Superhero Jesus for Good Friday

My Facebook page is full of Good Friday posts. Many are simple recitations of scripture verses. Some are thoughtful reflections on the meaning of the cross and Jesus' death. But on Facebook, you have to take the good with the bad, and there is plenty of bad theology on Facebook during Holy Week.

One post in particular caught my eye. It had a picture of flowers with these lines superimposed over it. "Death couldn’t handle Him, and the grave couldn’t hold Him." Just below the picture was a piece that begin with, "He is indestructible." Apparently death came after Jesus like a bad guy fighting a superhero, and Jesus took him out with one punch. Except, of course, that is not at all what happened.

I suppose there is no religious significance to the much hyped release of the movie, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, opening on Good Friday. That said, Americans do seem to like a superhero styled Jesus. The cross is just a technical issue to be dealt with on the way to Easter. In this model, even Jesus' suffering is superhuman, something no one else could have done.

Such notions fit nicely with American appreciation of power and success, but they bear little resemblance to the Jesus seen in scripture. That Jesus does not take on death and win. He is executed and he dies. According to the gospels, he dies quicker than others on a cross typically did. The is a model of power Americans often cannot fathom, one Paul describes as power made perfect in weakness. God's love took human form and gave everything, even life itself. This is no superhero, at least not as we use the term, who takes on death and wins.

This is the Jesus of whom Paul writes, "though he was in the form of God did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, take the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death -- even death on a cross."

Superhero notions of Jesus that see him as "indestructible" cheapen the self-giving of Jesus who risks all. Worse, superhero images of Jesus/God too easily mistake the Divine for an angry crusader, doing battle with all who oppose God or who oppose us. But the God we meet in Jesus loves all the world so much that God gives Jesus, and Jesus gives himself. God/Jesus does not punch death or evil in the nose. Instead self-giving love overcomes evil and death. No punching involved.

Superheros may be indestructible. They may overcome bad guys with brute force, but that is not the way of Jesus. Jesus demands that we love our enemies, even says that doing say makes us like God. And Jesus does not change his tune when he faces the cross. He prays for his enemies as he dies.

And he dies, and is laid in the tomb, just like any other human being... Until God's love overcomes even death with life, with resurrection.

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Idolatrous Terror, Idolatrous Responses, Idolatrous Politics

I suppose the horrific bombings in Brussels this week, as well as the responses to it, were depressingly predictable. Another terror attack was not a matter of if but of when. Terrorists of all stripes have an appalling disregard for others. Commuters in Brussels or shoppers in Istanbul are merely targets, not fellow human beings. When terrorists are religious, as they so often are, they have concluded that the people they kill are hated by God, and if hated by God then not of any real worth.

This clearly happens when Islamic terrorists believe that they are killing enemies of God rather than fellow humans. The victims are not people with whom terrorists disagree. They are "evil" and less than human because they are God's enemies. Of course such a conclusion requires collapsing God

into the terrorists' particular understanding and interpretation of God, and of Islam's sacred texts.

Deciding that God is exactly as I envision God is clearly an act of creating God in my own image. Such notions are typically referred to as idolatry in Jewish and Christian tradition. I'm no expert in Islamic theology, but I feel reasonably safe in assuming that such behavior is idolatrous for Islam as well. Yet such idolatry seems remarkably popular in our day, and not just with terrorists.

You see this idolatry in the all too predictable responses to the bombings in Brussels. Ted Cruz called for police to "patrol and secure Muslim neighborhoods" in the US. Donald Trump chimed in that this was a great idea. Cruz surely knows that such actions would be unconstitutional, but he is not speaking of real possibilities. Rather he is appealing to those who view Muslims as God's enemies.

Cruz and quite a few other Christians engage in an idolatry that works very much like that practiced by terrorists. It assumes God and God's view of things is virtually indistinguishable from their views of God and of the world. And while some might object that Cruz and those like him do not advocate bombs in airports or shopping malls, they do advocate torturing people who may be innocent and bombing and killing women and children whose only crime is being related to a terrorist.

Assuming that God favors Americans over others, or even Christians over others, is an idolatrous act that presumes God to be like me. But for Christians at least, the God we meet in Jesus says that loving enemies and praying for those who hurt us makes us more like God. (Matthew 5:43-48) And this same Jesus lifts up a despised, foreign heretic (a Samaritan) as an example of the love for others God demands. (Luke 10:25-37) Thus to insist that we can hate or hurt certain others because we fear them or because they are the "wrong" religion is to refashion God in our image.

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It strikes me that the idolatry of terrorists and of some reactions to their acts has a parallel in the bitter political partisanship of our day. It may not be connected to particular religious traditions. It may even be practiced by agnostics or atheists, but it follows the same idolatrous pattern. My view is equated with goodness and righteousness while the views of others are seen, not as differences of opinion, but as evil. And so people can speak of those who differ with them of hating America, being against freedom, etc. Political opponents cease to be fellow citizens and become enemies of the good. And such demonizing even takes place within political parties. Some of the rhetoric in the race between Bernie Sanders and Hillary Clinton embraces the idolatrous language of divine enemies, simply replacing enemy of God with enemy of good.

We Presbyterians trace our theology back to John Calvin, and Calvinists have always been particularly concerned about the sin of idolatry. When my denomination's Book of Order outlines the central theological themes of our tradition it includes this one. "The recognition of the human tendency to idolatry and tyranny, which calls the people of God to work for the transformation of society by seeking justice and living in obedience to the Word of God." Idolatry and tyranny go hand in hand because the moment we mistake our desires and purposes for God's (or for that of truth or goodness), we will find it very easy to tyrannize those who disagree with us or oppose us.

For Christians, the problem of sin, of idolatry, calls for confession, but the language of confession, contrition, and repentance is rarely encountered in our public or political discourse. Such language is viewed as a sign of weakness. When questioned on whether he'd ever asked God for forgiveness, Donald Trump replied, "I don't think so." Trump is surely an extreme example, but he is far from unique. When politics turns idolatrous, real confession becomes impossible.

Nor do I come away unscathed from this problem of idolatry. There are commentators and politicians whose words I presume to be false before they are spoken. After all, they speak on behalf of all that is wrong with the world, so I needn't listen at all. They are excommunicated from being legitimate conversation partners.

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In the gospel lection for today, Jesus tells  a parable that entraps the religious authorities. In this "Parable of the Wicked Tenants," an absentee landowner sends servants to collect his share of the vineyard's produce, only to have them beaten, abused, or killed. Finally, he sends his son saying, "They will respect my son." But they kill the son as well. Jesus then asks the religious authorities what the landowner will do. They answer that the landowner will "destroy" the tenants and give the vineyard to others, after which Jesus quotes verses from Psalm 118 that speak of a rejected stone becoming the cornerstone.

This parable is often understood as an allegory with Judaism as the tenants, Jesus as the son who is killed, and Christians as those now given the vineyard. Yet Jesus never says anything of the sort. It is the religious authorities who speak of the landowner destroying old tenants and finding new one. The parable clearly does indict the religious authorities (not Judaism), but they alone speak of destruction. And as the events of Holy Week and beyond unfold, the destruction those authorities imagined does not come to pass.

Instead, Jesus prays for forgiveness from the cross. Following Pentecost, Peter also extends the same forgiveness to those who "crucified and killed" Jesus. (Acts 2:14-42) God turns out to be little like the authorities' expectations of the landowner. Hardly surprising for this God whose ways are not our ways. Yet we keep presuming they are.

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Preaching Thoughts for Palm/Passion Sunday

Our choir is presenting John Rutter's Requiem today in our primary worship service, and so I did not actually write a sermon. In our early, informal service, I did reflect a bit on the king who enters Jerusalem in a royal procession of sorts, particularly as that king is presented in the hymn from Paul's letter to the Philippians that serves as one of the Passion readings for today.

Over the years, I've heard the occasional grumble from someone upset at Palm Sunday now having to share billing with the Passion. I don't actually know when this change occurred. In my own childhood, the day was almost exclusively about the Palm side. That may mean that Palm/Passion Sunday had not yet been instituted by that time, or that the churches my family attended had not yet embraced the idea. Either way, I understand why people who grew up with Palm Sunday might be a bit bummed at the inclusion of the Passion. It does take some of the joy out of the celebration.

Of course going directly from Palm Sunday "Hosannas!" to Easter "Alleluias" creates problems of its own. My childhood notions of Holy Week and Easter went straight from palms to "Christ is risen!" I knew the story of what happened in between, but that seemed to be something of a footnote. This footnote status may be one reason the Jesus of Church and popular culture has so frequently been depicted along the lines of the king he refused to be after his royal entry to Jerusalem.

Jesus and God are often invoked as the champion of this group or that culture. Jesus was at the head of the Crusades and Jesus was at the head of a missionary movement that was very much a part a 19th century missionary movement that was one element of Western imperialism. And that colonial enterprise often understood Jesus to be aligned with Western, white culture. In many people's minds, Jesus became the king the those who celebrated on the first Palm Sunday had hoped he would be, a hero who would help them triumph.

Such distortions of Jesus' kingship are reason aplenty to make today, at least in part, Passion Sunday, and the Christological hymn in Philippians 2:5-11 (the Passion epistle reading for today) may be of help with this. The hymn seems likely to have been an existing one that Paul borrowed for his purposes. That purpose was less about describing Jesus and more about calling the Philippians (and us) to a certain way of living.

The verses immediately prior to the hymn say, "Do nothing form selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others. Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus..." Paul clearly thinks that those who follow the king who processes into Jerusalem will look vastly different from the rest of the world, precisely because the king they follow is so unlike earthly rulers.

Following this king draws us into a completely different ethic, a completely different way of living than that of the world. The ethics of the world can and do encourage good behavior, things such as helping out the less fortunate. But these ethics are rooted in notions of scarcity. There is not enough, and so I must get mine first, prior to worrying about others. There is a natural progression that emerges from this: Me and mine, then those who are close to me, then my community, and so on. And within this notion of scarcity is always the need to preserve and protect mine, my community's my nation's, etc. 

But the ethic Paul says reflects the rule of Jesus is quite different. It starts with the other. Indeed Jesus teaches the very same thing. "Those who seek to save their own life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will find it." Jesus' ethic starts with giving because it is not rooted in notions of scarcity, rather in the promise of God's abundance. So Jesus can call for love of others, even for enemies, because God's abundance showers blessing indiscriminately on all (God makes rain to fall on just and unjust). Finally, Jesus does not even need to defend his own life, so sure is he of God's abundance.

And so while we are right to celebrate Jesus' royal entry into Jerusalem today, we must be clear about just what sort of king this is. And when this "mind of Christ" lives in us, when we are "in Christ," as Paul writes in other places, we are transformed. We become new creations who begin to embody and live by the ethics and standards of that new day, that alternative community, the kingdom that Jesus proclaims. And when our faith communities truly embody kingdom ethics, when they are communities of abundant generosity and blessing for all, even for our enemies, then the world will glimpse the new day the Jesus promises will one day envelope all the earth.

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Trump, Servant Leaders, and Christian Formation

I'm feeling a bit down in the dumps today. Feelings of depression are not necessarily rational things, but the state of politics in America is surely an adequate reason for such feelings. There's a lot of yelling, anger, and histrionics from many of the candidates, and televised "debates" look more like an episode of The View than a logical competition of ideas.

Donald Trump occupies a special place in this depressing scenario. In a time marked by the loss of civility, Mr. Trump sinks to lows that would surely have doomed any previous presidential candidate during my lifetime. Even more depressing, large numbers of Trump supporters proudly claim to be Christians while voicing that support.

I was bemoaning such things as I looked at today's gospel passage. It didn't do much to cheer me up, but it did strike a jarring chord. Jesus has just made the second prediction of his impending death. Once again, the disciples do not understand but are afraid to seek clarification. They also seem to have more pressing matters on their minds. When Jesus questions them about what they had discussed as they traveled we read, "But they were silent, for on the way they had argued with one another who was the greatest. (Jesus) sat down, called the twelve, and said to them, 'Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.'"

The term "servant leader" is popular in church circles, though it's not always clear exactly what it means. But surely Jesus' call to be "last of all and servant of all" cannot possibly speak of the self-aggrandizing narcissism of Donald Trump. In fact, very little that Trump says or does sounds remotely compatible with the teachings of Jesus.

As I've struggled to understand how people can speak of their Christian faith and support for Donald Trump in the same breath without brain circuits shorting out over the total incompatibility, I've read a number of articles and op-ed pieces attempting to explain such support. Many have provided some insight, but this editorial from The Christian Century really struck a nerve with me. It noted Trump's support from those claiming the label "evangelical" even as a large number of evangelical leaders have denounced Trump.

The editorial then drew from a poll done by the Barna Group, a evangelical, Christian research firm, which "found that those whose beliefs align closely with evangelical Christian teachings have a lower view of Trump than do Americans generally. Where Trump does better is among more nominally religious people, those who identify themselves as evangelical—or, like Trump himself, as mainline Christian—but lack deep formation in faith."

I know nothing of the reliability of Barna's polling, but their findings make a lot of sense to me. People who, for whatever reason, apply the label "Christian" to themselves without ever being profoundly shaped by Christ's call to costly discipleship, simply don't realize the incompatibility of Trump's presidential campaign and Christian faith. But this explanation is no cure for my depression. That's because this nominal belief that lacks "deep formation in faith" is very much the product of congregations and denominations like the ones I grew up in and have served.

Jesus may have said, "Not everyone who says to me, "Lord, Lord,' will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father in heaven." He may have gone on and on about bearing fruit and being known because of our "love for one another." But in practice, we have made faith about belief, affiliation, and occasional attendance. Check off the Jesus box and get on the heavenly guest list.

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Not too long into my first pastorate, one of the elders on the congregation's governing council suggested that it was time to do a review of the church rolls. I don't recall what motivated this, but I suspect is was largely administrative, a desire to insure our rolls were fairly accurate (and that we weren't paying the denomination's per member assessment for folks who were no longer around). In the discussion that followed, another elder offered a rule of thumb for the project that I've heard many times since. "If they've attended once in the last year or sent us a check, they are members in good standing."

I don't know that such a rule ever existed, but it's easy to understand why people would think it did. While the churches I grew up in and have served offered encouragement and a variety of ways for deep formation as Christian disciples, this formation was typically seen as optional. We have said, by actions if not actual words, "We'd love for you to become disciples, but become members and give a little money and that will be fine."

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In Matthew's gospel, Jesus speaks to his disciples a final time following the resurrection, words sometimes called "The Great Commission." He tells them - and by extension, the Church - "Make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you." 

Everything I have commanded you... As "Christian" support for Donald Trump makes clear, we've got a lot of work to do.

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Preaching Thoughts on a Non-Preaching Sunday

In our early, informal worship service, the scripture reading is printed in the bulletin. It is typically read by a volunteer worship leader, and so the preacher doesn't have an opportunity to contextualize the passage in any way prior to the reading. Because of this, whoever is preaching often puts a paragraph in the bulletin explaining something about the passage's background or context. This is what Diane put in this morning's bulletin to accompany the gospel reading from John 12 where Mary anoints Jesus.

The final verse of this reading has sometimes been misused to belittle efforts to eradicate poverty, because, it is argued, Christ ordained that poverty should always exist. But in fact, as Jesus’ followers would have been well aware, Christ was quoting from Deuteronomy. It is found in the midst of the instruction that God gives to observe a jubilee year every seventh year, where all who have debts are to be forgiven and released from those debts, in order to break cycles of poverty. In verse 8, Jesus quotes the first part of Deuteronomy, chapter 15, verse 11, which states in its entirety, “Since there will never cease to be some in need on the earth, I command you, ‘Open your hand to the poor and needy neighbor in your land.’” Far from belittling efforts to eradicate poverty, Jesus is acknowledging the need to indeed constantly be fighting the forces of poverty, while at the same time acknowledging that Mary’s extravagant act, offered in love, is appropriate in its context. 

As I read these lines prior to worship this morning, I reflected on how common a problem this is, this need to correct a popular understanding of the Bible or of Jesus' words. Preaching itself sometimes contributes to the problem. We preachers too often pull sermons out of short scripture readings with little consideration of a passage's context, totally misconstruing the text's meaning. And so Paul's words in 1 Corinthians about not eating the Lord's Supper without "discerning the body" are imagined to be about mystical presence in the bread when in fact they are about the gathered congregation, the body of  Christ. I could go on and on.

I learned this quote from my father, but it didn't originate with him. I've been unable to find a definitive source, but its truth is unmistakable. "A text without a context is a pretext." There is a kind of circular logic that often lies behind this problem. It runs something like this: "I was raised a good Christian, and so my beliefs are Christian. And so the Bible surely must support my notions of (you fill in the blank)." Indeed there are people who will cite the Bible to support their right to bear arms, often distorting some poor scripture passage beyond recognition in the process.

This problem is so obvious and so pervasive, surely any serious student of Bible or faith must have encountered it. One might expect that this would give people of faith a tendency toward humility and self-examination. Yet this seems far from the truth, and while readers of this blog might think I'm talking about conservative fundamentalists, the truth is that more liberal Christian often have their own set of unquestioned certainties that they assume are 100% compatible with Jesus' teachings.

1 John 1:8 says, "If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us." And indeed we humans are skilled at self-deception. We cling to our assumptions as though they were gospel. American individualism seems to have exacerbated this. My belief is a private matter, and whatever I believe is correct and unassailable. Much of our toxic political climate emerges from this sort of thinking. It reaches its zenith in the way Donald Trump's campaign and his supporters are totally impervious to truth, but it can be found in much of the political rhetoric on both sides.

One of the fundamental absolutes of Christian faith is that we are followers of a way shown us by another. Jesus is the one who shows us how we are to live, and his ways are often at odds with the ways of the world and with our ways. He calls us to follow and learn his way, a new way. But that requires some personal truth telling, a willingness to repent and change. But we seem less and less able to do so. Lord, help us.

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Food to the Dogs

The encounter in today's gospel reading has long bothered people. Jesus' words seem out of character in some way, leading some to rather contorted interpretations of the passage. When a woman - a Gentile woman - approaches Jesus, asking for healing for her daughter, Jesus says, "Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children's food and throw it to the dogs." 

Anything might have been better than this. Jesus could have said, "I'm too tired, come back tomorrow," anything but what Mark tells us he said. This "problem" has led many to suggest that Jesus doesn't say what he says. Dog is somehow understood as a term of endearment, as though Jesus called the girl a cute little puppy. He didn't. He disparaged her, spoke of her as having less value than Jesus' fellow Jews. It's not so different from some of the charged language we're hearing in this political season, harsh language of "us and them."

I've often wondered why Mark tells the story this way. Why would he describe Jesus in a manner that seems so contrary to the portrait he has been painting of the one he has already identified as the Son of God? (No humans other than writer and reader are aware of this until the cross in Mark's gospel.) He could easily have told the story without telling us what Jesus said, so he must think it important.

The importance has nothing to do with Mark reporting the facts, no matter how uncomfortable. Ancient writers did not share our modern notions of truth demanding factual accuracy. One need only look at how Matthew adapts some of Mark's stories in writing his gospel to get a glimpse of this at work. The gospel writers were interested in prompting faith and discipleship, something much closer to a sermon than a newspaper account of events. This means that Jesus' encounter with this foreign woman, this outsider, must have some real significance for Mark. 

Something that strikes me is how this encounter reverses the typical pattern that has been reported by Mark. Usually it is a religious leader who raises points of tradition or law to Jesus, objecting to his healing on the Sabbath, hanging out with sinners, etc. And in fact, Jesus has just finished lashing out at Pharisees and scribes, going on a long harangue about how they misunderstand and misinterpret God's law, immediately prior to this episode with a Gentile woman. 

In this episode, it is Jesus who sounds more like Mark's depiction of scribes and Pharisees challenging Jesus. On those occasions, Jesus quickly dispatches them. One does not enter into a battle of wits or verbal  sparring with Jesus and come out the victor. At least no one other than this Gentile woman.

Women were not thought capable of being religious disciples in Jesus' day. Religious leadership was a 100% male field. Women were not even allowed to serve as witnesses in a trial. If that were not enough, this woman is a Gentile, a religious outsider who knows nothing of God's covenant with Israel, nothing of Torah. For her to challenge Jesus and win is mind boggling, and Mark certainly knows that when he writes this story.

I wonder if Mark doesn't use this story to address an issue that is current when he writes, some 30 or more years after these events. I wonder if he doesn't allow Jesus to speak words that sounded a lot like those spoken by some Christian leaders in Mark's day (and in ours). "Let's take care of our own, and not worry about them. Let's not throw any food to the dogs until we're certain all of ours are fed."

I wonder if some of Mark's first readers got punked just a bit by this story. They smiled as Jesus agreed with them, but then this no-count, foreign woman makes a once sentence retort, and suddenly Jesus sees things her way. "Wait a minute. What just happened here?"

I can't say for certain what motivates Mark to tell this story as he does. Regardless, it is a stunner. For that matter, the story of God's love, mercy, and grace is very often a "Wait a minute. What just happened here?" sort of story. Turns out that God is a God of abundance. There is more than enough for all; distinctions between us and them, children and dogs, simply don't matter. 

This God of abundance sometimes startles and even frightens over-zealous, religious insiders, but this God is incredibly good news for everyone else.

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Preaching Thoughts on a Non-Preaching (sort of) Sunday

Today is Youth Sunday at Falls Church Presbyterian, which means the design and leadership of  worship belongs to our Middle and High Schoolers, (with a lot of help from Helen Wilkins, our Youth Director). But they are leading only our 10:45 service, and not the smaller, informal service at 8:30. This gives me the opportunity to do a more "informal," off the cuff sermon in that service, which means I have no sermon text to share here. So here are some thoughts still bouncing around in my head after the early service.

The gospel reading for today is Luke's "Parable of the Prodigal." Some would add "Son" to that title, which may say something about how we tend to approach scripture, certainly parables. But first there is that term, "prodigal." It's not exactly a word I hear spoken in general conversation, and I suspect a lot of us need to look it up. I did just that, and its meanings include, "extravagant, lavish, wasteful."

Such prodigal behaviors are usually associated with the younger son in the parable. He certainly blows through his inheritance with extravagant, wasteful ways. He was apparently spoiled and full of himself as well. Normal people don't demand their inheritance ahead of time the way he does. Yet his father seems to have given it to him without much complaint.

This younger son epitomizes some of the stereotypes associated with younger children, just as the elder brother lives into some of the stereotypes for an older child. The younger son is a poster-boy for irresponsibility. But there is a point in the story where he "came to himself," where something seemed to click. He begins to long for the very place he had so wanted to escape. He had thought life was to be found in sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll, but now he suspects that the hired hands at this father's place know more about the good life than he does. And so he heads for home.

His father, who has already been remarkably generous with him, is apparently not finished giving. He now orders fine clothes and jewelry and throws a grand feast to celebrate the younger son's return. And everyone could have lived happily ever after, except that the elder son is none too happy with this turn of events.

Elder son is clearly the dutiful, responsible type. He's not much taken with prodigal behavior, either that of his brother or father. In a parable about prodigal extravagance, he has had no roll, invisible until all the extravagance becomes too much for him. He loses it, chastising his father with words many elder siblings have probably thought, if not actually said. And when the parable concludes, we are left to wonder if the elder brother ever reconciled to father or sibling, if he ever joins the party.

It is here that I think the tendency to refer to this passage as "The Parable of the Prodigal Son," helps point out a problem we get ourselves into as we seek to understand and appropriate this teaching. To say that the parable is about one of the sons seems to indicate that we should understand the parable from that perspective. And indeed that is what typically happens. The parable is seen as good news for those who have strayed, who have done things to fracture relationship with God. God stand ready to embrace us, no matter what.

That is true, and it is good news, but I'm not sure we are supposed to understand the parable from the perspective of the younger son. After all, most church congregations are heavily populated with elder sibling types, with responsible sorts who have never done anything like the younger son in the parable. If we are more like someone in parable, surely it is the elder son. I've certainly heard the occasional sermon preached from the elder brother's perspective, but if we are the elder sibling in the parable, where does that leave us in the end?

Another way to approach this is to realize that the parable, like much of Scripture, is less about us and more about God. There are people in the world and in the Church who look more like one brother or the other, but the parable is mostly interested in speaking to us about the nature of God. In that sense, the parable would probably be better named "The Parable of the Prodigal Father."

Indeed there is a note of prodigal extravagance in the father's conversation with his elder son. As he begs his child to join the party, he says this. "Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours." All that is mine is yours. The father's prodigal, extravagant generosity is not reserved for the younger. It is always there, but the elder son has somehow missed it. Perhaps his tendency to duty and responsibility has led him to think that his relationship with Dad is conditional, rooted in some sort of "if-then" formula. But that is not the God we meet in this parable.

A great deal of behavior in churches seems to be motivated by things such as duty, faithfulness, loyalty, etc. Nothing wrong with being dutiful, faithful, and loyal. These are all admirably qualities. Yet Christian faith is about being the body of Christ, about embodying Jesus for the world, and if Jesus reveals to us a God of prodigal, extravagant generosity, then isn't our calling as the church to share something of this prodigal generosity with the world?

I'm not sure that terms like prodigal and extravagant jump to mind with people think about the Church. But how can we mirror the prodigal, extravagant generosity and grace of God without knowing something of God's prodigal extravagance toward us? And if we genuinely encounter the prodigal extravagance of God in Christ, how could that not overflow from us in lives of prodigal, extravagant gratitude?

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Sermon video: Responding Differently

Audios of sermons and worship available on the FCPC website.

Sermon: Responding Differently

Luke 13:1-9

Responding Differently

James Sledge                                                                                       February 28, 2016

The other night the eleven o’clock news  had a report of another shooting in southeast DC. TV news tends to emphasize such events, but the following morning, it was hard to find anything about it in The Washington Post, just a small paragraph buried deep inside the local section. Such shootings are routine enough that they’re easy to ignore. People might notice if the shooting were in northwest DC or Falls Church or Arlington.

They certainly noticed the terrorist attacks in Paris last November. A lot of people still have the colors of the French flag superimposed on their Facebook pictures, and I added the flag to mine briefly. But I never put a Kenyan flag over my picture, even though they had an attack that killed more than the one in Paris. No Nigerian flag either, and they had two deadlier attacks. In fact, there were six terror attacks in 2015 deadlier than Paris, but I could only remember one of them. I had never even heard of some. Just like I couldn’t tell you the details of any of those shootings in southeast DC.

There are lots of reasons for this. One surely has to do with race. The victims in Southeast DC and in Nigeria were largely black. In Southeast DC, they were often poor, and their deaths didn’t represent any real danger to me or my suburban existence.

We aren’t much surprised by shootings in certain parts of DC, or terror attacks in certain parts of the world. We’ve grown numb by repetition, and it’s not much of a step from numbness to the idea, perhaps a subconscious one, that these deaths matter less, which would mean that their lives mattered less.

There also seems to be a natural human tendency to blame the victim. It makes our lives feel a little more orderly if tragedies happen to other people because of their actions. They got involved with the wrong people. They didn’t work hard enough to live in a safer neighborhood. They got mixed up in drugs and alcohol.

We sometimes do the same thing when it comes to illness or natural disaster. The person smoked or drank too much, didn’t exercise or have a healthy diet. They lived in a flimsy trailer or near a stream that floods. It’s partly their own fault, right?

On Reading the Bible

This is a portion of Richard Rohr's daily meditation, which arrives as an email each day in my inbox. (You can sign up for them yourself at www.cac.org)

The Bible is an anthology of many books. It is a record of people's experience of God's self-revelation. It is an account of our very human experience of the divine intrusion into history. The book did not fall from heaven in a pretty package. It was written by people trying to listen for and to God. I believe that the Spirit was guiding the listening and writing process. We must also know that humans always see "through a glass darkly . . .  and all knowledge is imperfect" (1 Corinthians 13:12).

"It did not fall from heaven in a pretty package," says Rohr, but a lot of Christians seem to disagree. There are more and less absurd versions of the notion that God somehow dictated the Bible. I'll let you decide where this classic defense of the old King James version of the Bible falls on that continuum. "If it was good enough for Paul, it's good enough for me."

Speaking of Paul, he had no Bible as we know it. "Scripture" for him was something close to what most Christians refer to as the Old Testament. In fact, the movement that Jesus' followers began, after his resurrection and their animation by the Holy Spirit, spread and grew and thrived without our New Testament.  A congregation here or there might have had one of the gospels or a letter or two from Paul, but there were no sacred, Christian texts. It would take many generations, and a much more institutional Church, before what we think of as the Bible would come into being.

If Paul had realized that his letters to congregations would one day be turned into sacred texts, surely he would have lowered the snark and sarcasm levels when he was writing the words of today's lectionary epistle. "Already you have all you want! Already you have become rich! Quite apart from us you have become kings!" writes Paul as he attacks the Corinthians hubris and arrogance. No general religious principles here, just a frustrated pastor employing anything at his disposal in an attempt to straighten them out.

I've never been one to read the Bible literally, so I'm uncertain how it is some people think of Scripture as somehow delivered directly from God's hand. I'm especially confused as to how anyone who has actually read the Bible at length can hold onto notions of biblical literalism. It wouldn't really matter to me that there are biblical literalist had not done so much to damage the Bible and Christian faith in the eyes of many outside (and even some inside) the Church.

I recently saw Bill Maher being interviewed by Stephen Colbert. Presumably because Colbert is so open about being a devout Catholic, the atheist Maher felt the need to point out the absurdity of modern people finding their truths in the ancient writings of people who thought the sun orbited the earth and so on. How could such unsophisticated, backwards folk possibly have anything to teach us?

Though an atheist, Maher seems to have gotten his understanding of the Bible from fundamentalist, literalist Christians. Maher is unlikely to dismiss the brilliance of Homer's epic poems because Homer doesn't understand modern science. Nor is he likely to suggest that no pre-modern artist, musician, or philosopher has anything to teach us. But because many of Jesus' followers make such absurd claims for our sacred texts, Maher can make a quite convincing argument against the Bible and any faith rooted in it.

The modern, scientific era has tended to create literal thinkers. Scientific truth is about carefully observed and demonstrated actions or events. It is about certainty. (Post modern science may be leaving such notions behind, but that has not yet created a big shift in the worldview of many Christians.) But the writers of the Bible did not share our modern notions of truth.

As this quote from the late John Dominic Crossan so eloquently says, "My point, once again, is not that those ancient people told literal stories and we are now smart enough to take them symbolically, but that they told them symbolically and we are now dumb enough to take them literally."

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Sermon video: Questioning God

Audios of sermons and worship available on the FCPC website.

Sermon: Questioning God

Genesis 15:1-18

Questioning God

James Sledge                                                                                       February 21, 2016

If you’re like me, it’s sometimes hard to relate to the faith heroes of the Bible. Take Abram, later Abraham, one of the original faith heroes. According to Genesis, God just shows up one day and says, “Go from your homeland and family and friends to a place I will show you. I’ll make you great and bless you and you’ll be the start of a great people. And you’ll be a blessing to all the people of the earth.” And Abram, along with wife Sarai, pick up and leave, headed for parts unknown, no questions asked, all because of God’s promise.

Imagine that you were Abe’s parents when he came in to explain his plans. “Mom, Dad, God wants us to leave here and go somewhere else. Not really sure where yet. We’re heading out tomorrow.” What would you say if your child said something like that to you? What would you do if you thought God was telling you to sell the house, pack up everything, and head out to some unknown destination? Like I said, it can be hard to relate to biblical heroes.

But a lot has happened since God first said “Go” to Abram. He’s done a lot of going because of God’s promise. He’s gained wealth and had some exciting adventures, but there’s one colossal problem. It’s hard to be the parents of a great line of people when he and Sarai have no children. And they’re both getting on in years.

So when God shows up again, making more promises, Abram’s a little less ready to trust. “Don’t talks to me about rewards,” Abram says. “Sarai and I are getting old and have no kids, no one to pass it on to.”

This Abram I can relate to. When I think back on my own call and what followed: seminary, strains on our marriage, pain for Shawn that too often accompanies being the pastor’s wife. “God, this isn’t what I thought was going to happen when I said, ‘Yes.’”

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When Abram starts whining about how following God’s promise hasn’t turned out as planned, the story says, But the word of the Lord came to him. Maybe this was some sort of vision, I’m not sure, but somehow God takes him out to look at the stars and promises that his descendants will be as vast as all those twinkling lights in the sky.

And Abram trusted God one more time. I suppose that if it were a good enough vision, that would do it for me, too.

Then God starts with a new promise. This one is about land, but Abram’s not so quick to jump at God’s promises as he once was. He wants proof. “How am I to know this will really happen?”

It is a crucial and basic faith question. Are God’s promises trustworthy? Does it make any sense to do as God says, or should we go our own way, doing whatever seems best to us?