Sermon: Searching for God

 John 1:43-51
Searching for God
James Sledge                                                                            January 14, 2024 

When I first began to think about going to seminary, I contacted a career counseling service that was connected to the Charlotte Presbytery. The idea of seminary seemed pretty far fetched for a 35 year old with a wife and two kids, so I wanted to do what I could to confirm the idea. Among the battery of surveys and instruments they gave me was something known as the “Myers-Briggs Type Indicator,” a personality inventory used by lots of companies, counselors, colleges, and church governing boards to help people understand their own and other people’s style of doing things. I’ve saw an article a few years ago questioning the validity of this indicator, but I think it is still popular.

The Myers-Briggs information was interesting and helpful, but I didn’t need that test to tell me that I was an introvert. Myers-Briggs doesn’t use the terms introvert and extrovert in quite the same way most of us do in regular conversation, but to a significant degree, I fit what most people mean when they use the term introvert. I was shy growing up, and I would go broke if I had to make a living as a door to door salesperson.

And so it will likely not surprise you to learn that while I enjoy going to social events with friends and family, my idea of torture is to find myself at a large social function where I do not know a soul. I don’t think there is anything that can make me feel more alone than to be wandering about amongst people who are talking to one other, hoping that I will spot a familiar face.

Some of you know what I’m talking about. Even some extroverts don’t like to find themselves in such a situation. They will probably manage to make a connection with someone faster than I might, but I don’t know that many people like to find themselves in a situation where they know absolutely no one. Very few people can tolerate being alone all the time, and I think being by yourself amongst lots of people I don’t know is one of the worst kinds of alone, where there are others all around, but I am connected to none of them.

But all it takes to completely change my experience is for someone to spot me, pull me in, speak with me and introduce me to some people that she knows. Suddenly I am not alone. I am with people. I can relax. I can enjoy myself.

Being truly alone for extended periods is an intolerable experience for most people. There’s a reason that solitary confinement is considered a particularly cruel sort of punishment. We are social creatures. We need human contact. Even more, we need people who know us, who we feel comfortable enough around that we don’t have to try to impress them. We need people we can trust, who we can talk to, who we can relate to.

But this doesn’t seem to function just on a human, interpersonal level. Many people find it just as unnerving to contemplate being all alone in a larger sense. Many people seem intuitively to sense that there must be a divine presence of some sort in the vastness of the cosmos. And to some degree, all religions are an attempt to forge a connection with that presence, to know God and to be known by God.

But there are some inherent difficulties in this attempt. Unlike the person we see at a party but do not yet know, God is very often not nearly so obviously present. The search for God can often seem like a struggle. The Apostle Paul speaks of humans searching and groping for God despite God being near to us. 

Theologians say that one problem which comes between us and God is sin. Now by sin they don’t mean things the bad things we do. They are speaking of a more fundamental problem, sin as a condition. Think of sin along the lines of alcoholism. It is an orientation toward certain behavior, a tendency. The wrong things we do, the ways we live that are contrary to God’s ways are the result of this tendency in the same way abusing alcohol tends naturally to flow from being an alcoholic. 

In the case of sin, our natural tendency is to substitute things other than God for God. Sometimes our substitutes, our idols if you will, are obvious, things such as money or success valued above all else. Sometimes our idols are more subtle, especially when they are good things taken too far, family, nation, church, and so on. 

This tendency to create substitutes for God makes it difficult to recognize and know the true God. God usually turns out to be quite different than we envisioned, and so it is easy for us to miss God. God defies our assumptions about how God should act, what God should be like, and so we often embrace a god of our own creating rather than the God of all creation. It’s easy to reject the true God and the call to be God’s people when that call doesn’t fit with our assumptions, doesn’t cohere with the god we’ve created for ourselves.

The difficulty of knowing God is present to a degree in both of our scripture readings this morning. In the story about the boy Samuel, God seeks to be known. God already knows Samuel, and calls him by name. But Samuel does not know God, and he is unable to correctly perceive that it is God calling him. Only when someone who does know God helps Samuel understand the voice he hears, can he respond to the God who beckons him.

In our gospel reading, Jesus seeks out people and calls them to follow him. From its beginning, the Christian faith has spoken of Jesus as the way in which God seeks to deal with this problem of knowing God. Jesus becomes a way that God can be encountered, can be known. Through Jesus’ humanity, God reaches across the gulf that sin puts between us and God.

But the mere fact of Jesus’ coming does not completely undo all the difficulties of knowing God. Nathanael ends up recognizing Jesus only with Philip’s help, and only with the realization that he is already known by Jesus. Jesus’ humanity makes God more approachable, more knowable, but many who meet him still reject him. Nathanael nearly did.

For those of us who grew up in the church, for whom the life of faith has always surrounded us like air that we breathe, we may not always appreciate the difficulty of knowing God. Sometimes this is because a deep relationship with God has been so much a part of our lives that we scarcely remember life without it. Sometimes this is because we have grown so comfortable with an image of god that we have created for ourselves. 

Regardless, our comfort level with church often makes us oblivious to the struggle of others to connect, to know God. In a world where church is no longer an integral part of the culture, the norm is more and more the person who was not raised in church, who is unfamiliar with its rituals and patterns. For more and more people in our community, congregations are a social function they’re not likely to attend because they’re pretty sure that they will know no one, that they will be totally alone in the midst of a crowd of people. 

And the tragic thing is that often these people have heard God call. They’ve gotten some inkling that God desires a relationship. Sometimes that tug gets strong enough that they even consider trying church, assuming that the people there know something about God.  But if they come where they’ve heard that God is to be found, and no one makes a connection with them, no one draws them in, if their aloneness only seems heightened, they may well conclude that God is not to be found here.

God is here. The risen Christ is here. But people may need others’ help to recognize him, to introduce them or help them see. God knows everyone of us by name, and in Christ calls everyone saying, “Follow me.” When we answer, Christ dwells in us and together we are the living body of Christ in the world. We become the embodiment of God’s love, of God’s welcome, of God’s desire to reach out and be known by all. Our lives, our worship, our caring, our hospitality bear witness to the one who knows each of us fully, and who calls each of us to full and abundant life as disciples of Jesus.

You are not alone here. You are fully known by the one who would die for you. There is no need to impress or worry about hiding your flaws. You are known. You are embraced. You are loved. And that love dwells in us most fully when, like Eli who helped Samuel hear God, or Philip who brought Nathanael to Jesus, we share God’s welcome and love with those who might otherwise miss them.

Christmas Eve candle lighting meditation

Candle lighting
Christmas Eve 2023

 The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. In the darkness… We gather this night in the darkness. For some of us, this is an annual tradition, gathering to light our candles in midst of a dark winter night. But the darkness seems more smothering to me this year. The bloody war in Ukraine continues to drag on, and the situation in Gaza is heartbreaking. The horrific terror and hostage taking perpetrated by Hamas has been followed by the wholesale slaughter of civilians by Israel.

Meanwhile, the signs that earth is reaching a tipping point on climate change are growing more and more ominous.

Throw in conflicts in Sudan, Myanmar, Cameroon, and other places too many to mention, a continuing epidemic of gun violence in this country, and the demonization that is so rampant in American politics, and it feels like a particularly dark time.

I once attended a Longest Night worship service where the leader reminded us that the Christmas story is a dark one. That easily gets lost in all the sentimentality, nostalgia, and celebration, but it is still there. A couple forced by an occupying, imperial power to travel, even though a birth is imminent. Images often depict Mary on a donkey, but she may well have had to walk. And then there was no proper place to give birth.

And if we follow the story on to Epiphany, which may have been a couple years later rather than 12 days, Herod tries to kill young Jesus, causes his family to flee and become refugees. The story starts out dark and the second chapter is even darker.

 In such a setting, to say that the light shines in the darkness is no exercise in sentimentality. Rather, it is a bold assertion that the light which comes as a vulnerable baby, the love of God that comes in weakness, is somehow stronger than all that darkness.

And so as we light our candles and bask in their warm glow, it is much more than an ooh-ahh moment. It is an act of defiance in the face of the world’s darkness, an act that says we trust and hope in the power of God’s weakness and vulnerability over all the terrors of the darkness.

(Tell congregation to shield candles.) In a land of deep darkness, light has shined. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness does not, cannot overcome it. (Lift candles high.)

The light, the vulnerable light of a newborn baby, shines in the darkness and the darkness does not overcome it. Let us embrace that light and carry it with us as we leave this place tonight. And let us live as emissaries of the light, bringing the hope and promise of light wherever we can, sharing it with a broken world that desperately needs it.

Sermon: Doing Christmas Right

 Luke 2:8-20
Doing Christmas Right
James Sledge                                                                            December 24, 2023 

The fact that Christmas Eve coincides with a Sunday creates a busy day for choirs, volunteers, and church staff, and I suspect that most such folks prefer Christmas Eve to be on another day of the week. The only thing I prefer even less is for Christmas to be on a Sunday. That means being at the church late on Saturday evening, then running home for any sort of last minute Christmas Eve activities at the house before being back at church the next morning with the small group of hardy souls who will show up on a Christmas Sunday.

Many years ago, when I was serving a church in Columbus, Ohio, one of those Sunday Christmases appeared on the calendar, and the local paper did an article exploring the various practices of different churches on a Christmas Sunday. Catholics usually have well attended Christmas day services every year, so a Christmas Sunday isn’t much different. Protestants are another matter. I don’t think any church I’ve ever been associated with had Christmas day services unless Christmas fell on a Sunday.

In this newspaper article there was an interview with a megachurch pastor whose church planned not to have any services on Sunday that year. According to this pastor, Christmas was about family, and they didn’t want to hold services which might get in the way of family time and family traditions. The article also quoted a New York Times article where several megachurch pastors said pretty much the same thing.

It is true that many families gather at Christmas, that various traditions evolve around opening presents and enjoying a big, holiday meal. Often newly married couples have to make difficult decisions about whose family they will spend Christmas day with.

But were those megachurch pastors correct? Is Christmas about family? Or maybe a better question; what is Christmas about?

It’s not about only one thing, I suppose. It certainly is about shopping and presents. Many retailers are heavily dependent on the Christmas shopping season in order to turn a profit for the year. Of course that Christmas has little to do with the one we are here to talk about today. That Christmas isn’t even necessarily religious. People with no religious attachments at all still put up trees and celebrate Christmas.

In the days before I became a pastor, I once worked for a company that was owned by a Jewish family. They held their company Christmas party – that’s what they called it – at the Jewish community center complete with Christmas tree and Santa Claus.

But most of us here are Presbyterians, Protestant Christians whose tradition says that our ultimate guide to what really matters and what is really true comes from scripture. And so, while we know all about and celebrate a Christmas that includes trees and Santa Claus and presents, presumably the Bible is where we go to find out what Christmas is really about.

However we run into a bit of a problem here in that only one of the four gospels actually has a Christmas story, Luke. Matthew tells of an angel appearing to Joseph in a dream and convincing him to take the pregnant Mary as his wife but tells nothing of the birth itself.

Perhaps this paucity of Christmas information is what led people to take the story of the Magi and join it to Christmas. Now we can have a star over our creche and fancy presents delivered by eastern sages. However, the Magi story likely happens when Jesus is around two years old, certainly not at the manger, and I wonder if we don’t miss something of what Luke is trying to tell us when we combine the two stories.

If we can remove the star and the Magi and their presents from our mental image of Christmas, I wonder what we might see that we have missed. Luke has set his extended Christmas story in the context of two rulers, Herod and the Emperor Augustus. The latter was greeted with calls of “The emperor is lord!” Yet when Luke tells of the angel appearing to the shepherds, we hear that to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.

Savior, anointed one (which is what Messiah means), and Lord; all these are titles for the emperor. Luke’s Christmas story makes an explicitly political claim. Here is one who usurps the loyalty owed the emperor. No longer is Caesar lord. Jesus is Lord! All political loyalties have been superseded by loyalty to Jesus, and that is as true in our day is it was then. Jesus alone is Lord, and so his commands to love neighbor and even enemies apply to our politics as well.

But even though Jesus is the one owed ultimate loyalty, nothing about his birth comes with the trappings of wealth or power. There is not even a private room for him to be born in. In all likelihood he is born in a private home, in a portion of the house where the animals were brought in at night. You could not get much further from a palace.

And when the angel tells the shepherds about this very unroyal like birth, the signs that are given are just as mundane, a manger and bands of cloth. (Older Bible translations spoke of swaddling clothes.) This was the standard practice in that day. They wrapped cloth around newborns to make them lie straight and not curled up. So in essence the divine signs given to the shepherds speak of poverty and ordinariness. This baby will look just like every other baby.

And then there is the choice of shepherds to visit. In our only Christmas story, shepherds are the only ones told and the only ones who come to see Jesus besides other members of the household where Jesus is born. Shepherds were the rough, uncouth rednecks of their day, the very last people one would expect to attend a royal birth.

Luke’s Christmas story insists that when God enters decisively into human history, the divine presence is not found in the halls of power or grand homes of the wealthy, nor is the birth attended by anyone special. God is found in the most ordinary of circumstances, and that presence is most accessible to the lowly. This is the Jesus Mary sung of prior to his birth. “(God) has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.”

Perhaps you’ve seen the story of the Bethlehem church that set up a very untraditional nativity this year. The baby Jesus is lying in the midst of a pile of rubble. I’m not sure but what this West Bank church truly understands what Christmas is about. God comes into the midst of those who are lowly and forgotten. This Savior, this Lord is not to be found among the mighty and the powerful. This God is to be found in the midst of the pain and hurt and suffering of the world.

In just a few hours, many of us will gather here again. We will come for the children’s pageant, and we will come for the lessons and carols and candlelight. Brass will play and we will join our voices to those of the angelic host who sing to celebrate Jesus’ birth. We should join them. We must join them. If even the hosts of heaven could not help but sing, how can we?

Yet it can be easy to sing, go home to celebrate Christmas, including the one with trees and presents and Santa Claus, and then return to life as usual. It can be easy to celebrate and then be done with it all until next year, to catch our breath after the whirlwind of Christmas and enter another January like every January before.

But if we really want to do Christmas right, we need to follow the shepherds, too. We need to find Jesus in places like where the shepherds did, not in halls of power, not among the mighty or wealthy, but among the weak and lowly, in the midst of the everyday pain and hurt of the world.

And we need to let the weak and lowly, the hurting and forgotten, those amidst destruction and rubble, know that a Savior has been born for them. Yes, for us, but for them especially. And we cannot do Christmas right if it does not proclaim release to the captive and hope to the hopeless.

Christ is born! Glory to God in the highest heaven. God has come into our midst, and Christ is to be found at work in the pain of our world. Thanks be to God!

Sermon: The Christmas I Choose

 Isaiah 58:6-9a
The Christmas I Choose
James Sledge                                                                            December 17, 2023 

I don’t suppose I need to tell anyone that it’s Advent and that Christmas is just around the corner. You would be forgiven for not noticing some movements of the liturgical calendar. No one sends out Reign of Christ or Trinity Sunday cards, and those days can come and go with scarcely anyone being aware.

That’s certainly not the case with Advent and Christmas. We didn’t have Advent candles in the South Carolina Presbyterian church of my elementary school days, but I can’t imagine there is a Presbyterian church anywhere that doesn’t have them now.

As you might imagine, I follow lots of minister colleagues as well as some of the congregations they serve on Facebook and Instagram, and those feeds are replete with all the varied way people are welcoming in the season. There are a plethora of different themes for Advent. Some churches have a tree in the chancel area. Some utilize purple candles and banners while others go with blue, and some have one pink candle while others, us included, go with all the same color.

Like us, most churches pull out special music for the season. Some of the churches I’ve served always did an Advent/Christmas cantata, often taking over the sermon slot on the third Sunday of Advent. Here we had a wonderful performance of the Messiah last Sunday afternoon, and there will be brass on Christmas Eve to help us celebrate the birth of a Savior.

The coming of the Word made flesh certainly deserves our worship and celebration. Something world changing has happened. An old epoch closed and a new one began. The promise of God’s new day, of a world set right, became visibly present.

No doubt many of you have your own way of marking the season at home. Perhaps you read an Advent devotional or light your own Advent candle on the dining room table. And most all of us decorate our homes.

How many of you add fasting to your Advent activities? Raise your hand. Nobody? Me either. That probably doesn’t surprise anyone. I don’t know many people who use fasting as a significant part of their spiritual life. Perhaps it shows up here and there in some folk’s Lenten preparations, but not in Advent or Christmas.

That, and a little lack of context, may let us miss what the prophet is talking about in our scripture today when he says, Is not this the fast that I choose, to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thong of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? I think I know what is meant by loosing the bonds of injustice and letting the oppressed go free, but what does any of this have to do with fasting?

Unlike in our time, fasting played a significant role in religious practice in Israel. It apparently was still the same in Jesus’ day because he warns people not to look haggard and dismal when fasting so that others will notice. And just prior to the passage we heard from Isaiah, the prophet speaks of how religious Israel is but suggests that it does no good.

Yet day after day they seek me and delight to know my ways, says the prophet. He speaks of how they delight to draw near to God. Yet nonetheless, the prophet describes the people crying out God, “Why do we fast, but you do not see? Why humble ourselves, but you do not notice?”

The prophet describes a situation where the people point out their religiousness and then wonder why God does not seem to be there for them. Look they say, “We do all the religious things we’re supposed to do. We throw ourselves into religious activity with abandon. Our worship is top notch. Why does God not seem to take note?”

In this context, the fast spoken of in our reading today is a call to stop imagining that getting worship or religious rituals correct will impress God. Is not this the fast that I choose… or perhaps, is not this the worship that I choose, the spiritual discipline that I choose, to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thong of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke?

The prophet warns Israel about a religiousness that fails to transform those who practice it. Getting all the details just so, trafficking in all the right symbols and rituals, practicing the best prayer techniques, none of these matter if their behaviors don’t align with God’s will, if they don’t construct the sort of world that God desires.

There is a quote that floats around on the internet which is purportedly from Father Richard Rohr, the popular Franciscan priest who runs the Center for Action and Contemplation. I’ve never been able to find the original source of the quote, but it certainly does sound very much like Father Rohr.

Christianity is a lifestyle - a way of being in the world that is simple, non-violent, shared, and loving. However, we made it into an established "religion" (and all that goes with that) and avoided the lifestyle change itself. One could be warlike, greedy, racist, selfish, and vain in most of Christian history, and still believe that Jesus is one's "personal Lord and Savior…" The world has no time for such silliness anymore. The suffering on Earth is too great.

It is incredibly easy to go through all our Advent and Christmas activity, to get caught up in the wonderful music and worship as we, rightfully, celebrate the birth of a Savior, and then return to life as usual in January, not renewed and energized to live Christ centered lives, but simply worn out. It is easy to do a stellar job of getting it all just right but to live as though nothing has changed.

Especially in times like these, with unimaginable cruelty and terror by Hamas, civilians being slaughtered in Gaza, and Christmas celebrations canceled in Bethlehem over the horror of it all, it can be tempting for Christmas to be an escape from reality, a retreat into the warmth of familiar rituals and beloved carols. We can have a sanctuary of cheer and goodwill that insulates us from the world, if only for a brief moment.

But then the prophet speaks. Is not this the fast that I choose, is not this the Christmas that I choose, to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thong of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke?

In one of those beloved Christmas carols we sing every year, in the verse we use in place of the Kyrie during Advent and Christmas, it says, “O holy child of Bethlehem, descend to us we pray; cast out our sin and enter in; be born in us today.” What does that mean, for the holy child to be born in us? What does that look like?

The medieval mystic and theologian Meister Eckhart once reflected on Mary’s role in the Christmas story, how she was “the mother of God,” the one who bears God into the world. He writes,

We are all meant to be mothers of God. What good is it to me if this eternal birth of the divine Son takes place unceasingly but does not take place within myself? And what good is it to me if Mary is full of grace if I am not also full of grace? What good is it to me for the Creator to give birth to his Son if I do not also give birth to him in my time and culture? This then is the fulfillment of time: when the Son of God is begotten in us.[1]

I have a pretty good idea what that looks like. Mary sang about it on the first Sunday in Advent when she spoke of the powerful being brought down from their thrones, the lowly lifted up, the hungry filled with good things, and the rich sent away empty. We heard Zechariah prophesy about it last Sunday when he spoke of a Savior who would “guide our feet into the way of peace.”

And today Isaiah speaks for God saying, Is not this the fast that I choose, the Christmas celebration that I choose, to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thong of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke?

We are called to join our voices with those of Mary, Zechariah, and Isaiah. We are to do more than just celebrate another Christmas, we are to embody it, to proclaim it, to do whatever we can to undo injustice, lift up the oppressed, and break the yoke. Then, as Meister Eckart says, “the Son of God is begotten in us.”

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[1] Quoted in Barbara Brown Taylor, “Mothers of God” in Gospel Medicine, (Boston: Cowley Publications, 1995) p. 153

Sermon: Embracing the Dream

 Luke 1:57-80
Embracing the Dream
James Sledge                                                                            December 10, 2023 

By now I assume that many of you have started to receive Christmas cards. I know we have at our house. Inevitably, at least one of those cards will feature the phrase, “Peace on earth.” It’s a Christmas standard lifted straight from the nativity story in Luke’s gospel, but particularly in this year, it strikes a strange note with me.

The war in Ukraine has been dragging on for nearly two years. The bloody Hamas attack on Israel in October has been met with the wholesale slaughter of civilians on the part of Israel. The war in Sudan is replete with atrocities and massacres. China continues to hint at an invasion of Taiwan. Iranian backed militias are attacking American forces in Syria, and I could go on and on. Peace on earth feels a long way away.

I’m reminded of the Christmas carol, I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day. The carol borrowed some of the verses from a Henry Wadsworth Longfellow poem “Christmas Bells” which was written during the Civil War. It opens,

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
and mild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

However, the carol left out some of the verses, those dealing explicitly with the Civil War.

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

The news of our day also mocks the song of peace on earth, and I wonder what response we in the church have. Do we have anything more than a cute baby in a manger, some warmth and nostalgia, or the promise of heaven when we die? The gospels insist that we do, that something more has happened than just the birth of a baby.

You can see that in our scripture for this morning. The story of John’s birth insists that God is up to something. God has remembered the covenant with Israel, the promises made all those years ago to Abraham and Sarah. God has looked with favor on Israel and redeemed them.

Curiously, when the story of John the Baptist begins with a visit to Zechariah by the angel Gabriel, the opening words of that story are, In the days of King Herod of Judea… In much the same way, the story of Jesus’ birth will open with, In those days a decree went out from the Emperor Augustus…

The story of God acting in history is set in the context of the cruel reign of Herod, and the power of the Roman empire, and empire that was always at war somewhere, and that subjugated Israel and would employ the worst sort of cruelty to maintain their rule. Jesus himself would feel the wrath of that cruelty.

The stories of John’s and Jesus’ births are not just a bit of warm nostalgia. They are set in the context of the often-ugly geopolitics of the day. I’m sure there were Israelites who looked out on the news and situation of their day and saw little reason to celebrate, little reason for hope, but it is in this very context that Luke has Zechariah offer his prophecy.

Speaking of hope, I once read something by Brian McLaren where he contrasted hopes and dreams with wishes.[1] It’s a bit of a semantics argument, but I think he has a point. When someone says, “I wish I could win the lottery,” they usually don’t have any real hope of doing so. It’s just a wish.

Sometimes I think we’ve turned Christmas into little more than a wish. We wish people a Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, but it doesn’t have much more meaning that saying, “Have a good day.” There is no expectation that such a wish accomplishes something or that we plan on doing anything to make it happen. It’s little more than a pleasantry, a greeting.

That’s certainly not the sort of thing found in the biblical accounts associated with Jesus’ birth. When Zechariah is filled with the Spirit and begins to prophesy, there are no “I wish” statements or “Wouldn’t it be nice.” Instead it is “Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he has looked favorably on his people and redeemed them. He has raised up a mighty savior for us in the house of his servant David… Thus he has shown the mercy promised to our ancestors, and has remembered his holy covenant.”

Perhaps you noticed that prophets often get their tenses wrong. They speak of what is to come as though it has happened. That is because they’re not simply wishing. They have a vision of what is to be, a vivid hope and dream of what is to come.

I’ve seen something of that sort happen within my lifetime. When Martin Luther King, Jr. made his “I have a dream” speech, he was not simply wishing for things to be better. He had a vision, a vivid hope and dream of what would eventually be. And so he worked tirelessly for that vision, for that dream. The dreams of prophets work that way.

Unfortunately, Christendom domesticated Jesus and made him compatible with empire and the wealthy exploiting the poor. The radical dream of Jesus, of a world where God’s will is done, where love triumphs over hate, got pushed aside, and the dreams of prophets like Zechariah became so much pie in the sky by and by.

I wonder if what the world really needs right now isn’t for people of faith actually to take up the vision of Zechariah, to embrace the radical dream of Jesus. To recover the Christmas hope of God breaking into history in Jesus and setting something new and wonderful loose in the world, something that has the power to transform and make new.

I wonder if what the world really needs right now isn’t for people of faith boldly to proclaim something more than a cute baby in a manger, to proclaim the vision, the dream of a new day that the births of John and Jesus herald.

I wonder if what the world needs most of all isn’t for people of faith to embrace that vision, that dream of a new day, and to work tirelessly to create it, knowing that the world resists it, just as it resisted Jesus.

God has looked favorably upon us and has raised up a savior for us. So join in the dream the prophet Zechariah proclaims. “By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.”

Thanks be to God!

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[1] McLaren, Brian D., We Make the Road by Walking: A Year-Long Quest for Spiritual Formation, Reorientation, and Activation (New York: Jericho Books, 2014), p. 63.

 

Sermon: Surprising Standards

 Matthew 25:31-46 
 Surprising Standards
James Sledge                                               November 26, 2023, Reign of Christ 

There is an old Jewish folk tale where a young rabbi wanted more than anything else to meet Elijah the prophet. (Elijah, unlike other people in the Old Testament, had not died but had been taken up to heaven in a whirlwind.) The father of this young rabbi told him that if he diligently studied the Torah with his whole heart, he would indeed meet Elijah.

The young rabbi studied diligently for a month but did not meet Elijah. He complained to his father, but the father only scolded his impatience and told him to keep studying. One evening as the rabbi was hard at his studies, a tramp came to his door. The fellow was disgusting to look at; the young rabbi had never seen an uglier man in all his life. Annoyed at having been interrupted by such an unsavory character, the rabbi shooed the man away and returned to his studying.

The next day his father came and asked if he had seen Elijah yet. “No,” replied the son. 

“Did no one come here last night,” asked the father. 

“Yes,” replied the rabbi. “An old tramp.” 

“Did you wish him ‘shalom aleikhem’?” asked the father, referring to the traditional greeting meaning “Peace be upon you.”

“No,” said the rabbi.

“You fool,” cried his father. “Didn’t you know that that was Elijah the Prophet? But now it’s too late.” The tale goes on to say that for the rest of his life, the rabbi always greeted strangers with “Shalom aleikhem,” and treated them with great kindness.^[1]

Tales such as this are not all that uncommon, and the parable Jesus tells today is similar in many ways. People encounter, or fail to encounter, either Elijah or the Son of Man based on how they treat people who are unimportant, even unpleasant or distasteful. Jesus’ parable, however, is much more nuanced than the folk tale I shared, especially if we can hear it more like the people for whom the gospel of Matthew is written.

Matthew’s community is made up largely of Jews who follow Jesus as their Jewish Messiah. For some years this church had operated out of the synagogue as simply one more sort of Judaism, but in recent years their relationship with the synagogue has soured, to the point that the rabbis no longer welcomed them there.

Perhaps because the majority of their Jewish colleagues had rejected Jesus as Messiah, the church had begun to reach out to Gentiles, non-Jews. And as this church reads Matthew’s gospel, they hear a parable, Jesus’ final parable, that talks about these folks they are trying to evangelize.

It’s easy to miss this when we read Matthew. When we hear that all the nations will be gathered before (the Son of Man), that likely sounds like a way of saying all people will be gathered, but Matthew’s church would not have heard it that way. For them the term translated “nations” more regularly referred to Gentiles. And besides, from a Jewish perspective, “the nations” was a way of speaking about non-Jews, outsiders, them.

Jesus’ parable seems to address the judgment of those Matthew’s church is trying to evangelize, and the church members likely presumed that such a judgment would be based on how Gentiles had responded to the good news about Jesus. But the criterion for judgment turns out to be something quite different. “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.”

On one level, the parable says that Gentiles, outsiders, are judged on how they treated Christian missionaries. Did they love them as neighbors without ever having heard Jesus’ commands to do so? Such a notion turns some typical understandings of evangelism on their head. Here treating the missionaries well counts as much as embracing Jesus as their Savior.

That is surprising indeed, but it may not be the most surprising element of the parable, another thing we may miss because we’ve been so conditioned to thinking of a triumphant Jesus. This parable sits right up against the story of Jesus’ arrest, trial, and execution. There is an audacious claim here. The one who the world judges as deserving death is the very one who will judge the world. The contrast could not be more vivid.

In this parable, the rejected and despised one is the same one we celebrate today as the one who reigns over all the cosmos, but it turns out that the ways of Jesus’ commonwealth are very little like the ways of the world.

Unlike in our time, the followers of Jesus’ in Matthew’s day were a small minority, often ostracized and marginalized, and Jesus says that how Gentiles treat the “least of these,” the most unimportant of these ostracized and marginalized people, is what counts for something in the new day Jesus will bring. Do you realize how contrary this is to the ways of our world?

In our world, we do nice things for those we love, for those who are our friends, and for those who may be able to do something for us in return. We’ve seen the latter on vivid display lately with regard to the Supreme Court and the extravagant gifts given to some of the justices. Presumably such gifts were given because the justices are important, have power and influence. Certainly these generous donors would not do something similar for a stranger, a prisoner, a homeless person, or someone struggling with food insecurity. But Jesus says that treatment of those the world deems unimportant and insignificant is what counts for something in God’s new day.

And if Jesus so values the kindness of those who are outsiders, then surely Jesus assumes that his own followers will do the same for those who are strangers, hungry, poorly clothed, incarcerated, homeless, insignificant, or unimportant.

If Jesus judges outsiders on how they treat the most unimportant and insignificant, then surely he expects his followers to create a different sort of world.

I just used a Mr. Rogers illustration in a sermon two weeks ago, but this story seems to go well here, so here’s another. After all, he was an ordained Presbyterian pastor so he’s one of our own.

 A limo once took Fred Rogers to a fancy dinner party at a PBS executive’s home. When they arrived, Rogers discovered that the driver was supposed to wait outside until the party was over. But Rogers insisted the driver come in and join the party, much to the dismay of his wealthy host.

On the way home, Rogers sat up front with the driver. Learning that they were passing near the driver’s home, he asked if they might stop so he could meet his family. The driver said it was one of the best nights of his life. Mr. Rogers played jazz piano and visited with the family late into the night. And for the rest of his life Rogers sent notes and kept in touch with a driver he met one night.^[2]

In some small way, I think this story embodies the sort of thing Jesus is talking about in today’s parable, about the ways of Jesus’ new commonwealth. In that new day, how people treat the unimportant and insignificant, how they respond to the needs of those who can do nothing in return, are the things that truly matter.

At our recent church retreat at Massanetta Springs, the retreat leader quoted from the Book of Order where the last of the great ends or purposes of the church is, “the exhibition of the Kingdom of Heaven to the world.”[3] That is what we do when we love and care for the least of these. We put God’s new day on display for the world. We model a different sort of world to those around us.

When Jesus came to Palestine all those years ago, he began to create an alternative community where all were welcome, especially those on the margins. Jesus invites us into that community, whoever we are, wherever we’re from, and whatever we imagine makes us unwelcome. And he calls us to expand that community as we model Jesus’ love to an angry and hurting world.

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[1] From “The Tramp” in Ellen Frankel, The Classic Tales: 4000 Years of Jewish Lore (Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson, Inc. 1993) pp. 604-605.

[2] http://edition.cnn.com/2008/LIVING/wayoflife/07/28/mf.mrrogers.neighbor/

[3] Book of Order, F-1.0304

Sermon: Taking Risks

 Matthew 25:14-30
Taking Risks
James Sledge                                                                            November 19, 2023 

When I was in seminary, I took an elective class on evangelism. It was a three week long course with a week of it being travel to visit various churches that were doing a good job of drawing in lots of people. We spent a good deal of time at the largest church in our denomination as well as at churches of different traditions.

There was one church we visited that I’m not sure how it became part of the itinerary. Perhaps it was meant to be a negative example. This was a little country church in North Carolina, but the suburbs had gradually changed their neighborhood.

When we visited, the church sat on a little corner of land that was bordered by a new four lane highway on one side, a crossroad on the other side, and a shopping center and its entrance on the other two sides. It looked a little strange and out of place, this old brick church wedged in between roads and a shopping center.

In the course of meeting with church members, we discovered that they had been offered a ridiculous sum of money for their property. There was probably enough acreage to put in a restaurant and a couple of businesses, and developers were eager to acquire the land.

The little church was struggling with declining attendance and membership. The building was falling into disrepair, and the future looked grim. But money from a sale could allow a fresh start. They would be flush with cash and easily able to rent space somewhere to meet while they decided about what came next. They could even hire new staff and embark on an evangelism campaign that could create a thriving new congregation, and people from the presbytery had encouraged them to take the money and open a, hopefully, exciting new chapter in the church’s life.

But the church had decided against taking the offer. Many of them were getting older and wanted their funerals to be held there. They also worried about what might happen if they had a fresh start. What if they didn’t like what happened? What if the old members got outnumbered by new folks? Those fears were too strong, and no one was able to convince the little church to take a chance on an exciting new future.

This is a rather unusual scenario, but it some ways it is simply an extreme version of something that goes on at churches regularly. Comfort with the status quo and, even more, fears about what might happen often shut down anything bold and new.

More than once I’ve been part of a church conversation where someone had proposed an exciting new ministry, but fears about not being able to find volunteers, worries about tight budgets, and concerns about what impact it might have on the status quo carried the day. And the new ministry never got the green light.

Churches tend to be very risk averse places, and very often worries and fears about what might or might not happen are more than enough to overcome any excitement about trying something new and unproven. Even the most liberal or progressive congregations can be incredibly conservative when it comes to trying new things.

In the Presbyterians Church’s Book of Order, in the opening chapter, it says this under the heading The Calling of the Church. “The Church is the body of Christ. Christ gives to the Church all the gifts necessary to be his body. The Church strives to demonstrate these gifts in its life as a community in the world (1 Cor. 12:27-28): The Church is to be a community of faith, entrusting itself to God alone, even at the risk of losing its life.”[1]

At the risk of losing its life. That’s what it says, but I’m not sure how many congregations actually embody this statement. Many congregations won’t risk a little money or the possibility that the church might change significantly. Never mind their own life.

Now some of you may be wondering what any of this has to do with a scripture passage that has often been interpreted to mean, “Use your talents wisely.” But it turns out that this parable is not about that at all, not unless you define “wisely” in a fairly peculiar way.

The fact that the monetary unit in the parable happens to be a talent lends itself to the rather trite, proverbial understanding, but in Jesus’ day, a talent was a weight and a large sum of money, by some estimates, around fifteen year’s wages for the average worker. Perhaps if the parable said that the slaves were given five million, two million, and one million dollars we might hear it differently.

This is also a parable where we need to pay attention to details. We are told that the slave who had received the five talents went off at once and traded with them, and made five more talents. The slave with two talents does the same thing. But what did they have to do to turn such a huge profit? I’m sure we have some finance people in the congregation today who would tell us that any investment that quickly doubles your money is a risky one, and you could easily have lost a fortune.

Another facet of this parable that may escape us has to do with the last slave’s burying his talent in the ground. To my mind that sounds like the crotchety old guy who keeps his money under his mattress because he doesn’t trust banks, but there were no banks as we know them in Jesus’ day. There were no regulations or safeguards about money invested with what were then called bankers, and so many who first heard Jesus’ parable may well have thought that the last slave did the prudent thing, the very thing they would have done.

Finally, we are told this last slave’s reason for doing what he did. He was afraid. I think I can sympathize. If someone had given me a large sum of money to take care of until their return, I would be worried about not losing any of it, and I might well have put it somewhere FDIC insured, which is exactly the sort of thing this slave does.

When we examine this parable carefully, the third of four parables that Jesus tells to address what his followers should be doing in the time before his return, those who are praised and rewarded are the ones who took big risks. The parable doesn’t even seem to consider the possibility that they could have lost it all, so either Jesus means that risks taken for the sake of the gospel always produce rewards, or that the slaves would still have been praised even if they had lost huge amounts.

So what would we say if Jesus came back today and asked what we’ve done with the treasure he’d given us? On one level, that treasure is the good news of the gospel. How are we doing bold and even risky things with the gospel?

But we’ve also been entrusted with the legacy of those who went before us, a rich history along with wonderful and historic facilities. What are we doing with those that is bold and even risky? Or are we just trying to make sure they stay intact?

And what motivates us? The desire to use our treasure to do amazing things, or fears over what might happen if we’re not careful?

I believe that all congregations have a calling, work the Jesus gives them to do. A lot of congregations never live into this because they are too cautious, too fearful. But those that do, churches both large and small, do wondrous and amazing things.

Where is Jesus calling the Meeting House?

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[1] Book of Order, F-1.0301

Sermon: Being Helpers

 Matthew 25:1-13
Being Helpers
James Sledge                                                                            November 12, 2023 

You don’t have to look very hard at the world to get discouraged. The situation in the Middle East is terrifying. The atrocities committed by Hamas are beyond the pale, even for terrorists, and Israel’s complete lack of regard for the lives of civilians is nearly as bad. The number of women and children killed and maimed is appalling, and I don’t see how Israel’s actions can avoid helping create a new generation of hatred and even more terrorists.

Then right after I had begun to write this sermon, we had yet another mass shooting using an assault style weapon. Will it never end?

On a larger scale, I worry that we have reached a point of no return on climate change. Recently in The Washington Post, I’ve seen articles on how this year has shattered heat records, and how the West Antarctic ice sheet faces unavoidable melting.

Speaking of which, the current state of political affairs makes me fear for the future of democracy. The level of political dysfunction and total demonization of opposing views is staggering. Worldwide there has been a shift toward autocracy in many democratic nations, and some would seem to prefer that for the US.

And why leave religion out of this sordid mess? A precipitous decline in American church participation has only been accelerated by Covid. Oldline denominations such as Presbyterians are shrinking at a rate that we can’t possibly support all our affiliated seminaries, and I wonder if our denominational structures themselves may be in jeopardy.

Add to that the damage done to the Christian brand by fundamentalists who use faith as the driving force behind all manner of hatreds. To make matters worse, a significant part of conservative Christianity views Donald Trump as some sort of messianic figure, a man who couldn’t get much further from the way of Jesus if he tried.

For these reasons and more, it would be easy to become cynical and decide the situation is hopeless. No doubt there are many who have given in to some sort of despair, who’ve become numb to it all and just focus on what they can control in their own lives and the lives of those closest to them.

Over 1900 years ago, the people of a small church congregation were more than a little worried about the future. They were mostly Jewish, and they followed Jesus as their Jewish Messiah. When the church first started some years earlier there had been incredible hope for the future. Most of them had believed that the risen Jesus would soon return and inaugurate the messianic age where all would be set right. But it had now been over fifty years since the first Easter. Most everyone who’d been around back then had died, and still no Jesus.

To make matters worse, they were being pushed out of the synagogue. They still considered it their spiritual home, but the rabbis made it clear that Jesus followers were not welcome there.

Trouble with the rabbis had started after Jerusalem and its magnificent Temple were destroyed fifteen of so years earlier. The loss of the holy city and especially of the Temple was a terrible blow to Jews, including Christian ones. Many of the Christians had thought Jerusalem would be the epicenter of the new age the returning Jesus would usher in. But that hope was now gone.

The destruction of Temple had pretty much ended priestly Judaism, and rabbinical Judaism or the Pharisees had become the dominant voice. As they consolidated their power, they begin to push Christian Jews out. There was even some persecution of Christian Jews.

Lately there had been infighting within the church itself. Some advocated abandoning Torah completely, but others argued that Jesus has taught from the Torah. Lately the arguments had gotten more intense, and some had been labeled false prophets and been kicked out of the church.

The historic home of Judaism along with the Temple destroyed and in ruins, being pushed out of the synagogue and belittled for following Jesus, bickering and fighting in the church itself, and growing doubts about Jesus’ return; the future looked uncertain, even grim for this little church and the faith. No doubt many had begun to despair.

The author of our gospel was a member of this church, and he has all these issues in mind when he sits down to write. And as the gospel story moves closer and closer to the cross, Matthew has Jesus speak to some of these concerns in his final teachings, sometimes labeled the second Sermon on the Mount,

After Jesus points out how his return date is unknown and will happen in a manner that is unanticipated, he tells four last parables, the last parables of Jesus before his arrest. Each one addresses, in some way, how believers are to handle the wait for his return.

This morning’s parable is the second of these, and it addresses how people are to wait. The teaching ends with a charge to “Keep awake,” but curiously both the wise and foolish bridesmaids in the parable fall asleep. I take it that the command to keep awake is a general admonition to live expectantly, but the parable speaks to what that looks like.

In the parable, the only difference between the wise and the foolish is that the wise bring extra oil. All go to meet the bridegroom. All carry lamps. All are ready to attend the banquet. All fall asleep. Yet when the foolish say “Lord, Lord,” to the groom, an allegorical stand-in for Jesus, his response is, “Truly I tell you, I do not know you.”

Interestingly, the first Sermon on the Mount contains very similar language. Jesus says, “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. And he says he will respond to such folks with, “I never knew you, go away from me…”

So what is the significance of the wise bridesmaids having oil with them? I think it is about more than being prepared for a long wait. The oil is symbolic. New Testament scholar Eugene Boring notes that in Jewish tradition, oil is used to symbolize both good deeds and Torah. He writes, “The oil, or rather having oil, represents what will count in the parousia: deeds of love and mercy in obedience to the Great Commandment… Here, Matthew pictures preparation for the parousia as responsible deeds of discipleship, not constant ‘watching’ for the end.”^[1]

In times when the future is uncertain and even a little scary, I think Christian faith offers some good advice. It says that no matter how things appear, the future belongs to God. When Martin Luther King, Jr. said that the arc of the moral universe bends toward justice, he wasn’t expressing his hope in a human capacity to make things better. He was saying that the moral arc is safely in God’s hands.

But we are not called simply to wait for God to do something. We have work to do. In this parable and the ones that follow, Jesus makes clear that we are to engage in acts of love and mercy and to care for “the least of these.” We are to show the world what God’s love looks like in action, and in so doing, demonstrate a hopeful vision for the future.

Many of you are familiar with the famous quote from Fred Rogers of Mr. Rogers fame. He says, "My mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.' To this day, especially in times of disaster, I remember my mother's words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers — so many caring people in this world."

Jesus says that our job in uncertain times is not to sit around waiting for his return or worrying about when it might happen. Our job is to be helpers, to be agents of love and care whose lives give others comfort and hope, whose lives give the world a glimpse of what God’s future will be.

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[1] M. Eugene Boring, “The Gospel of Matthew: Introduction, Commentary, and Reflections,” in The New Interpreter’s Bible, vol. 8, ed. L. E. Keck et al. (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995), 450.