaves” I had made from flour and water, along with sardines from a can. We’d act out the story for our parents to watch. I was a religious child and didn’t shy away from public acts of piety. I participated in every Christian festival on offer, between my mom’s Methodist chapel and my dad’s Anglican church. Palm Sunday was a favorite, with the waving palm leaves and bringing home a pre-fabricated palm cross. When it came to Lent, my family always ate pancakes and syrup for dessert at dinner on Shrove Tuesday. Then my parents would fast: my mom from chocolate and my dad from wine. The money they saved was added to the collection in the “Lenten box” kept on our mantle. The money in the box went to the care of those suffering from leprosy in foreign lands. But there was a festival that remained quite mysterious to me. Ash Wednesday. The day came and went, without the appearance of any ashes. Nothing for me to see, nothing for me to feel, taste or smell. I had a vague notion that at some time, or in some places, ashes had been smudged on foreheads. But I never witnessed such a thing, much to my disappointment. Years later, I researched a paper for my liturgy professor in seminary. I discovered that the Anglican and Methodist churches in the England had only very recently introduced the practice of “ashing”. The Anglicans began in 1986 and the Methodists began in 1992. I felt cheated out of this tangible practice I would have loved so much. My seminary liturgy project included a design for an Ash Wednesday service, which I offered my pastor to use at my home church. He was willing to use it and asked me to participate in leading. I had included a number of Taizé chants in the service. So the Minister of Music and the choir had been recruited to lead some of the chants that were unfamiliar to the congregation. On Ash Wednesday evening, as the congregation gathered, I greeted a member of the choir. This man was usually very friendly, and often made jokes. I had not realized that he did not normally attend Ash Wednesday services. “If anyone tries to put ashes on me,” he said, “I’ll punch them!” I was shocked at his extreme reaction. But later, I realized that this attitude is not so unusual among Protestants. Many are deeply suspicious of rituals and sacraments … outward, visible signs of inward invisible truths. Later, I reflected with my liturgy professor on why this man had reacted so strongly. She suggested that perhaps the truth behind the Ash Wednesday ritual was the thing he was resisting. It is an uncomfortable truth to embrace, that we are mortal and that we will die. And perhaps, beyond that truth, even more uncomfortable is our complete dependence on God’s mercy and forgiveness through the cross of Christ. It’s not light-hearted stuff. In our gospel text for today, Jesus warns against outward, visible displays of fasting, prayer and giving donations. I sometimes wonder if this text, especially as we read it on Ash Wednesday, might fuel some protestant distaste for the ritual of imposition of ashes. After all, standing up at the front of church receiving an ash cross, and keeping that cross on your face all day for all to see, is quite a display. Six times, Jesus repeats the word “secret”. Give your gifts in secret, pray in secret, wash your face and fast in secret, so that you Father who sees in secret will reward you. Ash crosses are not exactly secret. We protestants have come up with a solution to dilemma though. We have our Ash Wednesday services in the evening. That way we can drive home in the dark and wash the crosses off our faces before anyone sees them the next day. But this morning, Pastor Alissa and I broke with that tradition, as we imposed ashes at the Wollaston T station. I wore my Ash Wednesday cross all day for the first time. I discovered that, in spite of my childhood attachment to acting out, sporting a smudgy cross all day is a little uncomfortable. You cannot joke around about that cross on your forehead, when it symbolizes death – your death – after all. To pick up a coffee, groceries, to stop by the post office, or the library to go to your place of work, or school, feels very difference when you know you have a cross displayed for all to see on your face. Usually I would remain anonymous in those situations. I’d avoid showing my faith for all to see, especially the more serious side of my faith. It feels strange to walk out in public with this sign saying that I am entering a period of penitence for my sins. I feel vulnerable, announcing to the world that I desire reconciliation with God, and I seek that reconciliation through the cross of Christ. That is somber, uncomfortable stuff. Some may react violently, or with embarrassment, to the notion that God offers this kind of grace. It’s not easy to talk about with the people that we meet. It’s easier to be known as the new woman preacher with a British accent at the congregational church, or as a lead soprano in the choir, or as a noted donor to a key charity, or as one who goes about doing good to the poor. These are the showy things of our religiosity. But, to wear the cross is to confess to our own inadequacy to save ourselves. And it is the sign that we are willing, even as we hurry home to wash it off, to accept God’s greatest gift: reconciliation with Godself. I still regret that I wasn’t offered the chance to participate in Ash Wednesday when I was a child. I know I would not have understood its significance. I would probably have shown off my cross for all to see, eager to be thought of as pious and holy. But I do believe that over time the gravity of the ritual would have sunk in. Each year, as the minister solemnly imposed the gritty, messy stuff on my forehead, their thumb would etch the symbol into my skin. It would be a symbol I would become uncomfortable with: that symbol of my death, and my need for Jesus’ reconciling death on the cross. And then it would be fine for me to go out in public. Remember, my friends in Christ, you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Don’t be surprised if this feels a little uncomfortable. Amen The Illusion of Worldly Success Preached at Wollaston Congregational Church On March 5th, 2017 Scripture: Matthew 4:1-11 Three years ago, on the first Sunday of Lent, at Stoughton United Church of Christ, I preached a sermon based on today’s gospel story. I thought it went over pretty well. But this year I returned to the story we heard today and saw things in a different light. And so, to recap: this story takes place right at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, just after he has been baptized by John the Baptist in the River Jordan. Jesus is led into the dessert by the Spirit. He is not led there to pray or to go on retreat, as we might expect. He is led specifically to be tempted, or more accurately tested, by the devil! We join this trial forty days in. Jesus has been fasting the whole time, and is famished. We might imagine he’s mentally, physically and spiritually exhausted. This is a state in which many of us would be susceptible to temptation. At this point the devil finally shows up and challenges Jesus with three temptations or tests. The devil prefixes each test to Jesus with the words “If you are the Son of God…” He echoes the expression heard booming from heaven at Jesus’ baptism … “this is my son, the beloved with whom I am well pleased.” The first challenge the devil poses, is to suggest that Jesus, weak and famished as he is, turns stones to bread so that he can eat his fill. The second test is to suggest a mighty stunt, in which Jesus throws himself from the pinnacle of the temple, only to be rescued by God’s angels. And the third temptation involves handing over all power to the devil, bowing down and worshiping him, in exchange for the rights of power and control over all the nations of the earth. This seems like a shady deal, because the devil would then actually be the one in control, yes? Having reviewed the story I pulled out the sermon from three years ago. The premise I had used at that time was that the devil completely misunderstood what it meant for Jesus to be the Son of God. The challenges involve the manipulation of power and control, winning people over with miraculous feats and stunts. This was something that Jesus would never do. The devil had no idea! Hmm .. now I was not so sure. I realized that this is just one perspective on the text. In fact, I began to think I had made a grave mistake with that previous sermon - I had seriously underestimated the opponent. And the opponent is the devil. I began to look from the other side. What if the devil is only too aware of what the meaning of Jesus’ Sonship is? What if he totally gets that Jesus is all about the power of love, putting aside worldly success and power? What if the devil absolutely understands that Jesus relationship with God the Father a relationship of trust? What if the devil knows, better than any of us, that if he tests Jesus by tempting him to trust in worldly power and success, instead of the love of God, Jesus’ Sonship will be blown away? Looking at things this way, I believe that the devil seeks to mislead Jesus into choosing the route of worldly power and success. I think he does this because he knows this would make Jesus not Son of God. Jesus will just be another demagogue. If the devil’s plan works out, he will rob Jesus of his actual power: the power of God’s love in the world. As the story tells us, the devil does not convince Jesus that what the actions he suggests are the actions of the Son of God. But the tragedy of the story is that the devil had better luck with the followers of Christ. The Christian Church, also known as the body of Christ, has fallen prey to these temptations throughout history. It’s easy to see how the some churches have gone along. We mainline protestants often critique the quick-fix spirituality of churches who promote the Prosperity Gospel with their promises of great riches. But the wealth that is promised is based largely on members making substantial donations to the church. These churches function suspiciously like spiritual pyramid schemes. But the devil is sneaky, and it isn’t just the phony churches that are susceptible to temptation. In fact, almost from the beginning, the Church – uppercase ‘C’ – has fallen prey to the temptation to deal in political power. Today we’ll begin our study of James Carroll’s book, “Christ Actually”, a book that examines the damage caused as a result of the Church getting too close to worldly power and success. In the end, though, today’s gospel story tells of Jesus resistance of the devil’s temptation to worldly success. This is something that we humanity, we the Church, we individuals, are always tempted to trust over the way of Jesus. It is the temptation to prove ourselves worthy. The temptation to believe that God has not equipped us with what we need to do the work entrusted to us. I’ve discovered that the temptation to succeed preys on me a lot. It disguises itself as the temptation to think I am not good enough. I fall prey to this temptation most often when I stop trusting God, and start trusting in worldly success. A couple of years ago, I had just completed a rewarding year of field education with the First Congregational Church in Stoughton MA. I thought I was done with internships. But then I discovered that the committee guiding my process required that students did a second year of field education. I was a little frustrated, but I decided that if I was going to do one more year I may as well make it count. I had always been attracted by the very diverse city churches, and approached some of these places for an internship. Although I did my best to put forward a confident, upbeat manner at the interview, I did not expect that the flagship UCC church in downtown Boston would take me. I imagined that with their attraction to the young LGBTQ community and their commitment to racial diversity, I would be seen as too old, too straight, too white. And so I was surprised to be accepted as their ministerial intern for the year. I began to wonder if God was playing a joke on me. Having wondered if I would be accepted, though, I got quite excited about the idea of being associated with this successful church. I secretly hoped to accumulate a portfolio of photos and videos of myself in ministry in this hip, cool city church. I thought of how great it would look on my resume. Now, I must say that I learned that their reputation as the UCC success story was not the guiding principle in this church. Rather, the ministers and leaders were focused on serving their people in all their wonderfully diverse presentations. They were always intentional about giving equal care and attention to the homeless and those with addictions on the streets, the wealthy elders of Beacon Hill, the young professionals and of Back Bay, the new families from Southie, college students from the area schools, and the LGBTQ folks of all ages and income brackets. God must have laughed at my delusions of fame by association. Although I hoped for pictures and videos, I always seemed to be skillfully avoided by the camera. The one picture that made it onto the church website shows me lighting the Advent candles like an acolyte. Appropriate, I suppose, as I actually was a junior intern. The one week I asked to have my sermon videoed, the student who was to do it suffered from the stress of final exams and forgot to show up. He begged my forgiveness and I was glad to give it. I am convinced that God was saving me from the temptation and the illusion of worldly success. Meanwhile, God was putting me in the way of people I would never otherwise meet. They gave me the opportunity:
But, what are your temptations? In your relationships: do you trust that you are loved, or do you doubt it, seeking to prove yourself through success at work or school? In your work: do you trust that you are capable of what you need to do or do you feel the need to prove yourself through self-promotion and putting other colleagues down? In your faith: is you service to the church and community done in response to God’s love and mercy for you, or are you still anxiously trying to earn God’s approval and love? And is this church are we, also, being tempted to look wistfully in the direction of worldly success? Some churches tout large congregations and budgets beyond our wildest dreams. Do we allow that to make is feel hopeless? Some churches have flashy websites promoting a vast array of programs and social activities. Do we feel as though we have to aspire to the same, or are we content to glorify God with the resources we have? Some churches have a full staff, administrators, Christian Education directors, Youth leaders, Senior Pastor and Associate Pastors. Do we let ourselves believe that we are not equipped for the work in this community that God has called us to do? Friends, Jesus did not allow the devil’s schemes to move him from his calling to be servant of all. He did not waver in his trust in his relationship with God, his Father, and how that would provide him with all the power he would need. Perhaps that is what made him the Son of God. We are frailer humans that Jesus, of course, and so we do falter and fail. We often veer in the direction of the bright and gaudy lights of human success, away from the grace and mercy of God. But this is the power of our Lenten journey: that God, in Jesus, is always calling us back, to a relationship of trust in the power of love. Let all the people say Amen |
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April 2022
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