I’ve been keeping a log of the things that happen in my house that aren’t fair. With a 6-year old daughter, I am kept constantly updated on them. “It’s not fair,” she says, at least four times a day. Here is a sampling of this week’s unfair things: You can't have dessert yet, you haven't finished your dinner. "But Holden is eating his dessert - it's not fair!" Time to come in and get ready for bed. "But we're not done playing - it's not fair!" Time for bed. "But I didn't get to watch a movie today. It's not fair." Holden is watching a movie. “I don’t want to watch this movie! It’s not fair!” A woman I met at Holden Village this summer gave me a great solution to this last one. When her daughter complained that her younger brother got to pick the movie, and they should take turns, this mother said, “Well, you got to pick for 4 years before he was born, so let’s have him pick for the next 4 years, and then you can start taking turns.” How’s that for fair?
Of course, what Grace means by fair does not match the dictionary definition. That’s always the problem with “fair.” Each of us has an idea of what fair is and they rarely match. In the Gospel reading today, we hear another “No fair!” story. Jesus tells a parable about the landowner who goes again and again to the marketplace looking for workers. Some come and work a full day, from sun-up to sundown. The man agrees to pay them the usual daily wage. Some only work a couple hours. When he hires these, he just says, “I will pay you whatever is right.” At the end of the day, when it comes time to pay them, he pays all of them the same amount, no matter how long they worked. Those who worked all day grumble about it, and cry “no fair!” And I have to agree with them. What would the world come to if everyone behaved like that landowner? How many people lined up to work for him the next day at dawn? How many at 5pm? This is no way to run a business! Is that what we are supposed to do with this parable? Figure out what is right in our economic dealings? It can certainly be applied that way.
Maria worked for a church, 6 hours a week, at $12 an hour, cleaning the building. She cobbled together her living through several similar arrangements. Her English wasn’t good, and she often communicated through notes written by her son. Once, when she was in a car accident, she spent 24 hours in the hospital, and then came straight to work, since it was her regular day. She brought her son with to help. She didn’t want to go over the agreed-upon 6 hours, but she was moving a bit slow from her injuries. She had an aging father who lived abroad, and when he got sick, she wanted to go be with him. She asked the pastor, through her son’s translation, whether she could have two weeks of paid time off. The pastor, not knowing quite how to answer, turned to the stewardship team. “What should we do? Do we have a policy on this?” At first, they came back with the expected answers. They seemed to be in agreement: “We would love to give her the paid time off, but that’s just not done! People who work 6 hours a week don’t get that. If that was the norm, of course we would do it, but we just don’t do that here in America.” Then one of them, the treasurer, took the question to prayer. And he remembered this parable. What was it that the grumblers said, the ones who started first and were paid last? What was their complaint? Not that those who came late got paid the same. It was “These last worked only one hour, and you have made them equal to us…” In his prayers, he asked, what is God calling us to do as a Church? How can we allow the kingdom to break in here? How can this parable give us some sense of that kingdom; how can we make Maria, who works only 6 hours, equal to those who work full time? It seemed like offering her paid time off would be one simple way to “make her equal.” So he sent an email. The response was overwhelmingly different this time. Of course! We are in charge here. We can decide to do things differently. They gave Maria her time off, paid in full.
Well, that is certainly a practical application of this parable. And a good one. But is this a parable about economics? Are we to apply it to the stock market? Are we to reduce Jesus to a professor at a business school? No. There is a lot more going on in this story. What we learn from this story is that God is not interested in economics. At least not in the way we are. God is interested in people. God is interested in economics only insomuch as economics affect people. When Maria received her paid time off, it was not about the money – it was what, $150? It was about seeing Maria as equal in dignity and deservedness to someone who works 40 hours a week. In fact, Maria probably works far more than 40 hours a week, just not all for one employer. Regardless, by setting aside the conventions, the relationship between Maria and the church changed. The stewardship team’s focus shifted, from seeing Maria as an employee, a means of getting the building cleaned, to seeing her as an individual, someone living her own story, a valued child of God. God calls us to relationship, both with God and with one another. And relationship, true relationship, is not an economic arrangement. True relationship is not about what is fair.
This is the point that Jonah missed. After all of his running away from God’s call to go to Nineveh, being thrown overboard, swallowed by a “great fish,” and spit up on the shore, Jonah finally gets to Nineveh and tells them God’s message, in the most cursory fashion possible. “Forty days more, and Nineveh shall be overthrown!” he told them. Unlike most of the prophetic speeches in the Old Testament, there is no call to repentance, no listing of crimes. Jonah doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want Nineveh to be spared, and so does not give them anything more than the bare minimum. “Forty days more, and Nineveh shall be overthrown!” But God works through this unwilling prophet anyway! God moves the people of Nineveh to repent – and not just the people, but the animals too. All of Nineveh repents, and “God renounced the punishment He had planned to bring upon them, and did not carry it out.” And how does Jonah’s react? “No fair! See God, this is what I said in the first place! I just knew you were going to be merciful, once you and Nineveh got to know each other! And I didn’t want mercy for Nineveh! That’s why I didn’t want to come here! That’s why I didn’t want to introduce you!” Jonah is so indignant; he would rather die than see God’s mercy for a place like Nineveh. But God is not interested in what’s fair. God is interested in relationship. The people, and even the animals, of Nineveh have turned “back from evil ways and injustice,” and they are “crying mightily to God,” (as chapter 3 says). These are people who want a relationship with God. Should God strike them down just at the hour of their desire to know God? If Jonah has his way, yes. If fairness has its way, yes. But God is not interested in fairness. God is interested in relationship.
Jonah and the workers in the vineyard see the world in terms of reward and punishment, in terms of equal exchange in economic arrangements. And so do we, most of the time. But of course, at the beginning of the day, all of the workers were unemployed, standing idle in the marketplace. It is not until the landowner comes to them that they have any hope of receiving anything at all that day. And that is the real moment of grace. It is not at the end of the day, when all are made equal by being given equal pay. The real reward is in the landowner who repeatedly comes to the marketplace and invites the workers into the vineyard. Isn’t it funny how our first instinct is to identify with those workers who were there the longest, and “deserved” more than the ones who started late? But really, if I’m honest with myself, I know that I’m more like the one who started at the end of the day. I’m desperate, and I’m willing to take whatever I get. And when I get it, and it’s better than I deserve, I rejoice. I keep my mouth shut and hope that no one notices the mistake! I forget that I’ve already received the real moment of God’s grace. In my baptism, and even before my baptism, God came to me and invited me into relationship. 2000 years ago, Christ came and invited the world into relationship. 21 years ago, at my baptism, Christ came and invited me into relationship. Today, in their baptism, Christ invites Cordell Richard and Elizabeth into relationship. The work that we do in the vineyard is in response to that generous gift. The work that we do in our lives is in response to that invitation. The work that we offer to God is our response to our relationship with God. At the end of the day, the true reward is not in some equal exchange to preserve the rules of fairness, “I give you this, you give me that.” The true reward is in the gift of God’s love, that moved God to come to us, to die for us, and to give us everlasting life. Christ comes to again and again, offering us relationship again and again. We see that in the meal that we share together today, Christ coming to us in the bread and the wine, renewing and strengthening that relationship. And we respond, and are gladly sent forth into service, not for the reward we will receive, but because of the reward we have already received. Amen.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
A Sermon on Matt 16:13-20
“Who do you say that I am?” Could we find a more fitting question for our society? We spend so much of our lives asking this very question. We ask it of ourselves, and we ask it of one another. “Who do you say that I am?” It starts early, and we take the answer seriously. When I was 5, I had a short little haircut like Dorothy Hamill, the Olympic figure skater. Unfortunately, the haircut was where the resemblance ended. I was a little stick straight girl, with a deep voice. Some kids in my class teased me after I got my hair cut and told me I looked like a boy. I was devastated. I wore pink for a year after that, just to prove to everyone I was a girl. When my dad asked me what color I wanted to have my new room painted, I said pink. And when he painted the ceiling white, I got upset. “No! You said I could have the whole room pink!” I was determined to prove my femininity through the use of the color pink. That is how much I was affected by who people said I was.
As I got older, I got more sophisticated about constructing an identity that allowed me to decide who people would say that I am. In fact, as a society we have gotten more sophisticated about this. Once upon a time, you were what you did, more or less. You were a farmer, or a butcher, or a merchant; you were what your parents were. You knew who others were because everyone from the same class wore the same clothes, and most towns were small enough that you had a pretty good idea who was who. As society got more complicated, people from all these different backgrounds came together and it was harder to tell one class from another. We began to have more control over who people say we are. Today, we decide by what we wear, what music we listen to, what tattoos we have, what car we drive, where we live. We can spend hours setting our Facebook page up just right, with just the right picture on it, trying to control the answer to “who do people say that I am?”
But we don’t control the answer. Just as we are not books for someone else to read, others are not computers for us to control input and output. Relationships are messy, people are messy, and we never entirely get one another, no matter how hard we try. And no matter how much we might like to think that it doesn’t matter to us, it still hurts when someone answers wrong. One commentary I read suggested that we “moderns” are more concerned with the question “who am I?” than with “who do others say I am?” I don’t think that’s quite true. We care what others say about us. We care a lot. There’s a lot at stake when it comes to who others say we are.
Veronica was a woman in her mid-60s who had recently had surgery for lung cancer. The nurses on the unit where I was serving as chaplain told me that she was depressed, but that she refused to take her medications. She was, as they say, “noncompliant.” They asked me to speak to her – maybe a visit from a chaplain could convince her to be “compliant.” I don’t know if they expected me to put the fear of God into her or what, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt for her to visit with someone different, in any case. What I found was a friendly, rather mischievous woman. She sat in a chair near the door, watching everything that happened, a sly grin on her face as she sized up each person who passed by. “That guy keeps stealing my popcicles,” she said. “That woman has it worse than me.” She shared with me that this had been her 41st surgery – she had been through everything from open heart surgery to a mastectomy. She was sick of being in the hospital, and just wanted to get back to her regular care facility. At least there, she said, she could stand the food.
I visited with her for about an hour. During that time, she was talkative and open with me, but that changed, depending on who was in the room. With the lab technician who checked her blood sugar, she was friendly and inquisitive. “Hey,” she said, “did you have open heart surgery, too?” Her sharp eyes didn’t miss much, and she had noticed the scar just at the opening of the young woman’s V-neck scrubs. “Yes, when I was 5,” replied the tech. “Well, then, we match!” said Veronica, with an air of satisfaction. With the young Hispanic woman who changed the linens, she was positively beaming and bubbly. They shared a hug before the woman left. But all of this changed when the doctor came into the room. Suddenly, Veronica’s face became flat, drawn, completely unreadable. She kept her eyes down and to the side, almost never looking him in the face. As he tried to convince her to take anti-depressants, she tried to convince him that she was not depressed. If I had not seen her just a few moments before, I might have sided with him. But now, I was not so sure. Who was I going to say that she was?
Who do people say that I am? “Elijah, John the Baptist, Jeremiah.” The disciples answers make good sense. Jesus works miracles, he proclaims the word of God and the coming of the kingdom. He scolds those in power and calls attention to the marginalized. Jesus’ ministry reminded the disciples, and us, that God has sent messengers before. These answers give a quick history lesson – God has tried time and again to get people to pay attention; God has sided with the poor and the outcast before; God has spent a lot of time trying to get the powerful to listen to what God calls them to be – God cares what people say about one another. But Jeremiah was brutally persecuted, to the point where he begged God to leave him alone; and John the Baptist just died at the hands of Herod. Not only do these answers remind us what God has been up to in the past, but we’re given a foreshadowing of what is to come for Jesus.
After their answer, Jesus doesn’t say whether they are right or wrong, but he changes the question. “Who do you say that I am?” He is now asking the disciples what they think. The “you” in this sentence is plural – he is asking all of them, but only one of them responds. Peter says, “You are the Messiah, the son of the living God.” With this answer, Peter gets it right. But even then, does he really know who Jesus is? Does he really understand? The very next passage, which we’ll read next week, shows Peter misunderstanding the meaning of this declaration so badly that Jesus calls him Satan! Poor Peter, even when he gets it right, he gets it wrong. And Jesus cares about what Peter thinks of him. He cares enough to correct it, not only with words, but with actions.
Jesus knows that Peter speaks truly when he says “you are the Son of the living God,” and he knows that Peter doesn’t entirely know what he’s saying – “flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my father in heaven.” And then Jesus turns the whole scene around. No longer is he asking who others say he is, suddenly he is telling them who they are. Simon, you are now Peter, the rock. Jesus names him Peter, gives him a new identity borne out of this faith, bound up in his confession, in his naming Jesus as God. But that confession is not Peter’s doing – it is God who has worked this faith in him. God cares what people say – God cares enough to send the Son into the world, to live with us and to die with us. God cares enough to send the Spirit into the world, to guide us to faith.
After the doctor left, I asked Veronica what had happened there? Why had her demeanor changed so much with him? “He doesn’t listen to me. I tell him I’m not depressed, but he just doesn’t listen. Maybe he’s right, maybe I am depressed. But I don’t think so.” She looked at me, “What do you think?” “Well,” I said, “I’m not an expert. But I’ll tell you one thing I hear from you that I can name is frustration.” She seized on the word like a life preserver. “That’s it! That’s the word! I’m frustrated! I’ve been here for weeks and I’m not getting better. I’m frustrated!” She seemed so relieved to have a different word, one that didn’t require medication to treat. Once she had a name for it, she began to get power over it. Once she had a name for it, she could assert it, use it, make the doctor see it as the right name.
This is the point in the sermon where I’m supposed to tell you not to worry about what others label you. I’m supposed to say that it’s not about who you are, but about whose you are. And of course, that is true. You are a child of God, first and foremost. Like Peter, God works faith in you. And just like Peter, your identity comes from God. In your baptism, you are named and claimed by Christ. When you come to the table and share communion, Christ is saying to you, “Child of God, I name you. On you I am building my church.”
But it’s also not that simple, is it? It matters what others think of us. It matters that the doctor was calling Veronica depressed. It matters a great deal – once that’s on your medical records, it affects how every single doctor you see from now on treats you. Of course, if someone is depressed, then it’s best to get the medical help for it. But whether it’s the right name or not, it matters! It matters a lot! The next time the doctor came in, he said, “Veronica, I think you’re depressed.” And she said, “I’m not depressed, I’m frustrated! And here’s why! Now, if you have a medication for frustration, let’s talk about it. Otherwise, we’re done with this conversation!” Veronica had something to hold onto in that conversation, and she found that it gave her power, even some freedom, that she hadn’t known she had before.
God cares about this question. “Who do people say that I am?” God wants us to know who God is. God wants us to know so much that God came into the world, became human, lived a human life, and died a human death. God did all of this because God loves us so much, enough to care who we say God is. God did this because he loves you so much, enough to care who you say God is. And in doing so, God gives you a name to cling to. Like Veronica, asserting herself as “frustrated” not “depressed,” you have a life preserver. Like Peter, Jesus has called you by name – a new name, borne out of your relationship with God. Even if you turn around the next moment and screw it up, that name is still yours, and you can cling to it, and you can use it to counter whatever other names are thrown your way.
We have to live in the world, and we are going to care what others say about us. In Christ, we have been given a new name, a new word for ourselves that we can use. We can care what others say, but we can also know that they do not know the whole story. Only God knows the whole story about me, about you. Only God knows what it means that I have been called be a new name. Whatever else they say, I have a name that I cling to. Jesus has spoken to me in my baptism, “blessed are you, Aimee Appell! You are indeed a child of God!”
As I got older, I got more sophisticated about constructing an identity that allowed me to decide who people would say that I am. In fact, as a society we have gotten more sophisticated about this. Once upon a time, you were what you did, more or less. You were a farmer, or a butcher, or a merchant; you were what your parents were. You knew who others were because everyone from the same class wore the same clothes, and most towns were small enough that you had a pretty good idea who was who. As society got more complicated, people from all these different backgrounds came together and it was harder to tell one class from another. We began to have more control over who people say we are. Today, we decide by what we wear, what music we listen to, what tattoos we have, what car we drive, where we live. We can spend hours setting our Facebook page up just right, with just the right picture on it, trying to control the answer to “who do people say that I am?”
But we don’t control the answer. Just as we are not books for someone else to read, others are not computers for us to control input and output. Relationships are messy, people are messy, and we never entirely get one another, no matter how hard we try. And no matter how much we might like to think that it doesn’t matter to us, it still hurts when someone answers wrong. One commentary I read suggested that we “moderns” are more concerned with the question “who am I?” than with “who do others say I am?” I don’t think that’s quite true. We care what others say about us. We care a lot. There’s a lot at stake when it comes to who others say we are.
Veronica was a woman in her mid-60s who had recently had surgery for lung cancer. The nurses on the unit where I was serving as chaplain told me that she was depressed, but that she refused to take her medications. She was, as they say, “noncompliant.” They asked me to speak to her – maybe a visit from a chaplain could convince her to be “compliant.” I don’t know if they expected me to put the fear of God into her or what, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt for her to visit with someone different, in any case. What I found was a friendly, rather mischievous woman. She sat in a chair near the door, watching everything that happened, a sly grin on her face as she sized up each person who passed by. “That guy keeps stealing my popcicles,” she said. “That woman has it worse than me.” She shared with me that this had been her 41st surgery – she had been through everything from open heart surgery to a mastectomy. She was sick of being in the hospital, and just wanted to get back to her regular care facility. At least there, she said, she could stand the food.
I visited with her for about an hour. During that time, she was talkative and open with me, but that changed, depending on who was in the room. With the lab technician who checked her blood sugar, she was friendly and inquisitive. “Hey,” she said, “did you have open heart surgery, too?” Her sharp eyes didn’t miss much, and she had noticed the scar just at the opening of the young woman’s V-neck scrubs. “Yes, when I was 5,” replied the tech. “Well, then, we match!” said Veronica, with an air of satisfaction. With the young Hispanic woman who changed the linens, she was positively beaming and bubbly. They shared a hug before the woman left. But all of this changed when the doctor came into the room. Suddenly, Veronica’s face became flat, drawn, completely unreadable. She kept her eyes down and to the side, almost never looking him in the face. As he tried to convince her to take anti-depressants, she tried to convince him that she was not depressed. If I had not seen her just a few moments before, I might have sided with him. But now, I was not so sure. Who was I going to say that she was?
Who do people say that I am? “Elijah, John the Baptist, Jeremiah.” The disciples answers make good sense. Jesus works miracles, he proclaims the word of God and the coming of the kingdom. He scolds those in power and calls attention to the marginalized. Jesus’ ministry reminded the disciples, and us, that God has sent messengers before. These answers give a quick history lesson – God has tried time and again to get people to pay attention; God has sided with the poor and the outcast before; God has spent a lot of time trying to get the powerful to listen to what God calls them to be – God cares what people say about one another. But Jeremiah was brutally persecuted, to the point where he begged God to leave him alone; and John the Baptist just died at the hands of Herod. Not only do these answers remind us what God has been up to in the past, but we’re given a foreshadowing of what is to come for Jesus.
After their answer, Jesus doesn’t say whether they are right or wrong, but he changes the question. “Who do you say that I am?” He is now asking the disciples what they think. The “you” in this sentence is plural – he is asking all of them, but only one of them responds. Peter says, “You are the Messiah, the son of the living God.” With this answer, Peter gets it right. But even then, does he really know who Jesus is? Does he really understand? The very next passage, which we’ll read next week, shows Peter misunderstanding the meaning of this declaration so badly that Jesus calls him Satan! Poor Peter, even when he gets it right, he gets it wrong. And Jesus cares about what Peter thinks of him. He cares enough to correct it, not only with words, but with actions.
Jesus knows that Peter speaks truly when he says “you are the Son of the living God,” and he knows that Peter doesn’t entirely know what he’s saying – “flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my father in heaven.” And then Jesus turns the whole scene around. No longer is he asking who others say he is, suddenly he is telling them who they are. Simon, you are now Peter, the rock. Jesus names him Peter, gives him a new identity borne out of this faith, bound up in his confession, in his naming Jesus as God. But that confession is not Peter’s doing – it is God who has worked this faith in him. God cares what people say – God cares enough to send the Son into the world, to live with us and to die with us. God cares enough to send the Spirit into the world, to guide us to faith.
After the doctor left, I asked Veronica what had happened there? Why had her demeanor changed so much with him? “He doesn’t listen to me. I tell him I’m not depressed, but he just doesn’t listen. Maybe he’s right, maybe I am depressed. But I don’t think so.” She looked at me, “What do you think?” “Well,” I said, “I’m not an expert. But I’ll tell you one thing I hear from you that I can name is frustration.” She seized on the word like a life preserver. “That’s it! That’s the word! I’m frustrated! I’ve been here for weeks and I’m not getting better. I’m frustrated!” She seemed so relieved to have a different word, one that didn’t require medication to treat. Once she had a name for it, she began to get power over it. Once she had a name for it, she could assert it, use it, make the doctor see it as the right name.
This is the point in the sermon where I’m supposed to tell you not to worry about what others label you. I’m supposed to say that it’s not about who you are, but about whose you are. And of course, that is true. You are a child of God, first and foremost. Like Peter, God works faith in you. And just like Peter, your identity comes from God. In your baptism, you are named and claimed by Christ. When you come to the table and share communion, Christ is saying to you, “Child of God, I name you. On you I am building my church.”
But it’s also not that simple, is it? It matters what others think of us. It matters that the doctor was calling Veronica depressed. It matters a great deal – once that’s on your medical records, it affects how every single doctor you see from now on treats you. Of course, if someone is depressed, then it’s best to get the medical help for it. But whether it’s the right name or not, it matters! It matters a lot! The next time the doctor came in, he said, “Veronica, I think you’re depressed.” And she said, “I’m not depressed, I’m frustrated! And here’s why! Now, if you have a medication for frustration, let’s talk about it. Otherwise, we’re done with this conversation!” Veronica had something to hold onto in that conversation, and she found that it gave her power, even some freedom, that she hadn’t known she had before.
God cares about this question. “Who do people say that I am?” God wants us to know who God is. God wants us to know so much that God came into the world, became human, lived a human life, and died a human death. God did all of this because God loves us so much, enough to care who we say God is. God did this because he loves you so much, enough to care who you say God is. And in doing so, God gives you a name to cling to. Like Veronica, asserting herself as “frustrated” not “depressed,” you have a life preserver. Like Peter, Jesus has called you by name – a new name, borne out of your relationship with God. Even if you turn around the next moment and screw it up, that name is still yours, and you can cling to it, and you can use it to counter whatever other names are thrown your way.
We have to live in the world, and we are going to care what others say about us. In Christ, we have been given a new name, a new word for ourselves that we can use. We can care what others say, but we can also know that they do not know the whole story. Only God knows the whole story about me, about you. Only God knows what it means that I have been called be a new name. Whatever else they say, I have a name that I cling to. Jesus has spoken to me in my baptism, “blessed are you, Aimee Appell! You are indeed a child of God!”
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Hagar and Ishmael - A Sermon from the Hospital
Tell me a story. My daughter asks me all the time for stories, and she wants them to be interesting. What makes a good story? They need to have plot twists and they need to keep her attention. Whether it’s Winnie-the-Pooh, or other, lesser literature, it is the unexpected part of the story that keeps us interested. It is the unexpected twists and turns that keep our attention, make us laugh or cry, that make us care what happens to the characters. What’s your favorite story? I love the classics – Jane Austin and Charles Dickens are two of my favorites. I also love TV – I’ve been following Lost since it first came on – and movies like Indiana Jones. I love to follow their characters as they make mistakes and get surprised by life. It is deliciously frustrating to see pitfalls coming and to watch them fall into them in spite of their best intentions. And it is gratifying, after all of that frustration and trouble, to finally see them reach their happy ending – the kind ones receive kindness, the mean ones receive just rewards, and those who deserve to, live happily ever after. Tell me a story.
But of course, in real life, it is never so much fun to receive plot twists. It is never so delicious to follow frustrations and pitfalls. No, in real life these surprises are often painful and all too costly. Even when they are of our own making, they often lead us to unexpected and unwelcome journeys. It is difficult to see how anyone gets what they truly deserve in life. It is difficult to see how anyone ever expects to live happily ever after. But that is just when God says, “Tell me a story,” just as in the reading today he said to Hagar, “What troubles you?” God is not asking an idle question here. God is not toying with Hagar. He truly wants to know her story – what brought her here, what frightens her, what she expects of the future. And then God pulls that story to God’s self, and makes her story his own.
In the story that we read today from Genesis, Hagar and Sarah and Abraham are three people who got caught up in the twists and turns of their story. Sometimes these twists are of their own making. Sarah and Abraham had received a promise from God, the promise that they would be the parents of a great nation, and their offspring would be as numerous as the stars. But they misunderstood the promise. Believing that the promise was only for Abraham, Sarah insisted that he have a child with Hagar, her maid. Of course, anyone who knows anything about stories knows that this will only lead to trouble. Abraham is a good man, and he treats his first-born son as a good man should. Perhaps he also treats his son’s mother well; perhaps he even loves her. Whatever the case, Sarah is going to be jealous. We know it before it even happens, because this is what happens in stories. Already, Sarah has brought trouble on herself. She now has to adjust to a future in which she is no longer the only woman in Abraham’s life. Worse, she has to adjust to Abraham’s first-born son, by tradition his heir and possibly his favorite, being the son of another woman. Whether or not she bears the promised son, we know that there will be trouble. Luckily for Sarah, she already knows the promises God has made for Isaac’s future. She just doesn’t want to share them. Now Sarah must adjust to a new and different future, one of her own making.
Abraham must adjust to a new and different future as well. He had gotten used to being childless, and God informs him that this will change. He has gotten used to having Sarah for his wife, and Sarah informs him that he must take another woman into his bed. When at last he has not one but two sons to inherit the promises, he is informed that he must part with one of them. He must send his first-born son, Ishmael, and the boy’s mother out into the wilderness. We know that he loves Isaac, the child of Sarah. And we also know that he cares for Hagar and her son, that he was distressed on account of them. He had likely been looking forward to an old age watching the boys grow up together, enjoying their company, and being the patriarch of a large household. Now he must adjust to a new and different future, one in which the jealousies of the women and the rivalries of his sons are the deciding factors. Luckily for Abraham, he already knows that both boys will receive God’s favor, that God will take care of Ishmael as well as Isaac. Now, though he is assured of their future, he must adjust to his own.
Hagar has to adjust to a new and different future as well, one which, as far as she knows, holds nothing for her and her son but fear, probably even death. She is completely at the mercy of others. As a slave, a handmaid, she has no choice but to leave when she is cast out. No one defends her claim, and she must leave. Friendless, defenseless, forced first to lay with a man not her husband, then to bear his child, now she is being forced to leave his camp, going to certain death in the wilderness. She must adjust, not so much to a new and different future, as to a lack of a future, both for herself and for her son. She has been forced into it by others’ meanness and jealousies, by others’ lack of trust. She has not heard any word of promise or assurance from God, as Sarah and Abraham have. What kind of story can she look forward to? What troubles you, Hagar?
What troubles you? What kind of story do you look forward to? Hagar has a story in her mind that is primarily about death for herself and her son. That is the story that many of us here at Abbot Northwestern are familiar with. And there are many other stories going on here today – stories of loss, pain, anxiety, even some stories of celebration. Despair is just one of the thousands of stories held in these walls. What troubles you? God is asking. God really wants to know. When we have given up on happy endings or just desserts, God is asking, “what troubles you?” It is easy to miss God’s question. When we are hurting, or when we are watching loved ones hurting, our focus closes in, and all we can see is this moment, this time, this story. All we hear is this moment, this time, this story. It is easy to block out God’s question, to miss God’s gently urging to share, “what troubles you?”
Like the rest of us, Hagar’s focus has closed in to the story in front of her, and she is not hearing or seeing what God has put before her. What Hagar forgets in her moment of despair, what she perhaps never knew, is that hers is not the only story at work. Her story is part of a larger story, the story of God’s work in the world. Even as she despairs over the end of the story, God is at work making this story God’s own. Sarah had heard God’s promises for Isaac, and Abraham had heard God’s promises for both of his sons, but it is not until here, in the desert, when things are at their very worst that Hagar is assured of God’s promises for her own son. Finally, when she is most uncertain of her story’s end, God assures her that her story is also God’s story. And suddenly, her focus opens up! Her eyes are opened and she sees the well of water. Her focus expands, and she finds refreshment and a future. “She went and filled the skin with water, and gave the boy a drink.”
“What troubles you, Hagar? Do not be afraid, for God has heard.” It seems odd that all throughout this story, Hagar’s son has been called “the boy” or “her son.” Nowhere in the story is he called by his name, Ishmael. But when read in Hebrew, something wonderful appears. The name Ishmael means “God heard,” and so verse 17, “And God heard the voice of the boy,” when read in Hebrew, (Vayishma Elohim) says “Ishmael.” In hearing the boy’s cries, God names the boy. In naming him, God claims him, drawing Ishmael’s story, and therefore Hagar’s story, into God’s story, making them God’s own.
We also are named and claimed by God. Though I am not named Ishmael, Ishmael is a promise to me that God hears, even and especially when I feel lost and in the wilderness. As Paul reminds us in his letter to the Romans, in baptism we are united with Christ. Our story is joined to the story of our crucified and resurrected Lord, who names and claims us in our baptism. For Christians, Jesus is God come into the world, and we know that God has claimed us. God went to death on a cross in order to join each of us where we are, in our suffering, in our despair. God went to death on a cross in order to join each of our stories to God’s. When we say, tell me a story, this is the story that we are told. This is the story: that my life, and your life, each one, is joined to the life of Christ, to the death of Christ, and to the resurrection of Christ. This is the story: that my story, your story, each one, is joined to God’s story. Knowing that, we know that God hears, and that God responds. Just like Hagar, we will receive refreshment, and comfort in knowing that God holds us, and hears us, even when we feel alone. That is our new and different future. That is our happy ending.
But of course, in real life, it is never so much fun to receive plot twists. It is never so delicious to follow frustrations and pitfalls. No, in real life these surprises are often painful and all too costly. Even when they are of our own making, they often lead us to unexpected and unwelcome journeys. It is difficult to see how anyone gets what they truly deserve in life. It is difficult to see how anyone ever expects to live happily ever after. But that is just when God says, “Tell me a story,” just as in the reading today he said to Hagar, “What troubles you?” God is not asking an idle question here. God is not toying with Hagar. He truly wants to know her story – what brought her here, what frightens her, what she expects of the future. And then God pulls that story to God’s self, and makes her story his own.
In the story that we read today from Genesis, Hagar and Sarah and Abraham are three people who got caught up in the twists and turns of their story. Sometimes these twists are of their own making. Sarah and Abraham had received a promise from God, the promise that they would be the parents of a great nation, and their offspring would be as numerous as the stars. But they misunderstood the promise. Believing that the promise was only for Abraham, Sarah insisted that he have a child with Hagar, her maid. Of course, anyone who knows anything about stories knows that this will only lead to trouble. Abraham is a good man, and he treats his first-born son as a good man should. Perhaps he also treats his son’s mother well; perhaps he even loves her. Whatever the case, Sarah is going to be jealous. We know it before it even happens, because this is what happens in stories. Already, Sarah has brought trouble on herself. She now has to adjust to a future in which she is no longer the only woman in Abraham’s life. Worse, she has to adjust to Abraham’s first-born son, by tradition his heir and possibly his favorite, being the son of another woman. Whether or not she bears the promised son, we know that there will be trouble. Luckily for Sarah, she already knows the promises God has made for Isaac’s future. She just doesn’t want to share them. Now Sarah must adjust to a new and different future, one of her own making.
Abraham must adjust to a new and different future as well. He had gotten used to being childless, and God informs him that this will change. He has gotten used to having Sarah for his wife, and Sarah informs him that he must take another woman into his bed. When at last he has not one but two sons to inherit the promises, he is informed that he must part with one of them. He must send his first-born son, Ishmael, and the boy’s mother out into the wilderness. We know that he loves Isaac, the child of Sarah. And we also know that he cares for Hagar and her son, that he was distressed on account of them. He had likely been looking forward to an old age watching the boys grow up together, enjoying their company, and being the patriarch of a large household. Now he must adjust to a new and different future, one in which the jealousies of the women and the rivalries of his sons are the deciding factors. Luckily for Abraham, he already knows that both boys will receive God’s favor, that God will take care of Ishmael as well as Isaac. Now, though he is assured of their future, he must adjust to his own.
Hagar has to adjust to a new and different future as well, one which, as far as she knows, holds nothing for her and her son but fear, probably even death. She is completely at the mercy of others. As a slave, a handmaid, she has no choice but to leave when she is cast out. No one defends her claim, and she must leave. Friendless, defenseless, forced first to lay with a man not her husband, then to bear his child, now she is being forced to leave his camp, going to certain death in the wilderness. She must adjust, not so much to a new and different future, as to a lack of a future, both for herself and for her son. She has been forced into it by others’ meanness and jealousies, by others’ lack of trust. She has not heard any word of promise or assurance from God, as Sarah and Abraham have. What kind of story can she look forward to? What troubles you, Hagar?
What troubles you? What kind of story do you look forward to? Hagar has a story in her mind that is primarily about death for herself and her son. That is the story that many of us here at Abbot Northwestern are familiar with. And there are many other stories going on here today – stories of loss, pain, anxiety, even some stories of celebration. Despair is just one of the thousands of stories held in these walls. What troubles you? God is asking. God really wants to know. When we have given up on happy endings or just desserts, God is asking, “what troubles you?” It is easy to miss God’s question. When we are hurting, or when we are watching loved ones hurting, our focus closes in, and all we can see is this moment, this time, this story. All we hear is this moment, this time, this story. It is easy to block out God’s question, to miss God’s gently urging to share, “what troubles you?”
Like the rest of us, Hagar’s focus has closed in to the story in front of her, and she is not hearing or seeing what God has put before her. What Hagar forgets in her moment of despair, what she perhaps never knew, is that hers is not the only story at work. Her story is part of a larger story, the story of God’s work in the world. Even as she despairs over the end of the story, God is at work making this story God’s own. Sarah had heard God’s promises for Isaac, and Abraham had heard God’s promises for both of his sons, but it is not until here, in the desert, when things are at their very worst that Hagar is assured of God’s promises for her own son. Finally, when she is most uncertain of her story’s end, God assures her that her story is also God’s story. And suddenly, her focus opens up! Her eyes are opened and she sees the well of water. Her focus expands, and she finds refreshment and a future. “She went and filled the skin with water, and gave the boy a drink.”
“What troubles you, Hagar? Do not be afraid, for God has heard.” It seems odd that all throughout this story, Hagar’s son has been called “the boy” or “her son.” Nowhere in the story is he called by his name, Ishmael. But when read in Hebrew, something wonderful appears. The name Ishmael means “God heard,” and so verse 17, “And God heard the voice of the boy,” when read in Hebrew, (Vayishma Elohim) says “Ishmael.” In hearing the boy’s cries, God names the boy. In naming him, God claims him, drawing Ishmael’s story, and therefore Hagar’s story, into God’s story, making them God’s own.
We also are named and claimed by God. Though I am not named Ishmael, Ishmael is a promise to me that God hears, even and especially when I feel lost and in the wilderness. As Paul reminds us in his letter to the Romans, in baptism we are united with Christ. Our story is joined to the story of our crucified and resurrected Lord, who names and claims us in our baptism. For Christians, Jesus is God come into the world, and we know that God has claimed us. God went to death on a cross in order to join each of us where we are, in our suffering, in our despair. God went to death on a cross in order to join each of our stories to God’s. When we say, tell me a story, this is the story that we are told. This is the story: that my life, and your life, each one, is joined to the life of Christ, to the death of Christ, and to the resurrection of Christ. This is the story: that my story, your story, each one, is joined to God’s story. Knowing that, we know that God hears, and that God responds. Just like Hagar, we will receive refreshment, and comfort in knowing that God holds us, and hears us, even when we feel alone. That is our new and different future. That is our happy ending.
Weeds & Wheat - sermon on Matthew 13
Are you a weed or are you wheat? That’s the first place our minds go when we hear this parable – will I end up in the fire or the barn? Wouldn’t it be nice if there was a handy little quiz to help us figure it out? I actually had a quiz planned for you – I was working up this really clever little sermon, full of wit and punch, based on a magazine quiz that would tell you at the end which you were. But as I wrote it, it sounded trite. It sounded insincere. It sounded like I wasn’t quite serious. Also, it just wouldn’t work. My quiz kept coming up inconclusive, and I couldn’t make it work. Every question just proved the point I hoped to make at the end, which is that you just don’t know. I can’t tell which I am by looking at me, much less which you are. So that’s definitely one level of this story, one place that we can carry the metaphor. That’s where I was headed with the terribly clever sermon that I was going to write. But then I started writing this one and it went a whole new place, one that surprised me as I wrote it. So I left off of the sermon I was planning and went with the one that came out. Here it is.
Jesus told parables like this because he was trying to make a point in a way that people could get their brains around. Most of the people listening to this parable would have known a lot about raising wheat – it was an agrarian society, and they spent a lot of time in and around wheat fields. They relied heavily on the harvest to get them through the year. If the harvest were to come up short, they could be certain that there were going to be hard times ahead. As for me, I know very little about raising wheat. If I want bread, I go to the store. The closest I come to wheat is buying flour and baking my own bread… with a bread machine. I might see a little bit of a change in the price if the harvest is bad one year, but not by much.
However, I have been doing some gardening in the past few years, and I’ve learned a few things about it. I’ve learned that weeds usually come up in the best soil, where you’ve tilled and amended and fertilized. They also tend to plant themselves right next to another, better established plant. They take advantage of the work that other plants to breaking up the soil and reaching for nutrients, and then they follow. That means that their roots can get wrapped up with those of the more desirable plants. If you pull one, you often pull both. Another thing I’ve noticed is that weeds have developed over time to look like the plants they cozy up to. That’s what happened in this parable.
The weed that Jesus is talking about is known as “darnell.” When it’s young, it looks just like wheat. If the workers were to go out into the field then and start trying to pull up the weeds, they wouldn’t have much idea which one they were pulling. If they pulled half of what was there, they would be just as likely to pull all wheat as they would be to pull all weeds. Better to leave it at that point. Of course, as it gets older, you can tell the difference, and you could go out and pull all of the darnell out. But by then, the wheat and the weeds have grown up so close together, that you would pull both out by their intertwined roots. Either way you’d be left with half a harvest at best.
So what if you leave it, what are the consequences? Well, having weeds in the field means that there will be a lower yield. The weeds will suck up some of the nutrients and water that would otherwise go to the wheat. This means a lower yield at the harvest. Also, darnell is a poisonous plant, so if any of it is left in at the harvest, there will be poison mixed in with the wheat that goes into the barn. The harvesters will have to be extra careful, and the harvest will take more energy this year than normal. But overall, they will probably get closer to a full harvest by leaving the weeds where they are than they will by pulling them, either early in the season or later. So that’s the background of the parable. We can look at Jesus’ time and see how there were a lot of people that were being left out of the religious and political systems, people that Jesus spent more time talking to than most. We can imagine that Jesus was trying to encourage society not to judge others too quickly, that he was telling the Pharisees to lay off with their strict purity laws, or that he was telling the Romans to ease up on their persecution. We can also imagine that Matthew, who wrote this all down, was dealing with a church full of Gentiles and Jews, and that he was trying to get both groups to chill out and live together in some kind of truce. We can all imagine, and apply lessons learned to today’s community. But there’s something else about this that was bugging me as I was trying to write that sermon, where I ended with those lessons about how we can’t judge better than God.
I think one reason that I couldn’t go with the cheeky magazine quiz sermon is that I’ve been spending this summer serving as a chaplain at Abbott Northwestern hospital. Every day, I meet someone new, who is certain beyond certain that he or she is nothing but a weed in a field of wheat. When I walked into Rosa’s room, the shades were drawn and the lights were off. Rosa was lying on her side, curled up in a ball. The nurses had told me that I could go in and see her, but they didn’t expect I’d get much out of her. Her speech was slurred, they said, and she was barely coherent. Her chart seemed to have written her off as a hopeless alcoholic. Get her sober enough to get well, and get her out of here. When my eyes had adjusted, I saw that Rosa was wearing a hospital gown, no makeup, and her glasses were on the nightstand. She was ready enough to talk to me. When I told her I was a chaplain, she sat up a little, tried to adjust herself to be more presentable. She started to tell me about herself. Her speech was clear enough, though she had a central American accent, and a slight lisp. Of course, she had been stung in the face by a bee, and her tongue had swollen up, so that was to be expected, I guess. She told me that she had been trying for some time to overcome alcoholism, and had even had periods of sobriety. She had been sober for several months before this last bender. But she had to go back to his house, back to get her belongings and her immigration papers. He talked her back in the door, and she thought she could stay sober. He started drinking around her, and she thought she could have just one drink. He started beating her, and she numbed the pain. When she came to the hospital for this allergic reaction to a bee sting she had been drunk for several weeks straight. She desperately wanted to get better and to turn her life around. At the moment that I met her, she was awash in shame. Unfortunately, that was not helped by the attitude of the doctor who came in during our visit and patronizingly told her that she needed to get sober. It was obvious that he was thinking, “this is never going to happen, but I have to say it anyway.” I asked Rosa if she ever prayed. She responded, ““How can I pray, when I am so ashamed to talk to God? How can I pray when I have been living like this?”
Rosa has bought the messages that have been given to her for years. She has absorbed enough of the attitude of the doctor and others like him that she believes it herself. She has been beaten by her fiancée, sexually assaulted, verbally abused by her mother, and God only knows what else. And she drinks. She knows she shouldn’t drink but she can’t help it. She knows she shouldn’t love her fiancée, but she can’t help that either. And worst, she thinks that because she does these other things that she shouldn’t do, she shouldn’t pray either. How can she pray, when she is so ashamed? As far as she can tell, she has let her whole patch go. She’s given up fighting them, and she’s ready to raise a weed garden. But she also senses that there are other options. She senses that there might yet be beauty and fruit to be harvested. Rosa, like the rest of creation, is longing for redemption. Rosa, like the rest of creation, waits with eager longing. Rosa, like each of us, groans inwardly while waiting for adoption, and the redemption of her body.
But Paul tells us in today’s reading from Romans, “you have received a spirit of adoption… we are children of God.” This is an already-done thing. Even though we continue to long for redemption, the promise that we have from God, the promise to which we are heirs, is that the judgment has already happened. Christ is God’s judgment on us, and that judgment is that, in spite of all that we have done, in spite of all the weeds in our patch, we are adopted, we are children of God, and we are heirs to God’s promise of freedom. God’s judgment is that while we were yet sinners, God loved us, just as we are, weeds and all. God’s judgment is that God came to earth to be with us, and in Christ took all of our alcohol and abuse, our shame and pain, and everything else that we carry. Acting in Christ, God took it all with him up on the cross, and died for it, not to deepen our shame, but to remove it, to carry it away from us, and set it aside once and for all.
Each week we come in here and confess our sins and receive the assurance of forgiveness. Each week we come to the table and receive the promise of forgiveness and redemption in Christ’s body broken and blood poured out. Each day we wake up and try to live in the freedom that Christ has won for us. But every day, new weeds sneak in. Daily, then, we are tending this field, with God’s help. And daily God sends harvest workers, and helps us to gather up the weeds and discard them; helps us to gather up the wheat and shine like the sun in the kingdom. That’s why a community garden is such a good thing. We can’t do this alone. If we do, we wind up seeing nothing but the weeds. We wind up like me the time that I pulled a whole bed of forgotten seedlings, thinking they were weeds. We wind up focusing on the weeds, forgetting about the good plants. We focus on all that we’ve done wrong, and we begin to hide ourselves from God, too ashamed to even speak to God.
It is only in community, only through the others that God has sent into our lives, that we can recognize the gifts that we have, the freedom that we have received. It is only through the others that God has sent into our lives that we can recognize ourselves as heirs according to the promise, children of God who have already received a spirit of adoption. It is a community garden that we tend. Though we each have our own patch, we help one another out, with support, encouragement, some watering, even some weeding and harvesting. And then we share the fruits of our work with one another. If I’ve got too many tomatoes, I give them to my neighbors. If they’ve got too many zucchinis, they share them with me. But we are free to work together in this garden because we are already children of God; we have already been adopted, or gathered into the barn, or whatever metaphor works for you at this point in the story. However you want to put it, it’s a done deal.
I saw Rosa again. A couple of weeks ago, I was out taking a walk at lunch time. I don’t usually take walks at lunch – it’s not like there’s a beautiful park or garden there, just hot, dirty, often smelly and noisy, city streets. But this was a nice day, and I thought I could maybe make a phone call while I walked, so I went out. I was almost back to the hospital entrance, and I had put my phone away, when a woman stopped me to ask directions. She was smoking a cigarette, and she seemed to be harried, in a hurry. I stopped to offer the best directions I could, though I don’t really know the area well. At first I didn’t recognize her. She was wearing makeup and glasses; she was dressed up and had her hair done. But then I said, “aren’t you Rosa?” She was startled that I should know her name, but said, “yes, I’m Rosa.” “I’m the chaplain who visited you when you were in the hospital here.” She grabbed me, and pulled me into a hug, and kissed my cheek. Tears began to come to her eyes, and she said, “this address is the alcohol counseling center, and I’m late and I’m lost. I overslept, and I almost didn’t come because I was afraid that I would be late, and then I stop someone for directions, and it’s you! You are a sign from God that I need to go. God sent you to make sure that I get there.” I told her that she still had almost 5 minutes and she was only 2 blocks away. She hugged me again, and went on her way, swearing that God had sent me. I think she might have been right. God sent me, as he sends all of us, to tend the community garden.
Wee
Jesus told parables like this because he was trying to make a point in a way that people could get their brains around. Most of the people listening to this parable would have known a lot about raising wheat – it was an agrarian society, and they spent a lot of time in and around wheat fields. They relied heavily on the harvest to get them through the year. If the harvest were to come up short, they could be certain that there were going to be hard times ahead. As for me, I know very little about raising wheat. If I want bread, I go to the store. The closest I come to wheat is buying flour and baking my own bread… with a bread machine. I might see a little bit of a change in the price if the harvest is bad one year, but not by much.
However, I have been doing some gardening in the past few years, and I’ve learned a few things about it. I’ve learned that weeds usually come up in the best soil, where you’ve tilled and amended and fertilized. They also tend to plant themselves right next to another, better established plant. They take advantage of the work that other plants to breaking up the soil and reaching for nutrients, and then they follow. That means that their roots can get wrapped up with those of the more desirable plants. If you pull one, you often pull both. Another thing I’ve noticed is that weeds have developed over time to look like the plants they cozy up to. That’s what happened in this parable.
The weed that Jesus is talking about is known as “darnell.” When it’s young, it looks just like wheat. If the workers were to go out into the field then and start trying to pull up the weeds, they wouldn’t have much idea which one they were pulling. If they pulled half of what was there, they would be just as likely to pull all wheat as they would be to pull all weeds. Better to leave it at that point. Of course, as it gets older, you can tell the difference, and you could go out and pull all of the darnell out. But by then, the wheat and the weeds have grown up so close together, that you would pull both out by their intertwined roots. Either way you’d be left with half a harvest at best.
So what if you leave it, what are the consequences? Well, having weeds in the field means that there will be a lower yield. The weeds will suck up some of the nutrients and water that would otherwise go to the wheat. This means a lower yield at the harvest. Also, darnell is a poisonous plant, so if any of it is left in at the harvest, there will be poison mixed in with the wheat that goes into the barn. The harvesters will have to be extra careful, and the harvest will take more energy this year than normal. But overall, they will probably get closer to a full harvest by leaving the weeds where they are than they will by pulling them, either early in the season or later. So that’s the background of the parable. We can look at Jesus’ time and see how there were a lot of people that were being left out of the religious and political systems, people that Jesus spent more time talking to than most. We can imagine that Jesus was trying to encourage society not to judge others too quickly, that he was telling the Pharisees to lay off with their strict purity laws, or that he was telling the Romans to ease up on their persecution. We can also imagine that Matthew, who wrote this all down, was dealing with a church full of Gentiles and Jews, and that he was trying to get both groups to chill out and live together in some kind of truce. We can all imagine, and apply lessons learned to today’s community. But there’s something else about this that was bugging me as I was trying to write that sermon, where I ended with those lessons about how we can’t judge better than God.
I think one reason that I couldn’t go with the cheeky magazine quiz sermon is that I’ve been spending this summer serving as a chaplain at Abbott Northwestern hospital. Every day, I meet someone new, who is certain beyond certain that he or she is nothing but a weed in a field of wheat. When I walked into Rosa’s room, the shades were drawn and the lights were off. Rosa was lying on her side, curled up in a ball. The nurses had told me that I could go in and see her, but they didn’t expect I’d get much out of her. Her speech was slurred, they said, and she was barely coherent. Her chart seemed to have written her off as a hopeless alcoholic. Get her sober enough to get well, and get her out of here. When my eyes had adjusted, I saw that Rosa was wearing a hospital gown, no makeup, and her glasses were on the nightstand. She was ready enough to talk to me. When I told her I was a chaplain, she sat up a little, tried to adjust herself to be more presentable. She started to tell me about herself. Her speech was clear enough, though she had a central American accent, and a slight lisp. Of course, she had been stung in the face by a bee, and her tongue had swollen up, so that was to be expected, I guess. She told me that she had been trying for some time to overcome alcoholism, and had even had periods of sobriety. She had been sober for several months before this last bender. But she had to go back to his house, back to get her belongings and her immigration papers. He talked her back in the door, and she thought she could stay sober. He started drinking around her, and she thought she could have just one drink. He started beating her, and she numbed the pain. When she came to the hospital for this allergic reaction to a bee sting she had been drunk for several weeks straight. She desperately wanted to get better and to turn her life around. At the moment that I met her, she was awash in shame. Unfortunately, that was not helped by the attitude of the doctor who came in during our visit and patronizingly told her that she needed to get sober. It was obvious that he was thinking, “this is never going to happen, but I have to say it anyway.” I asked Rosa if she ever prayed. She responded, ““How can I pray, when I am so ashamed to talk to God? How can I pray when I have been living like this?”
Rosa has bought the messages that have been given to her for years. She has absorbed enough of the attitude of the doctor and others like him that she believes it herself. She has been beaten by her fiancée, sexually assaulted, verbally abused by her mother, and God only knows what else. And she drinks. She knows she shouldn’t drink but she can’t help it. She knows she shouldn’t love her fiancée, but she can’t help that either. And worst, she thinks that because she does these other things that she shouldn’t do, she shouldn’t pray either. How can she pray, when she is so ashamed? As far as she can tell, she has let her whole patch go. She’s given up fighting them, and she’s ready to raise a weed garden. But she also senses that there are other options. She senses that there might yet be beauty and fruit to be harvested. Rosa, like the rest of creation, is longing for redemption. Rosa, like the rest of creation, waits with eager longing. Rosa, like each of us, groans inwardly while waiting for adoption, and the redemption of her body.
But Paul tells us in today’s reading from Romans, “you have received a spirit of adoption… we are children of God.” This is an already-done thing. Even though we continue to long for redemption, the promise that we have from God, the promise to which we are heirs, is that the judgment has already happened. Christ is God’s judgment on us, and that judgment is that, in spite of all that we have done, in spite of all the weeds in our patch, we are adopted, we are children of God, and we are heirs to God’s promise of freedom. God’s judgment is that while we were yet sinners, God loved us, just as we are, weeds and all. God’s judgment is that God came to earth to be with us, and in Christ took all of our alcohol and abuse, our shame and pain, and everything else that we carry. Acting in Christ, God took it all with him up on the cross, and died for it, not to deepen our shame, but to remove it, to carry it away from us, and set it aside once and for all.
Each week we come in here and confess our sins and receive the assurance of forgiveness. Each week we come to the table and receive the promise of forgiveness and redemption in Christ’s body broken and blood poured out. Each day we wake up and try to live in the freedom that Christ has won for us. But every day, new weeds sneak in. Daily, then, we are tending this field, with God’s help. And daily God sends harvest workers, and helps us to gather up the weeds and discard them; helps us to gather up the wheat and shine like the sun in the kingdom. That’s why a community garden is such a good thing. We can’t do this alone. If we do, we wind up seeing nothing but the weeds. We wind up like me the time that I pulled a whole bed of forgotten seedlings, thinking they were weeds. We wind up focusing on the weeds, forgetting about the good plants. We focus on all that we’ve done wrong, and we begin to hide ourselves from God, too ashamed to even speak to God.
It is only in community, only through the others that God has sent into our lives, that we can recognize the gifts that we have, the freedom that we have received. It is only through the others that God has sent into our lives that we can recognize ourselves as heirs according to the promise, children of God who have already received a spirit of adoption. It is a community garden that we tend. Though we each have our own patch, we help one another out, with support, encouragement, some watering, even some weeding and harvesting. And then we share the fruits of our work with one another. If I’ve got too many tomatoes, I give them to my neighbors. If they’ve got too many zucchinis, they share them with me. But we are free to work together in this garden because we are already children of God; we have already been adopted, or gathered into the barn, or whatever metaphor works for you at this point in the story. However you want to put it, it’s a done deal.
I saw Rosa again. A couple of weeks ago, I was out taking a walk at lunch time. I don’t usually take walks at lunch – it’s not like there’s a beautiful park or garden there, just hot, dirty, often smelly and noisy, city streets. But this was a nice day, and I thought I could maybe make a phone call while I walked, so I went out. I was almost back to the hospital entrance, and I had put my phone away, when a woman stopped me to ask directions. She was smoking a cigarette, and she seemed to be harried, in a hurry. I stopped to offer the best directions I could, though I don’t really know the area well. At first I didn’t recognize her. She was wearing makeup and glasses; she was dressed up and had her hair done. But then I said, “aren’t you Rosa?” She was startled that I should know her name, but said, “yes, I’m Rosa.” “I’m the chaplain who visited you when you were in the hospital here.” She grabbed me, and pulled me into a hug, and kissed my cheek. Tears began to come to her eyes, and she said, “this address is the alcohol counseling center, and I’m late and I’m lost. I overslept, and I almost didn’t come because I was afraid that I would be late, and then I stop someone for directions, and it’s you! You are a sign from God that I need to go. God sent you to make sure that I get there.” I told her that she still had almost 5 minutes and she was only 2 blocks away. She hugged me again, and went on her way, swearing that God had sent me. I think she might have been right. God sent me, as he sends all of us, to tend the community garden.
Wee
Kissing Crosses
“When a 92-year old woman looks at you and tells you she wants to make peace with God, you don’t argue.” That’s what the bedside nurse told me when I arrived. Gertie was lying facing away from the door when I came in, and when I told who I was, she said, “Bless you, thank you for coming.”
I sat down and she asked me to pray for some peace. She was anxious about misunderstandings with God, and she couldn’t rest. There was a prayer, she said, that had brought her peace, and she wanted to hear it again. But she couldn’t remember it. I prayed with her, and then I read the 23rd Psalm. “Such a beautiful, peaceful psalm,” she said. “I almost know it by heart.” “Shall I read it again?” “Always,” she said, “Always read it again.” So I did. By the time I left, I must have read it a dozen times.
As I read and prayed with her, I noticed that her hands wandered a lot. They could come up to her chest, where her gown was open at the neck, and they would stroke the skin there. Then they would move to her stomach and feel her belly. I wondered if she was thinking about leaving her earthly body behind – this body that had borne children, nourished and comforted them. She kept asking where her kids were. I wondered what year it was for her. Were her kids still grown, or babies in her mind? She continued to run her hands over her body, preparing, I thought, to leave it behind, to say good-bye to it.
The hardest moment for me was when she asked to pray the Our Father. I just spend the spring teaching Grace this prayer, and as Gertie and I prayed together, I prayed, too, for Grace. I gave thanks that I had taught her a prayer that she will carry with her all her life, and use when she doesn’t have words for prayer. I was grateful that the prayer we teach at the beginning of life sustains until the end of life.
I continued to think of Grace throughout the time I spent with Gertie. Gertie’s anxiousness and restlessness were keeping her from sleeping. “I just want to lie down and rest,” she kept saying, “why can’t I rest? Why can’t I just go over there and lie down?” I read the psalm again, and then stroked her forehead as she tried to sleep, making the sign of the cross on her brow and stroking her hair back from her head. I do this for Grace as she sleeps, sometimes, or when she’s tired and resting on my lap. Gertie’s mother used to do this for her, when she was a little girl, and Gertie did this for her own daughter, and probably granddaughter. I thought of them, and I thought of Grace, and I was moved by the circle of care that we are part of, the comfort that we give each other from cradle to grave. I was glad to have been a part of Gertie’s circle of comfort.
That night, as I tucked Grace into bed, we read a story from her children’s Bible. Then I asked her if she wanted to pray with me. Together we said the Our Father, call and response, one line at a time. Then I brushed the hair back from her face and gave her our special kiss. One cheek, then the other, then chin, nose, forehead, then the corner of her right eye, ending at the corner of her left eye, making the sign of the cross in kisses all over her face.
I sat down and she asked me to pray for some peace. She was anxious about misunderstandings with God, and she couldn’t rest. There was a prayer, she said, that had brought her peace, and she wanted to hear it again. But she couldn’t remember it. I prayed with her, and then I read the 23rd Psalm. “Such a beautiful, peaceful psalm,” she said. “I almost know it by heart.” “Shall I read it again?” “Always,” she said, “Always read it again.” So I did. By the time I left, I must have read it a dozen times.
As I read and prayed with her, I noticed that her hands wandered a lot. They could come up to her chest, where her gown was open at the neck, and they would stroke the skin there. Then they would move to her stomach and feel her belly. I wondered if she was thinking about leaving her earthly body behind – this body that had borne children, nourished and comforted them. She kept asking where her kids were. I wondered what year it was for her. Were her kids still grown, or babies in her mind? She continued to run her hands over her body, preparing, I thought, to leave it behind, to say good-bye to it.
The hardest moment for me was when she asked to pray the Our Father. I just spend the spring teaching Grace this prayer, and as Gertie and I prayed together, I prayed, too, for Grace. I gave thanks that I had taught her a prayer that she will carry with her all her life, and use when she doesn’t have words for prayer. I was grateful that the prayer we teach at the beginning of life sustains until the end of life.
I continued to think of Grace throughout the time I spent with Gertie. Gertie’s anxiousness and restlessness were keeping her from sleeping. “I just want to lie down and rest,” she kept saying, “why can’t I rest? Why can’t I just go over there and lie down?” I read the psalm again, and then stroked her forehead as she tried to sleep, making the sign of the cross on her brow and stroking her hair back from her head. I do this for Grace as she sleeps, sometimes, or when she’s tired and resting on my lap. Gertie’s mother used to do this for her, when she was a little girl, and Gertie did this for her own daughter, and probably granddaughter. I thought of them, and I thought of Grace, and I was moved by the circle of care that we are part of, the comfort that we give each other from cradle to grave. I was glad to have been a part of Gertie’s circle of comfort.
That night, as I tucked Grace into bed, we read a story from her children’s Bible. Then I asked her if she wanted to pray with me. Together we said the Our Father, call and response, one line at a time. Then I brushed the hair back from her face and gave her our special kiss. One cheek, then the other, then chin, nose, forehead, then the corner of her right eye, ending at the corner of her left eye, making the sign of the cross in kisses all over her face.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Sermonizing
I preached at Mercy Seat tonight. That's my teaching parish. It is a super-supportive congregation. The texts today were Psalm 98, Luke 21:5-19, and two hymns that I selected. You can see all of those here. My sermon is here. I'd love to hear any thoughts or feedback that anyone has.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Winnie-the-Pooh
The theory that we were learning about is in Pentateuch class is about the authorship of the first five books of the Bible (the Pentateuch). Tradition holds that these books were written by Moses, but there are some problems with that tradition. For example, the author writes an account of the death of Moses, which would be admittedly hard, even for someone who was a favorite of God. By our beliefs, on Jesus could write an account of his own death. Another problem, the names keep changing: is it Mt. Sinai or Mt. Horeb? is Moses' father-in-law's name Jethro or Ruel? The most obvious and most famous is that the name of God keeps changing - in your English translation you'll see it appear as God and as LORD. There's lots more in that vein, but I won't bore you. The upshot is that there is a theory that the Pentateuch was in fact written over the course of centuries, drawing from tradition that dates back to Moses and beyond, by 4 authors or groups of authors, known to scholars as J (the Yahwist because he called God Yahweh), E (the Elohist because he called God Elohim), D (the Deuteronomist - guess which book he wrote) and P (the Priestly writer, who is thought to have edited all of it together). So my professor had us read a parody of this called "New Directions in Pooh Studies" in which the author breaks down the Winnie the Pooh stories using the same methods as Biblical scholars. It's pretty silly. Here's a link to his work http://winnie-the-pooh.ru/online/lib/stud.html. After you read that you can read my response by clicking here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)