Sermon: Of Snakes and Imperatives

Luke 3:7-18

Of Snakes and Imperatives

James Sledge                                                                               December 16, 2012

I’ve never been very big on poetry and never much cared for the practice of pastors quoting poems in their sermons, something I heard a bit of growing up. But I am drawn to song lyrics, my version of poetry I suppose. And a song from my favorite group, The Mountain Goats, immediately came to mind when I first read today’s gospel.

I’m not about to attempt singing it, so I realize that, for all practical purposes, I am going to subject you to the sort of poetry reading I never much cared for growing  up.  Sorry about that.  An even bigger concern; I’m not at all sure what the song means.  It has a connection to our gospel reading, but I’m not really clear about its message.  That might argue against using it, but I’m also somewhat puzzled by our gospel reading today.  So I’ll go ahead and recite some puzzling song lyrics.

Sun just clearing the tree line when my day begins.
Slippery ice on the bridges, Northeastern wind coming in.
You will bruise my head, I will strike your heel.
Drive past woods of northern pine, try not to let go of the wheel.

Dream at night, girl with the cobra tattoo
on her arm, its head flaring out like a parachute.

Prisms in the dewdrops in the underbrush.
skate case sailors' purses floating down in the black needle rush.
Higher than the stars I will set my throne.
God does not need Abraham, God can raise children from stones.

Dream at night, girl with the cobra tattoo
And try to hear the garbled transmissions come through.[1]

Along with haunting music you didn’t hear, there’s a lot going on in these verses. A tattoo of a snake, a viper.  A line borrowed from the Garden of Eden story.  A line from Isaiah’s taunt of those who foolishly imagine themselves equals to God, right next to an echo of John the baptizer’s warning to “children of Abraham.”  Not to mention the line about garbled transmissions, which could sometimes describe my prayer life. 

I’m not at all sure what to make of it. Is it about someone drawn to the devil, to evil? Is this someone who finds himself fated to enmity with another, even with God. Is it a lament over patterns in which he is trapped? I don’t know, but nevertheless I feel myself drawn to it.

At times I feel much the same about Luke’s picture of John the Baptist.  Last week Luke told us that John was proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.  And today we hear that crowds came out, drawn to that message.  Now if I were holding a tent revival in the wilderness and huge crowds showed up, I’d think that a good thing. But John calls them snakes; not some of them, but all of them; a brood of vipers, children of serpents.

Beginning to Live

Today's meditation from Fr. Richard Rohr contains this quote from C. K. Chesterton. "When a person has found something that he (she) prefers to life itself, he (she) for the first time has begun to live." This is little more than a paraphrase of Jesus insisting that we find our life only when we are willing to lose it for the kingdom.

In the soul searching that is going on following yesterday's tragic shooting in Connecticut, perhaps we would do well to think about what it is that gives us life, life in any real sense.  What are those things that matter to us more than life itself?

The unbelievable horrors of yesterday have spurred many to say we must talk seriously about guns in our culture. Why is it that you are so much more likely to be killed by a gun in American than in any other developed nation? But inevitably this conversation raises the issue of "rights," the right to bear arms, the freedom to do as we choose.

Perhaps the concept of personal rights and liberties is that thing some prefer to life itself. But so many of the voices I hear are concerned primarily with "my rights."  That stance is by no means restricted to the issue of guns. The insistence on "my rights" permeates our society in a way that is corrosive. It often has little interest beyond the self. It is not about building a better world, a truer community, or anything in the least bit resembling the new realm Jesus proclaims.  It is about protecting what's mine. And if Chesterton and Jesus are correct, such as stance is not life giving, but life draining.

Some religious sorts have responded to yesterday's shootings with, "Well this is what happens when you take God out of the school." But besides the problematic logic of such statements, there is something terribly formulaic about them. They reduce God to a cosmic Santa Claus who either rewards us when we are good or leaves us an awful lump of coal when we are not.  (And "good" here is rarely defined as Jesus defined it, loving neighbor and caring for the neediest.)

But it seems to me that a commitment to building a better world, one that is more just, safer, more caring of the needy, more focused on the good of all - a commitment to something that sounds like Jesus' kingdom, even if it is a secular enterprise - is much more life giving than any call to put prayer back in the schools.

For many, perhaps most people, yesterday's horror yanked us out of ourselves; out of our small preoccupations and petty concerns.  Most of us were confronted with something so much more terrible than anything we face. And if there is any chance to bring something resembling life out of such a tragedy, perhaps it would be simply not to turn back inward. Can we find something that is bigger than us to work for and serve, something that can begin to give life?

A Borrowed Prayer

It's difficult to find any meaningful or helpful words in the wake of the terrible shooting in Connecticut. For this moment, perhaps prayers are the best thing.  I found a prayer by Walter Brueggemann that had been edited for today's tragedy and posted by a friend on Facebook.  Here it is

Had we the chance,
we would have rushed to Bethlehem
to see this thing that had come to pass.

We would have paused at that barn and pondered that baby.

We still pause at that barn--
and ponder that all our babies are under threat,
all the vulnerable who stand at risk before predators,
our babies who face the slow erosion of consumerism,

our babies who face the reach of sexual exploitation,
our babies who face the call to war, placed in harm's way,
our babies, elsewhere in the world,
who know of cold steel against soft arms
and distended bellies from lack of food;
our babies everywhere who are caught
in the fearful display of ruthless adult power.

We ponder how peculiar this baby at Bethlehem is,
summoned to save the world,
and yet also, like every child, also at risk.

Our world is so at risk,
and yet we seek
and wait
for this child named "Emmanuel."
Come be with us, you who are called "God with us."

-- W. Brueggeman, shortened and edited, in light of the elementary school shooting

Advent and Christmas Crosses

At a gathering of pastors this afternoon, the question of whether we were singing Christmas carols yet in our congregation came up. Answers varied, but the general consensus seemed to be that carols began to sneak in on the 3rd Sunday in Advent, and generally arrived by the 4th.  But the Daily Lectionary hasn't yet gotten the memo. Today the gospel reading tells of preparation for Jesus' last supper, and the lectionary will not take a decisive turn toward Christmas until the end of next week.

For many people it seems odd to be reading about Jesus' arrest only days prior to Christmas Eve services. But of course, the heart of the Christian story is in Holy Week. Neither John nor Mark feels any need to mention Jesus' birth in their gospels. And the "Christmas story" is only in Luke.  That in no way diminishes the Christmas story, but it reminds us that Christmas is only an opening scene in a story whose plot revolves around the cross.

Many people would rather not have crosses at Christmas, unless they are pretty, decorative ones. I think I've written here before about how I once took the rough cross we used during Lent and leaned it against the empty manger that sat in our sanctuary during Advent. A lot of people were very offended and told me so.  I didn't do it again in the years that followed, but I wondered if perhaps I should have, at least occasionally. 

Many are familiar with the term "Christmas and Easter Christians."  These are folks generally not seen at church except for these celebrations. They, understandably, want to participate in the joy of Jesus' Incarnation and his Resurrection, but they would rather skip over the road he walks and the cross that stands at the end of that road. And even a lot of us year round Christians prefer to do the same, even if we do so in a less literal manner. We prefer the "cheap grace" that Bonhoeffer wrote about 75 years ago, "grace without discipleship, grace without the cross."

I don't want to dampen the celebration of Christmas. That Jesus enters into human history demands that we celebrate and give thanks, but we can never detach that celebration from the call of Christ to follow him. To do so is to deny ourselves the newness we are promised in Christ. It is for God to leave us right we are, doing nothing more than patting us on the head and saying, "There, there. It's alright."

But the birth of a Messiah heralds a wonderful and new thing, a whole new realm that is breaking into the world as we know it.  And only in following Jesus do we begin to experience and live in that new realm, that kingdom of God, now.

“In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night… Now the festival of Unleavened Bread, which is called the Passover, was near. The chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to put Jesus to death.” These verses from different parts of Luke may jar and even upset us when set side by side. But perhaps that is nothing more than the jarring difference between the realm where we currently live and the realm that we begin to know in following the way of Jesus.

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Sermon video: Searching for Wilderness

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Darkness, Light, and "Merry Christmas"

I learned of a pastoral situation today that reminded me of the world's darkness, the ways in which terrible things that make no sense tear apart people's lives.  Such darkness defies easy explanation and shatters quaint platitudes such as, "God never gives us more than we can handle." (That's nowhere in the Bible, by the way.) Sometimes such darkness feels overwhelming.

Religious people sometimes have more trouble with darkness than agnostics or atheists. If there is no God then it's no one's fault. It's simply a matter of chance or fate or unfortunate chains of events. But we who proclaim a God must wrestle with why God lets things get this way.  And we who follow the Messiah must contend with why the world seems not much changed from the one prior to his arrival.

We religious sorts have devised all sorts of explanations and blame for the darkness. It's the devil's fault or the result of "The Fall."  The world is trapped in sin that propagates darkness. Sometimes such explanations help us make sense of things, but they sometimes provide small comfort when the darkness strikes us. 

Religion sometimes spends so much energy defending or arguing its explanations for darkness and the means of escaping it that it provides little help to those actually struggling with darkness.  That seems to happen in today's gospel where religious authorities are so loyal to their rules and explanations that they have no concern over the darkness that envelopes a woman caught in adultery. And they are frightened and threatened by Jesus, who is remarkably free of their conventions and explanations.

We religious folks often seem to think we can fight the darkness by getting all our explanations and rules and rituals just right. We fight amongst ourselves over doctrines and worship styles and ordination standards with a passion that suggests the kingdom will arrive the moment we get everything clarified. Meanwhile we ignore countless people who are swept up in darkness while we busily tend to our little religious institutions, too busy to offer much light.

I think the ridiculous battles over "Merry Christmas" are a trivial example of this. As foolish as I think this fight is, I can only imagine how it appears to a non-Christian. In the face the darkness of war and poverty and homelessness and disease and meaninglessness and more, some Christians only want to chastise those who utilize the wrong seasonal greeting.  What a ray of light in the midst of the darkness. Jesus must feel honored.

For the last 15 years or so, I have read these verses from John's gospel as a part of worship on Christmas Eve.  "What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it."

Interesting that the darkness is entered into but not eliminated. It is presumed but not really explained, and no blame is assigned. And in the midst of all this, the light shines and persists, a hope that cannot be consumed by the darkness. It does not flail against the darkness or seek to beat it into submission. It simply shines, confident that this is enough.

At those Christmas Eve services, we dim the sanctuary lights as we pass the flame from candle to candle. In a darkened sanctuary, we lift our candles, their small lights punctuating the thick darkness. The candles and their flames are small, but the light is impressive, even more so aswe lift them high. The light shines in the darkness.

Unfortunately, we blow them out before we leave.

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On Doing

Ah, you who join house to house,
   who add field to field,
until there is room for no one but you,
   and you are left to live alone
   in the midst of the land!  
The LORD of hosts has sworn in my hearing:
Surely many houses shall be desolate,
   large and beautiful houses, without inhabitant.

Isaiah 5:8-9

The disparity between rich and poor in the US has grown significantly over the last few decades. The question of what, if anything, needs to be done about this may be a political one, but the situation itself is a matter of fact. So too is a widening gulf between CEOs, college presidents, and other executive types and the typical worker. It's not as though America has never had fabulously wealthy titans in the past (see names such as Rockefeller, Carnegie, and Vanderbilt), but there were reactions to their immense wealth and power that changed American business and politics. 

I thought of this situation while reading today's passage from Isaiah. The prophet blasts the rich who acquire more and more while leaving less and less for others, insisting that this has moved God to act. Not having lived in the time of Isaiah, I don't know closely our situation mirrors that of ancient Israel, but there are certainly some similarities.

I also saw this this morning in Richard Rohr's daily devotion. "The Scriptures very clearly teach what we call today a 'bias toward action.' It is not just belief systems or dogmas and doctrines, as we have often made it. The Word of God is telling us very clearly that if you do not do it, you, in fact, do not believe it and have not heard it."

As a pastor, it feels like I do a lot more talking than doing. Perhaps writing sermons, preparing worship, and preaching is a kind of doing. But where do I do the good news I proclaim? Where do I enact good news for the poor, release to the captive, and freedom to the oppressed? Where do I do Jubilee, the coming of God's favor?

Modern people don't much expect God to "do" anything over situations like that Isaiah describes. We have God safely sequestered in the spiritual realm, able to impact us only internally. God doesn't do anything in history, or so we imagine. And so our Advent expects only another Christmas, nothing new. And I talk and talk.  

But what is God calling me to do?

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Sermon: Searching for Wilderness

Luke 3:1-6

Searching for Wilderness

James Sledge                                                       December 9, 2012

Recently the pastor at Lewinsville Presbyterian invited me to lunch, her way of welcoming a new colleague to the area.  We settled on a date that worked for both of us, and she asked where I’d like to eat.  “I don’t really have any favorite spots yet,” I said.  “You pick.”  And so she later sent me an email saying, “Let’s try Pie-Tanza . It’s at 1216 West Broad Street.”  But the email also added, “It’s in the Giant strip mall.”

1216 West Broad is pretty precise.  I can put that right into the GPS app on my phone, and it will take me right there.  But even though the street numbering system we have takes most of the guesswork out of giving directions, we still like to use landmarks to help. 

“You turn right just past the McDonalds.  You go past the elementary school and it’s the second street on your left.  We’re the house with blue shutters and the old VW in the driveway.”  Never mind that the address is displayed in big brass numbers on the door as well as painted on the curb.  We still like to locate things with prominent markers. 

At one time this was absolutely essential. There was a time when many roads did not have names, and there was no uniform method of assigning addresses.  I lived out in the country growing up, and our address was Route 3, Box 289-C, not much help in finding the place.

In ancient times, a similar problem existed in telling history.  The modern world is on a neat and logical calendar system, and so we could mark Pearl Harbor Day on Friday and say, “It happened on December 7, 1941.”  We don’t need to say, “It happened in FDR’s third term as president, two years after the Germans invaded Poland.”  But ancient writers did need to say something like that. 

When the Bible tells us about Isaiah’s call to become a prophet it begins, In the year that King Uzziah died…  When Luke writes his gospel, he has to do the same sort of thing.  He begins the story of John’s the Baptist’s birth with In the days of King Herod of Judea… When he reports the birth of Jesus he tells of a decree from Emperor Augustus,  at the registration taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. 

And when he begins to tell the story of John’s ministry in our gospel today, he does something similar. In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness.

Wow! A little locational overkill, don’t you think?  Fifteenth year of Tiberius should have been enough.  Throwing in Pontius Pilate is okay, I guess.  But Herod and Philip and Lysanias and Annas and Caiaphas?  Is all of that necessary?

Trick Questions

Years ago George Carlin did a comedy routine about attending Catholic school.  In it he recalled trying to trip up priests with elaborate questions. Some were classics such as "If God is all powerful, can God make a rock so big God can't pick it up?"  Another involved being on ship at sea when the priest died on the day by which one had to receive communion or be guilty of a horrible sin.  But when it was too late, the ship then crossed the international date line. Carlin's questions has much in common with the one Sadducees ask Jesus in today's gospel.  Not that trick questions ever seem to bother Jesus. 

Employing trick questions or other linguistic gymnastics to question authority is commonplace. At times it is a great tool for puncturing pomposity, perhaps what Carlin was doing with priests' easy doctrinal certainties.  But playing with words is also employed by legal teams figuring out how a company or individual can violate the intent of a law or statute without actually breaking the law.

Whatever the rules are, what ever authority we find over us, people seem intent on devising ways to undermine or minimize it.  We're not far removed from Stewardship season at my church, and I once again heard that question regarding a tithe.  "Now is that 10% of pre-tax or after-tax income?" In other words, What are the loopholes?

We learn early on that we can play with words in ways that undermine rules and authority, as any parent of a young child will tell you. I'm not sure why we chafe so under rules or authority, but it's an old story; see Genesis and the Garden of Eden.  That story, along with many others, makes clear that we seek to get around rules and authority without much regards as to whether they are good rules or not. As we mature, we may come to appreciate the way our parents' rules and authority protected and nurtured us, but we still push against rules and authority.

This need to break free of constraints is surely a force that moves humanity forward. It is often a strength, but like all strengths, it has a dark side. And all too often we humans operate without much awareness of our dark, shadow sides.

We can laugh at Sadducess playing word games with Jesus.  We can enjoy how Jesus isn't fazed by their attempts to undermine his authority. But of course we play similar games ourselves, even if we are unaware of them.

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Labels

We worry a lot about labels. Often we define ourselves and others by labels, using them to figure out where we and others fit.  I'm a southern, progressive/liberal, middle-class, Christian, middle-aged, suburban, married male.  Other people may label me differently, and I may embrace or object to the ways they categorize me.  And I have my own labels for those who use unkind terms for me.

Labels are a big part of politics, and in recent years, labels have become a big part of Christmas.  Christian, secular, and politically correct are labels that jump to my mind when I think of Christmas, at least our culture's observance of Christmas.  My Facebook page is already awash in posts from people wanting to "put Christ back in Christmas" or angry at stores that say "Happy Holidays."

The phrase isn't new.  Irving Berlin wrote the popular song "Happy Holiday" back in 1942. It's been a Christmas standard for years, often changed to "Happy Holidays." I grew up hearing Perry Como sing it at Christmas, and I never heard anyone suggest it yanked Christ out of Christmas. But people have slapped the "politically correct" label on Happy Holidays, and for some folks those are fighting words now.

I'm not sure why this is so.  It seems we are a more partisan society these days, one where labels often form lines of demarcation between sides.  We do live in a time of change and uncertainty, a time with a fair amount of anxiety and fear, and we seldom behave our best at such times. Partisanship and labeling may be a way that we try to create clarity and simplicity out of the world's complexity. There's right and wrong.  Which side are you on?

A Christian Christmas presumably gets us on the "right" side, at least as far as God's concerned. But it seems downright remarkable that "Merry Christmas" versus "Happy Holidays" would become a litmus test determining right or wrong. Surely the words on seasonal banners at Target or Wal-Mart say almost nothing about whether or not anyone actually follows Jesus.  But admittedly, labels are a lot easier than actually following Jesus.

Today's reading from Isaiah contains these rather threatening words.
   Therefore says the Sovereign, 
      the LORD of hosts, the Mighty One of Israel:
   Ah, I will pour out my wrath on my enemies,
     and avenge myself on my foes! 

Now perhaps this might seem an extra incentive to make clear our allegiances, to stamp "Christ" and "Christian" all over ourselves and our stores and malls.  Except these words are directed at those who have the right labels on all the banners at all the stores and malls.  The enemies of Yahweh are the ones who sing God's praises and celebrate the LORD's festivals with great fanfare, but who fail to do justice and righteousness, who do not take care of the widow and orphans, the weakest and most vulnerable of that society.

In Matthew's gospel, Jesus speaks of those who get the labels right not entering the kingdom while outsiders who inadvertently serve Jesus are deemed worthy.  (see Matthew 7:21-23; 25:31-46)  That would be something, Jesus saying to the agnostic store clerk who wished you "Happy Holidays" and who volunteers weekly at the homeless shelter, "Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world."  And Jesus then saying to the "Christian" who accosted the same clerk for taking Christ out of Christmas, but who never so much as noticed the suffering and injustice all around him, "I never knew you; go away from me you evildoer."

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Who Put You in Charge?

I noticed something I'd not seen before as I read this morning's psalms.  No remarkable revelation or insight accompanied this notice, but it made me wonder.  Psalm 122 speaks of Jerusalem. It prays for peace within her walls and ends with this line. "For the sake of the house of the LORD our God, I will seek your good." 

This refers to the Temple which is, of course, long gone. A later Temple built in its place is long gone as well.  And so I wondered, if the psalm calls for my prayers on account of a non existent Temple, is that psalm now invalid?

I found myself wondering about Scripture and its authority.  Historically we Protestants have invested a great deal of authority in Scripture.  Doctrinally that is still the case for Presbyterians although I know my share of church folks for whom this is far from true.  Authority is given on a case by case basis, and only after considering what the particular verses say. They'll allow a text to make its point, and then decide if it did so convincingly.

The question of authority comes up in today's gospel reading. Some of the Jewish authorities want to know by what authority Jesus says and does what he does.  Jesus refuses to answer after his opponents refuse his similar question about John the baptizer.  But I wonder what sort of answer from Jesus would have been acceptable.  Was there some paperwork that would have granted him such standing?  What if some prominent, well-to-do Jerusalem families had vouched for him?

Where does authority come from?  How about Scripture's authority?  What about Psalm 122? Can I cull it because it speaks to a non existent situation?

Do we recognize authority beyond ourselves? I think the persistence of religion points to an innate human need to connect to something bigger than self. We seem to need an authority beyond ourselves.  But at the very same time, we seem to be extremely suspicious of such authority. Much of America's celebration of liberty, freedom, and individualism arises from a distrust of authority.  Traditionally this was balanced by a certain allegiance to a greater community good and to faith, but these allegiances have seemed to have weakened while distrust has grown.

There is an old Bob Dylan song entitled "Gotta Serve Somebody."  I take the lyrics to be pretty good theology. We have to serve somebody. It's just a matter of whom.  However, as a reasonably good Calvinist, I also know that we most often prefer gods of our own design. Not surprisingly, liberals often serve a god who is remarkably in step with their liberalism while conservatives serve a god remarkably in step with their views.

That brings me to a final bit of wondering. If no authority outside ourselves brings us face to face with a God who challenges and transforms who we already are, can we really encounter God?

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Sermon Video: The Days Are Surely Coming

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Sermon: The Days Are Surely Coming

Luke 21:25-36 (Jeremiah 33:14-16)

The Days Are Surely Coming

James Sledge                                                               December 2, 2012

The days are surely coming, says the Lord.  And indeed they are.  The day will come when school and college are over and you have to find a job.  The day will come when children grow up and move away.  The day will come when someone you trusted abandons you. The day will come when you retire or the job ends and the focus of much of your life disappears.  The day will come when the doctor calls with a terrible diagnosis, and if you avoid that day, the day will still come when your body simply fails you.

And very often, when those days come, people find themselves in crisis.  “Why didn’t I work harder in school and spend a little less time partying?”  “Why didn’t I spend more time with my children when they were young?”  “How do I fix this relationship I’ve neglected all those years?”  “What do I do now without a career?”  “Why didn’t I take better care of myself? “What are life and hope about now that I have cancer?”

The days are surely coming, says the Lord.  And when they do, we often have to reassess our lives and take stock of where we’ve been and where we’re headed.  When the days that come are really big things or really scary things, we sometimes discover that our lives are way out of kilter.  We’ve been focused on things that don’t matter so much, and we neglected the things that really do.

The days are surely coming, says the Lord.  We know those days come, but we are not all that attentive to the passage of time. We are too busy being busy, and we’re too much in a hurry.  People seem to have a perverse pride about that here in the DC area, but the situation is much the same everywhere. You can hear the “We’re too busy” refrain in every corner of this country, and very often, it takes the arrival of one of those days that are coming to free us from it.

Today we enter the season of Advent, a time of preparation, expectation, and waiting for a day that is surely coming.  And the first Sunday of Advent is always a stark reminder that this day, much like those other days that come and throw our lives into crisis, will reveal the ways that our lives have gotten out of kilter, how they’ve become overly focused on what doesn’t matter and neglectful of what does. 

Another Advent begins, reminding us that God will not simply abandon the world, that the conflict in the Middle East will not simply go on forever, that hate will not ultimately triumph over love, that the poor will be lifted up, the captives released, and the oppressed set free.  It all sounds so wonderful, but it also seems so far away and so hard to pay much attention to. 

Another Advent begins, and we’ll busy ourselves with shopping and decorating and cooking and wrapping and preparing special music and special services.  And then it will end in a frenzy of travel and family gatherings and warm feelings and nostalgia, and then it will get put away, packed up in the basement or drug to the curb with the dried out remains of the Christmas tree.

Trust Issues

I must admit that today's gospel reading unnerves me a bit.  Its ending is quite gruesome, with those who opposed the ascension of their king executed.  I must also admit that I often skip over such passages, excising them from my abridged version of the gospel.

But for some reason, I felt the need to sit with this "parable of the ten pounds."  It's so similar to Matthew's "parable of the talents" that both must point to a common parable.  But Luke's version is so different that he must have had a very different message to get across. As I contemplated it, I thought of all sorts of things that mitigated some of its objectionable nature. For instance, it would have sounded very real to life to people of Luke's day. Local, Middle Eastern kings were incredibly cruel to their enemies.  And it is a parable, not doctrine or even allegory.

But then I quit trying to explain away its difficult parts and simply sat with it a while.  And I found myself drawn to a line not in Matthew's version. "But the citizens of his country hated him and sent a delegation after him, saying, 'We do not want this man to rule over us.' "The line doesn't really fit with much else in the parable.  Presumably the slaves that are the main characters are not "the citizens" who sent a delegation.

I can certainly locate myself in the parable as a servant of Jesus who has been given resources to use on Jesus' behalf.  But today I found myself identifying with those citizens who did not want Jesus to become their king.  I like Jesus just fine, and I am happy for him to bless me or give me some spiritual goodies, but I'm not so sure about having him be my king.  Perhaps that's not so different from Jesus being my master, but it struck me as so today. I want to be a citizen, with all its benefits.  But I don't want to be under the rule of Jesus.

If you are a student of history, you probably know that kings are sometimes wonderful rulers.  When kings truly have their subjects' best interests at heart, kingdoms can run much better than democracies. Democracies don't really provide a better government in terms of getting needed things done. Rather they attempt to prevent power from accumulating in ways that can abuse and oppress.  In a sense, we embrace a very inefficient form of governing in order to preserve our freedoms and prevent our being treated like slaves.  We just don't trust kings.  The really good and kind ones turn out to be quite rare.

And I think I bring some of that distrust to my relationship with Jesus. Is it really a good idea to turn my life over to him? 

One of the things I have very slowly, and still only partially, come to realize is that it is impossible to convince someone or argue someone into letting Jesus be king.  You simply must experience something of the depth of God's love, of Jesus' longing for you, before it makes much sense to hand over your life to him.  And Luke certainly knows about such love.  After all it is Luke's gospel where Jesus says "Father, forgive them" from the cross.  And it is Luke's second volume, the book of Acts, where Saul, a sworn enemy of Jesus, encounters the risen Christ and becomes Paul, one of the most dedicated subjects Jesus has ever had.

Right now, in my own spiritual journey, I find myself spending less time trying to be better at following Jesus. Instead I'm trying to pay attention to, and become more aware of, just how much God loves me, just how much Jesus wants to love me. I need to feel that, to experience that, because it seems I have some trust issues.

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God's Coming Dominion and Wal-Mart

“Because the poor are despoiled, 
        because the needy groan,
     I will now rise up,” says the LORD;
    “I will place them in the safety 
         for which they long.”  Psalm 12:5

As the mad dash of Christmas shopping began in earnest last week, with Black Friday sales that started on Thursday, there were also protests at Wal-Mart.  In the DC area, a large crowd - though not nearly so large as the crowds inside - gathered to complain that Wal-Mart paid its employees too little, gave them scant benefits, and used intimidation and coercion to keep them keep them silent. I don't know about any intimidation or coercion, but the low pay and lack of benefits are public record.

In today's gospel, a blind man shouts at Jesus and his entourage as they pass by. People tell the man to be quiet.  Presumably Jesus has more important matters.  After all he has just explained to his followers that he is headed to Jerusalem, to arrest, abuse, and death. But Jesus comes over to the man and gives him what he longs for.  And I have to think that Luke includes this story in this spot as a reminder to us of Jesus' priorities.

As we enter into another Advent, we will once again hear of God's long awaited dominion. From Luke we will hear that this dominion will lift up the poor and the lowly, but will bring down the powerful and send "the rich away empty." The gospels speak of a coming great reversal that we are called to become part of now.

Over the centuries, Christians have often been involved in efforts to help the poor and needy. At times such efforts have helped transform society and make God's kingdom a bit more visible.  But at times these efforts are charity done to make us feel better. Churches spend huge sums of money to go on mission trips to exotic locales, but the run of the mill poor in our midst are often invisible to us. Wal-Mart employees who don't make enough to live on don't quite generate the interest or excitement of a mission trip to Haiti.

I don't mean to disparage missions to Haiti. I am not against such things at all. But if we pass by the blind man on the side of the road, scarcely noticing him as we travel along the way, we have gotten off track.

I am no socialist, but it is clear that unrestrained capitalism is antithetical to the gospel picture of God's kingdom, the new realm or dominion of God.  We Presbyterians claim that one of the primary purposes of the church is "the exhibition of the Kingdom of Heaven to the world."  I take it that a similar purpose is what made it impossible for Jesus to ignore a blind man on the roadside, even when he was so focused on going to Jerusalem.

Me, I'm sympathetic to those workers at Wal-Mart, but hey, they're having a really big sale on flat screen TVs inside.

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Dryness

"Once God has spoken." That's a line for this morning's psalm.  It then continues, "twice I have heard this: that power belongs to God."  But I was already stuck on the first part. Sometimes this is what communication with God feels like to me, so infrequent that I might say, "I heard God speak once."

One of the more common spiritual complaints I've heard over the years is about what many have labeled "dryness."  I called it that myself before learning that it was a well established term to describe those periods when prayer or meditation or Bible reading feel empty. Perhaps that is why Psalm 42 begins, "As the deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God."

I can never remember who said it (I think it was someone from the Alban Institute.), but I've always remembered this succinct comment about Mainline Church difficulties.  "People come to us seeking an experience of God, and we give them information about God."  Thirsty people come to our churches, and we talk a lot about water, but don't seem actually to have any. Turns out that thirsty people aren't really much interested in complex discussions about how water works, its molecular properties, or its capacity to wear down rocks dripping over the eons.  They just want a drink of water.

The possibilities for quenching spiritual thirst seem to multiply continually.  There are more spiritualities available than one can count. (If you don't believe me, check out the category in a Barnes & Noble or browse it online.) Such proliferation suggests a lot of dryness and thirst out there, and so it seems that any church that provided a good watering hole would be overwhelmed with folks. But on the whole, most congregations experience a different dryness.  They are parched for people.

 Not that Mainline churches haven't tried to address this. We recognize that something is wrong, and if you look around, you will find every sort of experimentation with worship. Contemporary, traditional, weekly communion, Taize, informal, and more; and on a variety of days and at a variety of times. Sometimes such experimentation has indeed produced a long, deep drink of cool water. But other times it seems the proverbial "rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic."

I think this morning's psalm may provide a little help in understanding why worship works or fails, regardless of style.  "For God alone my soul waits in silence; from God comes my salvation. God alone is my rock and my salvation, my fortress; I shall never be shaken." A lot of activity in churches is little more than institutional machinations, new and creative ways to talk about water.  Very often it forgets about God. I does not wait for God or trust that God is there.  Instead it desperately attempts to create that which it seeks.

We are about to enter into Advent, a time of waiting. Waiting is a much neglected discipline in our world. It does not feel productive or busy or any of the other things that our culture so values.  But waiting is the spiritual equivalent of listening, an attentiveness that allows the other to speak. Maybe the lack of such attentiveness is one reason God seems to speak so infrequently.  Come to think of it, maybe that's the reason we so seldom actually hear one another.

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Sermon video: Our Truthiness - God's Reality

Other sermon available on YouTube.

Sermon audio: Our Truthiness - God's Reality

Audios of sermons and worship on church website.

Sermon: Our Truthiness - God's Reality

John 18:33-38b

Our Truthiness – God’s Reality

James Sledge                                                                              November 25, 2012

If I were forced to choose, I think I would probably say that the best show on television, certainly the funniest, is The Colbert Report on the Comedy Central.  If you’re not familiar, Stephen Colbert is a real person, but also a character, a parody of an egotistical, conservative, cable-news talk show host, and one of the better satirists since Will Rogers. 

One of the recurring features on the show is a segment called “The Word” which is always introduced with the phrase, “And that brings us to tonight’s word,” eliciting wild cheers from the studio audience.  The segment appeared in the show’s premier episode in October of 2005, and that night’s word was “truthiness.” 

Truthiness made fun of the all too common practice of cable news pundits stating as fact things that are only the speaker’s opinion.  Colbert says facts are not things you get from books but that you feel in your gut. “That’s where the truth comes from ladies and gentlemen, the gut,” says Colbert.  “Did you know that you have more nerve endings in your stomach than in your head?  Look it up. Now somebody’s gonna say, ‘I did look that up, and it’s wrong.’ Well mister, that’s because you looked it up in a book. Next time, try looking it up in your gut.”

For some reason, the word “truthiness” caught on.  You can find all sorts of articles on it.  It is actually in the New Oxford American Dictionary, with Colbert credited for it.  The American Dialect Society named it their word of the year for 2005, defining it as “the quality of preferring concepts or facts one wishes to be true, rather than concepts or facts known to be true.”  I suspect the word caught on because it is such a perfect word to describe what is sometimes passed off as truth.  But I wonder if it doesn’t also resonate simply because we humans have such a difficult relationship with truth.

Grateful

The picture on Facebook makes fun of Black Friday saying, "people trample other for sales exactly one day after being thankful for what they already have." Today's gospel reading tells of 10 lepers who were healed, but only one (and he was a Samaritan) came back to say "Thank you," prompting Jesus to ask, "Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?"

Tomorrow we will be grateful, or at least say that we are. Some of us will list things for which we are grateful. A good exercise, I suppose, if often perfunctory.  And I'm not sure that the things we are thankful for, the things we count as blessings, are always the best lists. Many of us are thankful for our stuff, our nice cars and clothes and houses. It makes sense in a way, but Jesus warns that our wealth can be a curse rather than a blessing.

I find myself in a weird place with regard to gratitude as I write. Not only is it the eve of Thanksgiving, but I've also just returned from a Presbyterian CREDO conference, a rather intense event for pastors where we examine our sense of identity and call including how that intersects with our physical and financial health.  One piece of this is how our church work and busyness can take us away from our actual call from God. The priorities of our work lives often get out of sync with God's priorities.

During my time at CREDO, as I explored my own faith and call, as I questioned my own priorities, I found myself feeling profoundly grateful for certain people, my wife especially.  And I found myself profoundly sad for how my life and its priorities often do not reflect such gratitude.

Today, I'm also doing some work on a sermon for the first Sunday in Advent. Each year the readings for this Sunday focus not on Jesus' arrival in a manger but on his still anticipated one.  And the scripture reading always contains some sort of call to be alert and ready for that arrival. It's not the scary or silly stuff of Left Behind novels, but rather a call to live now according to the priorities of God's coming new realm.  And different priorities make for different gratitude lists, and for different sorts of regrets and sadnesses.

For someone who did very well in seminary and has managed okay as a pastor, I can be really slow to catch on about faith. I had one of my "Aha" moments in the thick spiritual ether of a CREDO conference in the beauty of the NC mountains.  I encountered God's love in something other than a contractual or intellectual or judicial manner.  I encountered it as God's desire for me, and lots of things suddenly felt reoriented. It suddenly felt easier to be vulnerable and not worry about doing it just right.

One specific example was particularly illuminating for me. The notion of confession suddenly felt more like gratitude. Nothing like a child saying he's sorry after being caught doing something wrong, but rather a response to discovering how far a lover has gone to keep loving you regardless. And "Sorry" all of a sudden sounds like "Thank you."

It's Thanksgiving, and I have my list of things I'm grateful for, but the list feels a bit different this year. It feels fresh, and strange, and wonderful.  Thank you!

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Sermon video - New Clothes

Sermon audio - New Clothes

I've been away for a CREDO conference.  Here's the sermon audio from Nov. 11.


Audios of sermons and worship available on FCPC website.

Sermon - New Clothes

Mark 12:38-44

 New Clothes

James Sledge                                                                                       November 11, 2012

I have been to three high school reunions.  It makes me feel terribly old to say so, but I attended my 35^th a couple of years ago.  This one was a little different from a tenth or twentieth.  After 35 years, my classmates and I were a lot closer to the ends of careers than beginnings.  Quite a few have died, and some had or were just about to retire.  At a tenth reunion, so much lay ahead. Only provisional judgments could be made about how your life had gone.  But at a 35^th.

When you gather for a 35^th reunion it is difficult to look at people and not make judgments.  Some are fairly superficial. If you’ve been to such reunions you know what I’m talking about.  Some folks have aged better than others.  Some look little changed from their senior class picture.  Some you can’t figure out who they are.

Other judgments require a little more information, some catching up.  Graduate degrees, places they’d worked, where they now live, where their children go to college, and other such things let you begin to rate folks on some sort of success scale.  One is an Air Force general, others are doctors, some own businesses, some are fire fighters, some are teachers, and so on.  Of course not everyone uses the same success scale for their measuring. Some are impressed with Air Force general, and some are not.  Some are impressed with teacher; some are not. Some are impressed with pastor (not many); some are not.

Whether or not you’ve ever attended a high school reunion, you probably use some sort of success scale, some type of measures for making judgments or life choices.  Parents want their children to do well, so they worry about the school district they live in, and children learn at very young age that they will be measured.

Think about all those scales we use: grades, SAT or ACT scores, state school vs. Ivy League vs. community college.  And it keeps going after school: salary, car you drive, where you live, where you vacation, who you know, how important you are, and so on.

Numbers figure prominently in many of these success scales, and such scales show up at church as well. Successful pastor means one at a church with lots of members, and successful churches are ones with large membership and budgets. We’ve just completed a stewardship campaign that talked about giving as a spiritual discipline and the tithe as a way of gauging spiritual health, but we’ll still measure the success of the campaign in total dollars. 

There is a certain practical necessity to this I suppose, but it sure seems out of sync with what Jesus says to us today.  When he sees a widow drop a couple of pennies in the Temple treasury, he says, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury.”  He calls it “more.”

Sermon video - Lengths in the Chain

Sermon from November 4

Sermon video - Almost Ready

Sermon from October 28

Don't Sweat the Small Stuff

I love social media, but it has its downside. Somewhat like alcohol, it seems to lower inhibitions. People fire off tweets and Facebook posts in the heat of the moment, saying things that they must surely regret later. Or perhaps the lack of face to face contact simply removes the sense of propriety that might be there if the person were standing amongst a group of coworkers.

Today, post election, the venting is going full force. I suppose that Donald Trump had become such a caricature that people barely shrugged when he called the election a "sham" and "travesty" and called for a "revolution." Still, even Trump seemed to think better of it later, removing the tweet. (Social media 101; you can never really remove a tweet. It's still out there.) On Facebook this morning, some of my "friends" are overcome with doom and foreboding. "American is screwed," and "Goodbye America, it was nice knowing you," are prime examples. 

Hopefully such statements are heat-of-the-moment feelings that will subside, but no doubt they are real to those saying them. And I find myself wondering why so many folks feel the reelection of Obama is a death knell for America. And for that matter, why did so many of my liberal friends thing the election of Romney would have been much the same.

In his acceptance speech last night, Obama addressed the pettiness that so often seems to dominate politics, making them seem "small, even silly." He went on to address important and non-petty things he encountered on the campaign trail and then said, "It’s not small, it’s big. It’s important. Democracy in a nation of 300 million can be noisy and messy and complicated. We have our own opinions. Each of us has deeply held beliefs. And when we go through tough times, when we make big decisions as a country, it necessarily stirs passions, stirs up controversy."

I get what he's saying, and I agree to a point, but only to a point. I would never argue that fundamental issues of democracy or people's economic security are small things. But I will argue that in politics, as in all other areas of life, humans tend to overestimate the largeness of their cause, their issue, their concern, etc. I say this as a Christian with a fundamental belief in a human brokenness that issues forth in idolatry, giving ultimate status to things that are not. Idols can be quite good and important things. In fact the best idols always are. But when any cause or institution or idea or ism becomes ultimate for us, our sense of reality is distorted, and we act as if things are larger and more important than they actually are.

There seems to be an innate need for humans to attach to something larger than self. Some label this an innate religiosity. But O how this often leads us astray. From a Christian perspective, anything that gets in the way of loving God with my entire being and loving my neighbor as myself is an idol that distorts me and my life. It creates loyalties and passions that are out of kilter, and so I live in ways that are not true to who I really am.

You can see such out of kilter loyalty and passion at work in today's gospel. The synagogue leader's loyalties are misplaced. They are to doctrines and practices meant to encourage faithful life with God. But the leader has mistaken them for the ultimate. Similar things happen all the time in the Church when pastors and members confuse the success of their congregation with the work of Christ.

And I think that much of the partisan bitterness in our world today (in both secular and church politics), is because we have given ultimate loyalty to sub-ultimate things. And so my ideas for a better country are more important than the country itself. My country is more important than the world. My notions of how the church should act are more important than the church itself. And my notion of what God is like and how God should act replaces the living God who is beyond my full understanding.

There's a saying that became a book title which reads, "Don't sweat the small stuff, and it's all small stuff." Perhaps we would all do well to apply that adage to our loyalties and big things from time to time. A reminder of the universal human tendency to find subordinate substitutes for what should truly be ultimate.

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