Salem Sermon Archive
Sermon for Pentecost 14C, August 28-29 2010
August 28-29, 2010
14th Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 14:1, 7-14
Salem Lutheran Church
As I sat with Jesus' commentary on seating assignments at a banquet, I was carried back to he house where I grew up, where we always sat in the same place when we sat down for supper.
Yes, this was back in the time when people somehow actually had schedules which allowed them all to sit down together to share a meal. Even then, breakfast was always on the run and lunch was eaten at work or at school. But at 5:30 every night we all found our way to the dining room table.
My mom sat in the chair nearest the kitchen. My sisters and I were on either side of the rectangular table. And my dad sat at the head of the table in the chair with the arms.
The menu varied of course, but some things were always true. We waited for everyone to get there. We always offered prayer before we ate --- usually "Come Lord Jesus." And if there was meat to be carved, my dad carved it and served it at the table, passing the plates around. For while my mom may have done a great deal of the work to put the actual meal on the table, by virtue of where he sat and how he served, he was the host.
Except on birthdays. Then whosever birthday it was got to choose the menu and have a special friend or two join us for the meal. And whosever birthday it was got to sit in the chair with the arms.
It wasn't always that way though. In fact, I have to go so far back I can barely remember it, but there was a time when we would sit wherever we wanted at the table --- choosing from the four places on either side. But, as you might imagine, this often didn't go well and often someone was to sit next to or across from someone other than whoever they were sitting next to or across from and we would squabble until the night my folks put their collective feet down and said, "That's it. From now on you'll sit where you're sitting now." And from then on we did. Showing some measure of humility the likes of which Jesus describes in our Gospel lesson, as we did what we were told. For that matter, we sat in those same places for as long as my mom remained in that house with that dining room and with that dining room table. Except after my dad died, we never did really sort out who was to sit in the chair with the arms.
We needed the order I would guess. That rule, however arbitrary it may have been, helped us know where we were to be. And it kept the peace.
And so it has always been. Rules help us to keep order. We pay attention to them and we know where we belong. They may well keep the peace.
Only Jesus enters the scene in today's Gospel reading and throws our very human, very fragile, very contrived peace right out the window. For while my parents, and the people he was speaking to so long ago, may have been doing the best they could, those rules don't begin to reflect the Kingdom of God. And not only in terms of who sits where, but even more than that in terms of who's invited to the party altogether.
For one of the rules we have always lived by, is that normally we eat with people we know. People with whom we have something in common. People with whom we share a history or a future. And people who have the ability and the inclination to return the favor and pick up the tab next time. But what we hear today is this: When we're part of God's Kingdom, it's all different. That now we're not only to invite the people we know who can one day return the favor. Rather, we are to invite those we don't know: and those who may be most in need of a meal who most likely can never pay us back. Because here we remember that Jesus is the host, not us. Jesus is sitting in the chair with the arms, passing the plates around… for God has given us all we have to put on our tables anyway. And God's guest list is larger and broader and no doubt more surprising than any one of ours.
Surely we model this here in this place every week where we speak aloud the certain truth that all are welcome at the table. And where we make room for everyone who comes forward for a bit of bread and a taste of wine. And don't you think sharing in this meal together in this place in this way possibly leaves us changed --- better able to extend God's gifts to others… even or especially those who have no chance of returning in kind?
I got to be part of this meal in a different place a few weeks ago. I had stepped outside to visit with one of our own who was by then so frail that she couldn't easily climb down out of the passenger seat to come in and visit with me. I knocked on the car window and she rolled it down. I asked how she was feeling and she shrugged and said not so good. But she moved past it then and asked if I would bring communion out to the family that next week-end. For everyone would be home.
What went unspoken was the certainty that this would be the last time such a meal would be shared between these people bound up together by the bonds of family.
So I went. First we shared a meal of bratwursts and sweet corn together. We had homemade coconut cream pie for dessert. It was a summer feast. Only the table wasn't big enough to include everyone, so some sat on stools at the bar in the kitchen. But when I pulled out a couple of communion kits everyone crowded around, sitting almost on top of one another so as to be able to get as close as possible. I found I had to keep my head down and bite my lip once or twice as I spoke these oh so familiar words about Christ sharing a meal with his disciples --- about his offering of his own body and blood. I kept my head down because whenever I looked up I caught the sight of another person with tears streaming down their face. Except for the one who sat next to me. The one who had issued the invitation. The one whose living and whose soon dying had brought all of these people together for this time. It was as though she already had her eyes, her mind, her heart fixed elsewhere. It was as though, at least in that moment, this meal was more important than even the grief that lived on the edge of her consciousness. She wanted those she loved to have that gift, that reminder, that promise one more time when she could be a part of it with them. A meal that binds us to one another across everything that would separate us… how much we have, where we live, the language we speak or the time we live in. A meal which is God's own gift to us. Just as all the meals we share actually are. A meal where Jesus is the host.
It was different from the bratwursts and sweet corn. There were no tears then. This meal, however, brought us to a different place. One where everyone had to acknowledge the wonder and mystery of life and death. One where we were carried by the promises of Jesus. One that left us somehow changed. One that allowed us, at least for a moment, to see into eternity with the eyes of God.
May this meal always be this for us. Enabling us to see with the eyes of God. And to begin to live by the values of God's Kingdom. Where Jesus sits at the head of the table and the rest of us gather around. Where we crowd closer together to make room for the stranger, the poor, the suffering, the hurting. Where we give up our seats for those who may need to be closer than we do. Or who may need to sit while we can stand. May all of our meals look more and more like this one. Where everyone is welcome, especially those we might not normally think to invite. But who come first on God's guest list. Amen.
August 21-22 sermon
August 21-22, 2010
13th Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 13:10-17
Salem Lutheran Church
I saw this Gospel image come to life before my eyes last week. And I'd go so far as to say that Jesus was there in the heart and hands and voice of the hospice nurse in the room. For she sat on the edge of the bed, you see, and she leaned over the beyond thin woman who lay dying there. She leaned over so as to be able to look into her face which was then twisted to the left. She leaned over and spoke gently to her, calling her by name. "Hey there…" she whispered. And again she called her by name. Seeing her. Speaking to her. Connecting with her ever so gently in the only way left to do so. With her voice, her tender touch, her gentle presence.
I sat in the chair a few feet away and watched. And thought to myself how all too often it is far too easy to not see each other. Especially when one is so physically disfigured, it is simpler then to glance away and not look such suffering in the face. Perhaps this is because such suffering reminds us that it could be us, if it is not already. Only when we fail to really see the one who is before us, we are looking away from one who was created and beloved by God just as much as the most perfectly formed among us who have not yet been ravaged by age or disease.
Which, of course is the gift that Jesus offers in today's Gospel lesson. He sees the bent over woman, probably bending down to do so. In the amount of time it takes most of us to take a deep breath, he comprehends her and what her life has held these last 18 years. And he touches her. And after that nothing is ever the same again. Not for her, to be sure. Not for those gathered either. And surely not for Jesus.
For you see, for Jesus, this was yet another step on his journey to the cross. It was yet one more time when he got crossed up with the authorities for extending kindness and renewing life at a time and place where apparently he wasn't supposed to.
And it did, it does mess with an otherwise well-ordered day, doesn't it? There is time and energy expended, to be sure, but it's more than that of course. For what we know is that in the time and place when this bent over woman entered the synagogue, people like her were prohibited from being in that holy place altogether. For it was believed that her condition was a punishment for her sins. And so she along with so many with similar conditions were not welcome in that place where it was believed God resided.
Now of course we don't believe that any more, that our physical ailments are by definition a punishment for our sins. And yet. I suspect often we still come to this place on this our Sabbath and part of us would rather not be confronted with such pain. We come wanting to be filled, not to be reminded of such great need in the world --- and our call to be instruments of meeting that need. And so we may be tempted to turn away and to try not to let our hearts and imaginations linger there for too long, perhaps not wanting to be reminded of our own need for such healing, too. Maybe that's why that hospice nurse's gentle touch and voice brought tears to my eyes last week. For too much of the time, my instinct is to turn away as well. For I can see myself there, too. On the needing end of that kind of care, that kind of seeing, that kind of healing. And maybe I don't want to be there.
And yet, I am of course. We are all that bent over woman. Bowed down by physical pain, by loneliness, by broken memories, by abandoned hopes. Made weary by too much work, too many worries, too much weighing us down. We are bent over. Unable to lift our heads and look into the eyes of others. Unable to lift our heads to see beyond the step right in front of us. Unable even to straighten up and see the gifts of God which surround us right now.
I am, you are too, of course, so needing someone to bend over and look us in the eye… To see you. And to speak your name ever so gently. To twist their gaze to meet your bent and broken one. To touch you to touch us with a kind of tenderness which brings healing and hope and life, enabling us to stand up straight to see and receive all of God's amazing gifts. I need that seeing, that touch, and so does everyone who enters this place today. Every one of us someway somehow. Can you feel the promise, the gift that is meant for you? For as Jesus saw that bent over woman so long ago, he surely sees you. And Jesus bends down to look you in the eye as well. He calls you by name. He brings you wholeness and life.
The argument that happened that day so long ago between Jesus and the ruler of the synagogue was about what the Sabbath was for, what God's Day was for. But shouldn't it be for this, Jesus said, this day when we are called to receive and celebrate God's amazing gifts? And shouldn't part of this day be then for this: for you and me to bend down to look into the eyes of others also so created and so beloved by God? And to see them? To really see them? And in the seeing to be instruments of that healing that only God can bring? Indeed, how shall we share this gift of healing and hope which we have received --- how shall we share it with neighbors and friends, strangers and family who are so yearning for it, too? Amen.
Pentecost 12C Sermon
August 14-15, 2010
12th Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 12:49-56
Salem Lutheran Church
Now to be sure, this has to be one of our least favorite pictures of Jesus before us now, don't you think? He seems to come in with all kinds of anger that he's setting loose on those who have gathered to listen to him. I mean, it could well be that he speaks these words in a gentle whisper, and yet the tearing violence they hold threatens much of what we hold dear. So it feels more like shouting… and yet. These are spoken into a world every bit as broken as the one you and I live in. These are spoken into ears like yours and mine which have real, life-altering choices to make before we're through. These are spoken out of a profound sense of the sometimes difficult consequences of following Jesus. For as he says right up front, "I have a baptism with which to be baptized." A baptism which involves sacrifice and suffering and death. And if this was so for Jesus, mustn't this also be so for those who follow him?
Even knowing all of this, I find it's hard to feel good about hearing these words of Jesus. Until I pause to listen to the stories of God's people who have lived them. Let me offer you one of those.
Tammy was a member of a congregation I served some time ago. This story took place in the late 50's or early 60's…when she was 9 years old. That was when, for reasons she could not and cannot explain, God started awakening faith in her. And it could only have been God for she came from one of those terribly broken places where nobody important in her life would bother with matters such as a life of faith.
This is how it was. Tammy started going to church. She would sneak out of her house on Sunday morning and would walk alone to worship. Too young to have doctrine make any difference at all, she would visit churches of all kinds on her Sunday morning expeditions. Assembly of God, Roman Catholic, Methodist, Baptist, Presbyterian, and yes, Lutheran, were all included. She would walk right in and find a place to sit. She would watch and listen closely and at first timidly and then more boldly she would sing the hymns and stand and kneel and listen and pray in different fashions week after week. Tammy did finally settle on a Lutheran church though. Maybe that's because of what happened after one of their services on one of those Sunday mornings.
Tammy was heading out the front door after shaking hands with the pastor. And she was met by her mother on the expansive green lawn of the church. And there, in front of the pastor and church members, her mother beat her. For her disobedience, to be sure, for sneaking out of the house. But it was something more, at least in terms of how Tammy remembered it. Her mother expressed a violent opposition to the faith that had taken hold of her little girl and was starting to shape her life.
Well, you might think that would have put an end to Tammy's Sunday morning expeditions, but it did not. The next Sunday morning while her mother was still asleep, Tammy showed up again at worship at that Lutheran church ---- just as the 10:30 church bells rang --- and she slipped into a back pew. And that Sunday, and every Sunday after that, after worship, her pastor snuck her out the back door.
"Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division! From now on five in one household will be divided, three against two and two against three; they will be divided."
Jesus' words simply affirm what a member of one of our congregations experienced when she was only nine years old. This faith we claim and that claims us has real consequences. Lived into, it may well put us at odds with the people we know to be closest to us in our lives. Indeed, what Jesus describes for us today are inevitable consequences in a broken world where not everyone has heard the voice of Jesus in the same way that you and I have. For everything we are called to be and do in this place and among the people here runs counter to what the world would have us do. Where the world would have us hoard or only spend on ourselves, our faith would tell us to share it. Where the world would tell us getting even is what matters, following Jesus would say that forgiveness is always essential. Where the world would say that the earth's resources are ours to be consumed, our faith would tell us that we are called to care for and tend this wonderful earth, not simply use it up and throw it away.
Now even those few examples have real consequences in terms of how we live our lives day to day. And they may well put us at odds with those who are dearest to us. Hopefully never in the way a former 9 year old experienced at the hands of one of the people in this world who was called to love her first and foremost. But that happens, too. And when it does, the promise of Christ's powerful love rests on us most profoundly then. That love which pulls us into and makes us part of another family, this family of Christ's church, which can give us belonging and hope and purpose: those precious gifts we need to live and be all that God has called us to be.
No, the voice of Jesus does not fall gently on our ears today. But even so, this is surely good news for those who have lived it. For we know then that we're on a journey with Jesus who has already been there. And at the end of, and often in the middle of, this life of faith we will experience God's amazing gifts over and over again. And if we haven't known that kind of division resulting from the choices we're making: if not with family, then with friends or coworkers or neighbors, then perhaps we need to look again at how we're called to follow Jesus. And to do so in new ways. Oh, to be sure, it's likely that one day that time will come when our faith will cause us to break in some way from someone somewhere. Then may these words of Jesus fall as blessing on us, too. Amen.
August 7-8 Sermon
August 7-8, 2010
11th Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 12:32-40
Salem Lutheran Church
Sycamore, Illinois
I was six years old the morning my mom put me on a bus in Rockford with my destination being Waukesha. I was going for a week to visit my cousin Susan. I was, for the first time in my life going without my three younger sisters tagging along. I was going alone.
Now this would be unthinkable today, but back then I guess many people didn't worry so much that something terrible would happen to a six year old alone on a Greyhound bus. At least my folks didn't. So off I went with my little suitcase and all kinds of glad expectation filling me up as I climbed on board and took my seat halfway back.
It wasn't long though before I figured out that I had failed to ask some important questions. For you see, every other time I had traveled it had been in the back of the family station wagon. Every other time we had done this journey with maybe one bathroom stop on the way and with my folks keeping track of us. This time though? That bus stopped in every little town between Rockford and Waukesha. And since apparently I had no concept of time and wasn't much into reading road maps or signs, every time that bus would come to a stop, I would walk to the front of the bus and try to get off. And every single time the bus driver would patiently say to me, "Not yet, honey… I'll tell you when…" and send me back to my seat. Only I didn't really trust that I wouldn't be forgotten. So I kept making that trek to the front of the bus at every stop.
We were almost there before I figured out if I just listened, the driver was announcing the name of the next stop we'd be pulling into. If I only paid attention, if only I knew what it was I was to watch for, I wouldn't miss my stop.
In some ways, it is that kind of vigilance that is called for in our Gospel lesson today. It's the kind of watchfulness that knows that your very life depends upon it so you find yourself keeping all your senses peeled. The only problem was? I was working with the wisdom of a six year old who hadn't been on this journey in quite this way before. And so all I knew to do was to keep checking.
And while, I don't believe God would have us today keep checking with the driver to see if this is the end of the journey here, what God does call us to today is different from what we often do.
For most of the time I'm at the back of the bus, believing the journey will never end.
Too much of the time, I'm engrossed in my own business and not tending to what needs to be tended to before the bridegroom returns.
All too much of the time I forget entirely that God is simply waiting to give me all that I need --- even right down to God's own Kingdom --- and it is only ours to receive it and to live like it's ours in which to love and live, to give and receive, to hope and to pray.
I can recall another kind of vigilance that marked my life when I was small. I would experience it some nights before I would fall asleep and my imagination would get the better of me and I would start to wonder what would happen if the house suddenly caught fire. How would I get out? And so I would make an escape plan. And then I'd think about what valuables I'd want to take with me. And I would look around my bedroom with my eyes now adjusted to the dark and would pick out those treasures I could grab quickly and carry with me as I hurried down the stairs.
I was small of course… probably five or six years old… and surely it was a sign of my own short sightedness that I thought of things I would want to save rather than the other people who also slept on the second floor of that house on South 3rd Street. Still, it's an interesting exercise, isn't it? What would you grab in a hurry? Where is your treasure, truly?
In some ways, life seemed more fragile when I was six than it does sometimes now that I'm approaching 50. Over time we pay up our insurance, put double locks on the doors and try to keep our homes in good repair so that now our imaginations aren't so likely to carry us away in the deep of the night… We long ago learned to read maps and watch the road signs --- time and experience have taught us what to listen for so that we can be sure we'll always get off at the right stop.
And yet, the words spoken today are best heard by the child in us --- that part that is deeply aware that forces beyond our own control could change it all at any time and that ultimately someone else is driving this bus we're on. That's what Jesus is getting at when he tells us not to be afraid, little flock, for it's the Father's good pleasure to give us the kingdom. We are simply receivers of God's gifts and we're not finally in control.
And so what is there for us today? Surely this is not a call to spend our nights waiting for it all to end or our days so distracted by watching for the signs that we altogether miss the joy of the kingdom God is extending to us. No indeed, my anxiety at the age of six already had me wanting to be in control --- as much as I could be then. So no, it must not be that, but rather, this must be a call to live our lives by a different set of values. One that wakes in the morning and remembers that our beginnings and endings rest in God's hands and that in-between we are to reflect that powerful love God has for us in this day to day time we've been given. And surely that finds its deepest, truest meaning in the next words out of Jesus' mouth where he tells us that we are to be remembering the poor. The poor in body and spirit and heart. Those in our home, those in our neighborhood and those halfway around the world. And in remembering to care for them, it is there we will find the only treasure that matters. For that is where and when we'll come closest to the heart of God. That's where and how we'll find ourselves awake to God's gifts in our lives and the gifts we have to give the world. Indeed, as we live more fully in this way that God intends, we will learn to trust more deeply God's desire to give us all that is good. And we'll be so engaged with the world God gave us to live and give in, we won't be checking to see when it's time to get off the bus. For we'll already be living by the signs that were meant for us. And we'll be so deeply aware of the goodness of God, that we will end each of our days in trust and in hope, knowing that the treasures that matter aren't the ones we can gather in our arms should we have to flee from a burning house, but the ones that live in our hearts. Amen.