Dramatic reading of the Passion Narrative
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Salem Sermon Archive
Pr. Janet's printed sermon - March 20-21, 2010
March 20-21, 2010
Lent 5 C
John 12:1-8
Salem Lutheran Church, Sycamore, Illinois
I saw it again and again this last Wednesday morning: first a nurse practitioner, then her rheumatologist, then after x-rays were taken a foot doctor: all kneeling at my mother’s feet gently probing up and down, top and bottom of her right foot, asking if it hurt. It did, of course, for she has a stress fracture in one of her toes. And now she’s in a boot and off her feet for the most part for the next six weeks to let it heal. They were kind and gifted and they got to the root of her pain in a matter of minutes, really… but then, that’s their job. Done well, it’s a marvelous gift, and while it is reminiscent of the posture we witness in our Gospel lesson today, it doesn’t even come close to Mary’s gift as she kneels at the feet of Jesus in the image before us now. Indeed, as I sat on the spare chair across the room watching doctors exercise their best gifts, it was yet another old picture that flashed across my mind’s eye. Closer, I think to Mary kneeling at Jesus’ feet and anointing him with that flask of expensive perfume. It was nearly 15 years ago: a warm Sunday afternoon in June. My dad was just home from the hospital and my sister Martha and I had caught up with them that day at their home on South Main Street in Rochelle. It had already been a tough stretch --- for his initial recovery from heart surgery was taking longer than what anyone had expected. And not only did he have the usual healing wounds in his chest and his legs that most anyone would have after such a surgery, but during his extended stay in the hospital he got up one night and took a fall and he had a shiner on one eye that rivaled any he would have gotten in his younger years of playing hockey or football. He was a mess. So there we sat in the living room, the smell of sickness and death barely averted was all around us. The tv was on in the background and there was a lull in the conversation as we had run out of words, when suddenly Martha jumped up and disappeared. Pretty soon she was back with a bottle of lotion in her hands. And I watched as she knelt at my dad’s feet and rubbed that lotion into his swollen legs: over those still raw wounds where they had removed the veins for his bypass surgery.
It was unexpected, unsolicited. It was a reversal of roles. And it was an act of pure devotion. It was a kneeling down that spoke of more than thirty years of having been on the receiving end of a father’s love for a child. It was a concrete, gentle act of kindness borne of love. And it is an image I’ve carried with me all these years since.
So I kept seeing all these images of people kneeling at the feet of others as I sat with the story of Mary kneeling at Jesus’ feet. Only in her case, her kneeling not that of a professional caring for a patient. Not that of a child tending to an ailing parent. No hers was out of gratitude for Jesus having brought her brother, Lazarus, back to life again. Still, it was unsolicited. It was unexpected. It was an act of service borne out of devotion and love. Out of a very human devotion and love. But seeing it as we do today, we also know that it was even more than that for it also points to what is soon to come. For tradition had it that the feet of a man were only anointed if he was dead. One seldom poured expensive perfume on anyone, but if it were to happen anywhere, it would have been more likely for her to pour that jar of perfume on Jesus’ head. For even though Jesus is still very much alive, Mary sensed something, somehow.
Indeed, what should be a time of only joy as family friends come together celebrating Lazarus’ return to life, has the echo of doom in the background. It seems that the very smell of suffering and death have made their way into this place. We know this is so for right before this we hear that they are plotting to take Jesus’ life. And right after this story today we hear that Lazarus is most likely headed for the same fate as Jesus. Mary must understand this at some level. And in spite of the fear that must have been in the pit of her stomach, the wonder is that she responds not by hanging on to what is most precious in her cupboard, but instead pours it all out on the feet of her teacher and friend and savior. Perhaps sensing that this chance would never come again, she kneels at his feet and offers an extravagant gift of pure love.
Oh, it’s easy sometimes these two thousand years distant, to forget the very real humanity of Jesus. That he was just like you and me with his friends and his habits and his aching, tired feet. That he must have felt safe and sheltered for just a little while in the home of his dear friends, Lazarus and Martha and Mary. That he must have leaned back in wonder to take in the pure love of Mary and the fragrance of that ointment washing away his tiredness and keeping at bay his trepidation at what waited for him when he walked out that door. We forget that the dust, the sweat, the devotion, the struggle was every bit as real as what you and I encounter when we step out into the world every single day. Only we mustn’t forget that for if we do, we also forget that we live in the same tradition as Mary did with Jesus whenever we kneel down in service to Jesus by kneeling down in love and service before any of God’s own. Perhaps with something as extravagant as a year’s salary worth of perfume. Perhaps with something as simple as a bottle of lotion found in the bathroom cabinet. If it is all that we are and all that we have poured out in love and devotion and gratitude? Then just as with Mary it is simply beautiful. And in ways we can’t fully comprehend, but have come to believe, that kind of love will be stronger than any struggle, any suffering, any death that waits outside our doors. For it is in the same kind of such pouring out that Jesus died. And it is in the wake of such pouring out of his all and his everything that Jesus rose again, defeating death that you and I might have life. Amen.
Lent 5 C
John 12:1-8
Salem Lutheran Church, Sycamore, Illinois
I saw it again and again this last Wednesday morning: first a nurse practitioner, then her rheumatologist, then after x-rays were taken a foot doctor: all kneeling at my mother’s feet gently probing up and down, top and bottom of her right foot, asking if it hurt. It did, of course, for she has a stress fracture in one of her toes. And now she’s in a boot and off her feet for the most part for the next six weeks to let it heal. They were kind and gifted and they got to the root of her pain in a matter of minutes, really… but then, that’s their job. Done well, it’s a marvelous gift, and while it is reminiscent of the posture we witness in our Gospel lesson today, it doesn’t even come close to Mary’s gift as she kneels at the feet of Jesus in the image before us now. Indeed, as I sat on the spare chair across the room watching doctors exercise their best gifts, it was yet another old picture that flashed across my mind’s eye. Closer, I think to Mary kneeling at Jesus’ feet and anointing him with that flask of expensive perfume. It was nearly 15 years ago: a warm Sunday afternoon in June. My dad was just home from the hospital and my sister Martha and I had caught up with them that day at their home on South Main Street in Rochelle. It had already been a tough stretch --- for his initial recovery from heart surgery was taking longer than what anyone had expected. And not only did he have the usual healing wounds in his chest and his legs that most anyone would have after such a surgery, but during his extended stay in the hospital he got up one night and took a fall and he had a shiner on one eye that rivaled any he would have gotten in his younger years of playing hockey or football. He was a mess. So there we sat in the living room, the smell of sickness and death barely averted was all around us. The tv was on in the background and there was a lull in the conversation as we had run out of words, when suddenly Martha jumped up and disappeared. Pretty soon she was back with a bottle of lotion in her hands. And I watched as she knelt at my dad’s feet and rubbed that lotion into his swollen legs: over those still raw wounds where they had removed the veins for his bypass surgery.
It was unexpected, unsolicited. It was a reversal of roles. And it was an act of pure devotion. It was a kneeling down that spoke of more than thirty years of having been on the receiving end of a father’s love for a child. It was a concrete, gentle act of kindness borne of love. And it is an image I’ve carried with me all these years since.
So I kept seeing all these images of people kneeling at the feet of others as I sat with the story of Mary kneeling at Jesus’ feet. Only in her case, her kneeling not that of a professional caring for a patient. Not that of a child tending to an ailing parent. No hers was out of gratitude for Jesus having brought her brother, Lazarus, back to life again. Still, it was unsolicited. It was unexpected. It was an act of service borne out of devotion and love. Out of a very human devotion and love. But seeing it as we do today, we also know that it was even more than that for it also points to what is soon to come. For tradition had it that the feet of a man were only anointed if he was dead. One seldom poured expensive perfume on anyone, but if it were to happen anywhere, it would have been more likely for her to pour that jar of perfume on Jesus’ head. For even though Jesus is still very much alive, Mary sensed something, somehow.
Indeed, what should be a time of only joy as family friends come together celebrating Lazarus’ return to life, has the echo of doom in the background. It seems that the very smell of suffering and death have made their way into this place. We know this is so for right before this we hear that they are plotting to take Jesus’ life. And right after this story today we hear that Lazarus is most likely headed for the same fate as Jesus. Mary must understand this at some level. And in spite of the fear that must have been in the pit of her stomach, the wonder is that she responds not by hanging on to what is most precious in her cupboard, but instead pours it all out on the feet of her teacher and friend and savior. Perhaps sensing that this chance would never come again, she kneels at his feet and offers an extravagant gift of pure love.
Oh, it’s easy sometimes these two thousand years distant, to forget the very real humanity of Jesus. That he was just like you and me with his friends and his habits and his aching, tired feet. That he must have felt safe and sheltered for just a little while in the home of his dear friends, Lazarus and Martha and Mary. That he must have leaned back in wonder to take in the pure love of Mary and the fragrance of that ointment washing away his tiredness and keeping at bay his trepidation at what waited for him when he walked out that door. We forget that the dust, the sweat, the devotion, the struggle was every bit as real as what you and I encounter when we step out into the world every single day. Only we mustn’t forget that for if we do, we also forget that we live in the same tradition as Mary did with Jesus whenever we kneel down in service to Jesus by kneeling down in love and service before any of God’s own. Perhaps with something as extravagant as a year’s salary worth of perfume. Perhaps with something as simple as a bottle of lotion found in the bathroom cabinet. If it is all that we are and all that we have poured out in love and devotion and gratitude? Then just as with Mary it is simply beautiful. And in ways we can’t fully comprehend, but have come to believe, that kind of love will be stronger than any struggle, any suffering, any death that waits outside our doors. For it is in the same kind of such pouring out that Jesus died. And it is in the wake of such pouring out of his all and his everything that Jesus rose again, defeating death that you and I might have life. Amen.
Pr. Janet's printed sermon - March 13-14, 2010
Lent 4 C
Luke 151-3, 11b-32
Salem Lutheran Church, Sycamore, Illinois
Grace, mercy and peace to you, dear brothers and sisters, from our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
And so we come upon this familiar story once again. This story told by Jesus which captures for us the breadth and depth and meaning of God’s love.
Having heard it repeated so many times, it still rings true for us in some ways. For some of us we see ourselves in the younger son. The one who messed up. The one who went off to see the world and came back with a less than stellar story to tell. The one who must have been almost afraid to come home again for fear of what would wait him there: but who came home anyway, having nowhere else to turn… Oh, yes, if I’m willing to admit it, I’ve surely been that younger son and I have found myself ever so grateful to know the embrace of the Father welcoming me home.
And some of us, we know ourselves in that older brother. The one who stayed home. The one who gave up his own dreams of something more because of the obligations he’d been born to. Oh, we look in the mirror and we see that older brother looking back at us: and if we look close we can see the tightness in the corners of his eyes: the disappointment with his lot in life. And it all comes to the surface when the younger brother finds his way home and receives a welcome fit for a king: or at least the crown prince. The anger, the resentment, the pent up hurt all comes poring out when he comes in from the field and hears the music playing and realizes he hadn’t even been sent for but that a mere servant accidentally met him with the news of his brother’s return. To be sure, I have been, I am that older brother. More often than I’d like to say.
Or maybe you recognize yourself in the yearning love of the father who will do anything and everything just to welcome his child home.
Oh, yes, we know this story, no matter how many times we’ve heard it, it is still ours. Yet, in my poking around this week I discovered some things I didn’t really know before. I got a window into a culture which brought home to me the meaning of this story in a whole new way.
And so here is how it would have normally worked for a man and his two sons back in 1st century Judea. They would have worked that land together as long as the man lived. And when he died the property would have been divided between the two sons: with the older son getting 2/3 and the younger son getting the remaining 1/3. After his death, the property probably would have remained together: with the whole extended family living in one compound. It would have then been up to both sons to provide for their mother, should she still be alive.
It was not entirely unheard of for one of the sons to ‘ask’ for his share before the father died, but even so it must have been heard as quite an insult. That part I’ve always gotten: It’s as if he said to his dad, “Dad, you’re going to die anyway, so can I just have my share now?” Ouch. But there’s more to this here. For you see, the goal of families in ancient Judea was to add on to the property that had been in the family for generations. Even if the younger son knew a portion would one day be his, it would have been unheard of for him to sell it. Can’t you just imagine the surprise all over town when the “for sale” sign went up? Can’t you almost hear the gossip as the neighbors speculated about what was going on in that family to allow the younger son to sell that hard-earned property which they had held for as long as anyone could remember?
Of course we know what happens next. Apparently the property sold quickly and the younger son took off with his pockets full of shekels. And while we are spared the details, before long the money is gone and he’s got nothing. So much so that he’s doing the one thing no good Jewish boy would ever have allowed himself to do: he was taking care of pigs. So much so that all he has to eat is what’s leftover after the pigs are done with dinner.
He probably fought the idea of going home for a long time. He had every reason to expect that nothing good would wait him there: for evidently tradition had it that one who had brought such shame on the family would only have shame waiting for him there. I understand that there was even a kind of shunning tradition enacted by the whole community in such situations. It would not have been unheard of for a kind of lynch mob to meet him on his way into town and announce to him that there was no welcome for him there and most likely there never would be. For he had insulted his father. He had left his family to try to get by on a whole lot less than what they had before: not to mention taking the contribution of his own labor to the family enterprise with him as he headed off to see the world.
Still, he went. And it turns out, his dad who, somehow never quit loving him, has been watching for him all along. By now he might have started to believe that his younger son had long since died and been buried so far from home. Even so, his heart wouldn’t let him quite give up… and when he saw his boy coming he dropped everything and ran to meet him. Because he loved him, to be sure. But also, some believe, to get him home before the word got out and the whole community could shun him and shame him and send him on his way.
Here again. I’m used to seeing dads running to greet their children. But that, too, would simply not have happened in that time and place. In no way at no time would a man, an elder, a property owner, pick up his robes and run… and especially not to welcome home his younger son who had only brought shame on the family.
And so the fatted calf is slaughtered and a ring is placed on his finger and a robe on his back and shoes on his swollen, tired feet. And the neighbors are invited to a party they must have been shocked to be a part of.
Only dad, the host of the party, doesn’t stay at the table, does he now? For word has made its way in to him that his older son is refusing to join in. Now you should know that once again: this would not have happened. One of his position and status would not have lowered himself to go begging anyone to join the party: Not even this son who has always been with him. Perhaps especially not this son who had it in him to speak to him in a way that no son in that time and place would have dreamed of speaking to their dad. But he does. Again showing us what love looks like --- what God’s love looks like. God’s love that will do anything at all, whatever it takes, to bring us together, to bring us home.
And so for us, this story becomes ours again this season, doesn’t it? A father had two sons. It turns out, both of them fell far short of who they were meant to be and what they were made to do. For both at one time or another utterly failed to see beyond themselves to the one who gave them the very lives they knew. But it turns out the story isn’t finally about them after all. It’s about the father. It’s about God. And that is what makes this story ours still yet, today. And what a powerful gift and reminder and invitation it is for us even now. For can’t you just hear the pounding footsteps of the father running down the road to meet us, too. Can’t you feel his hand on your back, yearning for us to answer that invitation to allow ourselves to come in and join the party. For that is God’s greatest desire and God will do everything in God’s power to make the way for us. So shall we just let go and go on home? Indeed, let’s go in and join that party now. Amen.
March 6-7, 2010
Lent 3 C
Grace, mercy and peace to you, dear brothers and sisters, from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
I found my heart beginning to turn to baseball this week --- as many of you know I have been a life long fan of the Chicago Cubs. I found my heart turning to baseball this week when I heard on the radio Monday morning that spring training games would begin on Thursday. I found my heart turning to baseball and found echoes of my own heart in our Gospel reading for this week. You know the part? Where the owner of the vineyard is walking through --- surveying his property and his eyes fall upon a fig tree that simply hasn’t lived up to its potential. Next thing we know the owner says enough is enough --- it’s wasting the very soil it’s planted in --- cut it down and start over. But the gardener? Perhaps out of a sense of guilt that he hasn’t done enough to help this fig tree produce? Maybe out of the kind of hope that has Cubs’ fans hearts turning to baseball every year again at this time: regardless of last year’s results. The gardener? He begs for one more year.
We only get this brief snapshot today, of course. Just before this, Jesus has been in the middle of an intellectual discussion on the source and reason for human suffering. What we realize is that Jesus wasn’t about to let this important exchange remain a detached conversation about strangers. As heart wrenching a story as it was that was passed on. As awful as are any stories we pass on to one another on any given day. In most circumstances, we can’t easily trace the origin of those events to the particular sin of any human being. We can’t blame the victim. What we can say for sure is that we can’t ever know what goes on in the hearts of others. What we can say for sure as Jesus did is that no doubt they’re no better and no worse than any of the rest of us. So as always, Jesus brings it home. He won’t be distracted from the real people and their issues and challenges and hopes and hurts which are standing right in front of him. So he answers them quickly and then goes on to push them to get down to matters over which they do have some control. Telling them to not get so caught up in questions about others that they forget to tend to what’s living in their own hearts first. And then he throws out the image of this fig tree which found echoes in my own heart this week.
This fig tree which isn’t doing the most basic things fig trees are meant to do. It’s not producing figs. And the owner who’s had enough and is ready to cut his losses. And the gardener who is not so sure that enough has been done and offers to take it upon himself to try to make the difference. And in the end? You and I, listening in on this story, we’re left hanging. Does he give it one more year or not?
I’ve always liked to believe that the one more year was granted, of course. That the gardener gave it that extra special tending it needed and the next year when the owner came back that tree was healthier than ever and all the world could see it in bushel baskets full of figs. I’ve done it with my favorite baseball team for more than 40 years… giving it one more year… So much so that nothing: not even good years for the team on the south side could persuade me to do more than give them a passing glance of interest, much less change my loyalties; although I understand there are whole support groups for recovering Chicago Cubs Fans out there. But then, I’m just a fan --- I’m not the owner. And I’m just listening in on this story today: I’m not the one depending on the fruitfulness of the vineyard and orchard to feed my family. It’s different if it’s yours, I suppose. And I surely know that from time to time, hard decisions have to be made.
So what are we to do with this with this story of the fig tree and its lack of fruitfulness and its hopeful gardener begging for one more year to do what needed to be done? For it does seem that you and I are the fig tree in this story and Jesus is bringing this truth home to us: pointing out our need to bear fruit. For a fig tree only earns its name by producing figs, right? And in the same way for God’s people don’t you think it’s supposed to show somehow in how we live and what we do, too?
A friend was telling me last week that she’s had a whole lot of people streaming through her office these days with stories of all kinds of human hurt. Their pain is almost palpable. She has spent hours and hours listening and has done all that she can in terms of referring them to help. Now she’s not a therapist. Not a doctor. Not a financial advisor. She’s a pastor… but last week she said she’s been starting to write out prescriptions. A little like a gardener digging around the tree and applying manure. And while, her remedy is not manure, it appears to be every bit as effective. She says she’s telling people to come to worship for the next four Sundays and then come back in and talk to her again. She says she doesn’t know how it works, but it does seem to make all the difference. I’d add to her list of things to do though.
- *I’d suggest spending even just five minutes in prayer every morning and night. Say whatever it is that comes to mind but make sure you balance your complaints and your requests with simple words of thanks.
- *And I would add on the suggestion to seek forgiveness at the end of the day from those they have wronged or to do what they can to little by little let go of hurts that are eating away at them --- and to put it all back into God’s own hands.
- *I might urge someone to try to do a simple unexpected kindness for a friend or stranger over the coming days and see where that puts them when they’re done.
All of these things would bring us into the vicinity of the one who has the shovel full of manure and clouds full of rain and skies full of sunshine. All of these things would bring us closer to bearing the fruit we’ve been created to bear. I don’t know how it works, but it seems to: by God’s own gift and grace it seems to.
One more year or not, we have no way of knowing… only God knows what time there is. But in the meantime? I think God has some of that hopeful gardener in him. The one who wants to give us one more year, for we are, indeed, the fig tree in the story Jesus tells today. Only there is this one big difference: fig trees can’t move about, they can’t run away and hide like people sometimes try to do. So maybe first and last this is what we should do. Maybe we ought to be a little more like that fig tree and at least stay rooted to the ground right here in this place: within reach of the care of the gardener who yearns to give us one more year. Amen.
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