Sermon: Awake and Ready

Matthew 24:36-44

Awake and Ready

James Sledge                                                               December 1, 2013 – Advent 1

I want you to do a bit of imagining with me this morning. Imagine that you have just learned that you have one year to live. In this imaginary situation, you will be able to live a perfectly normal life for most of that time. You will not feel bad, and you will be able to do pretty much anything you can do now. But there is nothing you or anyone else can do to change the situation. You have a year to live.

If you found yourself in such a situation, how would that impact you? What would change? What would you do differently? What things that are unimportant in your life right now might become more so? What things that are important now might not seem so important anymore? What would you start doing? What would you stop doing? Who would matter more? Who would matter less? Take a moment to mull all that over.

When someone has a dramatic event in life – a brush with death, the loss of job or career, the loss or someone important, or some other dramatic change in life circumstances – it’s sometimes referred to as “a wakeup call.” Some of you may have had one. Something happens that shakes us, and suddenly things look different, suddenly our perspective changes.

It’s an interesting metaphor, this “wakeup call.” It suggests that we were, in some way, sleeping up until we were roused into a state of alertness. But what does it mean to say that, metaphorically at least, we’ve been asleep?

Have you ever driven somewhere – work, school, the mall – and upon arriving you cannot actually recall the drive? You have no idea if the lights along the way were green or red. You clearly made it safely from point A to point B, but for all you know, you ran several red lights or stop signs. It’s like you were sleepwalking, or, in this case, sleep-driving.

Think of the things that lull us to sleep as we live our lives: long, monotonous commutes, a teacher, professor, or boss who drones on and on, long hours at a job that has lost interest or excitement for us. We can start simply to go through the motions, to sleepwalk , and it may touch all facets of our lives. We get home, grab a bite, get a drink, plop down on the couch and flip on the TV, or start checking out texts, tweets, and Facebook posts. We may even do all this in the company of friends or family yet hardly be aware of one another.

Most of us have some familiarity with going through the day scarcely aware, scarcely awake, not noticing the beauty all around us, not noticing the hurts and pains all around us. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism, a way to get through long difficult days, to deal with relationships that have soured, and so on, but we can become numb, oblivious to much around us, sleepwalking through our lives.
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Our gospel reading today is part of a much larger section of Jesus’ last teachings to his followers before he is arrested and taken from them. He focuses on their need, and ours, to stay alert and awake. After the verse we heard, he tells a number of parables that speak to this. The last of these, Jesus’ last teaching prior to his arrest, is the so-called Judgment of the Gentiles where the returning Son of Man gathers all people and separates them as one separates sheep from goats. Both sheep and goats say that they never saw Jesus hungry or thirsty or naked of a stranger or in prison. “But,” says Jesus, “Some of you did see the least of these who were hungry, sick, strangers, or prisoners, and so you saw me.” I wonder if the goats didn’t see because they were sleepwalking, walking right by those in need without even noticing them.

Praise the Lord! But What Have You Done for Me Lately?

If my Facebook page is any guide, there are a lot of people terribly upset by plans at Macy's, K-Mart, and other retailers to begin their Black Friday sales on Thanksgiving Day, but I'm struggling to come up with much outrage of my own. No one is required to shop at these establishments, tomorrow or on any day that follows. And what is so sacred about gluttony, parades, dog shows, and football that it is somehow sullied and profaned by this service to the almighty dollar?

Thanksgiving certainly has its religious connections and roots, though they have receded so far as to be nearly invisible. Some faith communities still hold Thanksgiving services, but rarely on the actually day. No sense trying to compete with the primary events of Thanksgiving. No complaints from me on that. Thanksgiving as a practice is essential to Christian faith, but Thanksgiving Day isn't.

It is possible, however, that Thanksgiving's being invaded by the spending frenzy of Christmas does speak to issues facing Christian faith, namely the difficulty we contemporary Americans seem to have being truly grateful (see Monday's blog). We are anxious people who struggle with being content. And so we quickly forget past accomplishments and gifts. We want to know, "What  have you done for me lately?" We all know stories of a very successful football coach who was fired after a single losing season.

Both of this morning's psalms call the faithful to praise, song, and thanksgiving for all God's graciousness, saving acts, and wonderful works. But such songs of thanks and praise require a longer memory than tends to be our wont. God is a remarkably patient and non-anxious deity, but our anxieties make patience, waiting, rest, and Sabbath very difficult for us. If God hasn't done something for us very recently, we may have a hard time finding it on our ledgers.

I wonder if one of the most profound things Christians might do as we move into Advent, something that might also allow for a more genuine giving of thanks, would be to slow down. What if, in this season of hectic busyness, we entered into an Advent discipline of rest, of stopping long enough for our fields of view to grow a little larger and lengthier? What if, in our recalling old, sacred stories of God's entering into human history at Bethlehem, we were able to remember and rest in the grace of God, allowing us not to worry so much about tomorrow, to be a little less anxious? What a witness that might be.

Grace and blessings to you for Thanksgiving. And may you find in it rest and space and sabbath to see beyond tomorrow's anxieties and to glimpse the goodness of God.

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If Jesus Got Ahold of Christmas

As surely as bad Christmas music is blaring in the stores and malls, so too the posts have begun to appear on Facebook from those upset over "Happy Holidays" rather than "Merry Christmas." It seems like so much manufactured upset to me. Is it really a significant concern for the faith if Target tries to whip people into a seasonal spending frenzy without using the word "Christmas?" For that matter, does the Messiah really want his title attached to our rampant consumerism?

That said, I understand some Christians' frustration with what they see as a gradual erosion of respect for the the church and religion. And even if the mall version of Christmas is largely devoid of any religious content, it was still connected in some way and still shares a date and a name. In minimalist fashion, Christmas keeps a very small bit of the Christian story before an increasingly nonreligious population. "Happy Holidays" make the tenuous linkage seem even more precarious. But even if I can understand some of their fear and frustration, I think the "Keep Christ in Christmas" crowd terribly misguided.

As this morning's psalm opens, I imagine some of these folks would nod in agreement with the psalmist's lament.
      Help, O LORD, for there is no longer anyone who is godly;
         the faithful have disappeared from humankind.
      They utter lies to each other;
          with flattering lips and a double heart they speak.
"Yes indeed... the world is going to hell in a hand basket."

But as the psalmist continues, we discover that this terrible situation has nothing to do with keeping up good, religious appearances. It has nothing to do with whether or not merchants have signs with Christmas, God, Lord, or Yahweh in their stores.
    “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.”

Because the poor are despoiled, because the needy groan... The American version of Christmas is about conspicuous consumption, about an orgy of buying and spending. To that we sometimes sprinkle in some toy drives for poor children and some turkey dinners for the hungry. But at the same time we cut food stamp programs and refuse to set a liveable minimum wage.

If Christ truly were to enter into our Christmas, it might well have all the warmth of when he lost it in the Jerusalem temple. "This is what you do in my name!?"

Sometimes I wonder if the New England Puritans didn't have it right. They celebrated Easter, but they completely forbade any celebration of Christmas. Except when it fell on a Sunday, a person could be arrested in colonial Massachusetts for not going to work on Christmas day. I'll admit such an approach is a bit severe, but they had come from England where Christmas wassailing often resembled a rowdy, drunken version of Halloween. Seeing no connection to such activity and a life of following Jesus, they banned the practice.

Actually, I have no desire to ban Christmas, I enjoy it, even those many aspects of it that have  nothing to do with Christian faith. But I don't see much call to "keep Christ in Christmas," at least not as that is usually understood. However, I wouldn't mind if Christ entered into our Christmas, at least the Christmases of those of us who claim to be his disciples. Surely the one who comes "to bring good news to the poor," who is celebrated in the Magnificat with "He has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty," would put an entirely different spin our our notions of Christmas.

Enter into our Advent, O Lord. Transform our preparation for another Christmas into preparations for a new day, that kingdom you proclaim is drawing near.

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"House Porn" and Other Longings

Truly God is good to the upright,
    to those who are pure in heart.
But as for me, my feet had almost stumbled;
    my steps had nearly slipped. 
For I was envious of the arrogant;
    I saw the prosperity of the wicked. 
For they have no pain;
    their bodies are sound and sleek. 
They are not in trouble as others are;
    they are not plagued like other people.       Psalm 73:1-5

I've noted before that we live in anxious times. We enjoy luxuries and comforts that could not have been imagined a generation or two before us, yet all this has not put us at ease. If anything it has done the opposite. Flip through the offerings on your television and you will find all manner of shows that will "help" us get better. Our homes need a make-over, our wardrobes, our bodies, our looks, and on and on.

I occasionally enjoy the home makeover shows on TV. I like to think of myself as handy around the house, so this is right up my alley. I've heard a number of folks refer to such shows as "house porn." I suppose the term comes for lusting over construction and fixtures and amenities that are better than we have or are likely ever to have in our homes. Such "porn" can create a longing that isn't really healthy, that leaves us perpetually unsatisfied with what we have.

As Thanksgiving approaches, I've noticed a number or articles and posts about how people in our world are less and less practiced at gratitude and giving thanks. Perhaps our unhealthy longings make it difficult for us to be grateful. Why would I say thanks for something that is so far removed from those things I fantasize about? Like the psalmist, I know how to be envious rather than grateful. And that line from the psalm, "their bodies are sound and sleek," fits perfectly into a "porn" like longing.

There is a famous line written by St. Augustine more than 1600 years ago that says, "You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you." We are indeed restless, but often it appears that our restlessness cannot be cured. It can only be temporarily sated, like a fix does for an addict. How strange to think that much of the anxiety of our age might be a misplaced religious striving, an ill fated attempt to calm a holy longing with the pursuit of more tangible desires.

There is a Christmas themed commercial for Audi running right now that features luxury car owners tossing their car keys into a Salvation Army type kettle. Having glimpsed an Audi, their Lexus or Mercedes no longer satisfies them. Their restlessness kicks in, and they must pursue it. I wonder if the advertisers realized the near parody of Jesus' call to leave everything behind and follow him.

During these seasons of Thanksgiving and Advent, prayers for all of us to discover a true resting in God that cures our restless longings.

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Sermon video: It Starts Today

Audios of sermons and worship available on FCPC website.

Sermon: It Starts Today

Luke 23:33-43

It Starts Today

James Sledge                                                   November 24, 2013, Reign of Christ

This is the King of the Jews. So says the inscription above Jesus as he hangs dying on a cross. His Roman executioners put it there for two reasons. First it is a horrific warning. This is what happens to those who would dare claim such a title. The emperor is king, and him alone. Any who would challenge that will meet a similar, horrible fate.

Along with this grotesque warning to those who might defy the power of Rome, the inscription on Jesus’ cross is also a mocking taunt directed at Jesus himself, as well as those who had so recently been enthralled by him. Here is your king. Doesn’t he look impressive now?

Crosses were not the standard mode of execution in the Roman empire. If you simply needed to kill a criminal, there were easier and much more efficient methods. A sword would do just fine. John the Baptist is dispatched in such a fashion. The order is given to kill him, and it is immediately carried out.

But Jesus’ death is a show, an event orchestrated to frighten would-be revolutionaries and insurrectionists. This is what happens to pretend kings. The real king squashes them like bugs. Look here on this cross. Take a long, hard look at your king.

I suspect that most all Jesus’ followers got the message. They had been sure that he was the Messiah. The power of God had seemed to flow out from him. Repeatedly they had seen that power displayed. But whatever power Jesus had, it clearly was no match for the power of Rome. Jesus had turned out to be one more in a long line of messianic pretenders. Maybe it was time to let go of such foolish hopes for an anointed one who would set things right.

Remembering and Hoping

Hear my prayer, O LORD;
    give ear to my supplications in your faithfulness;
    answer me in your righteousness. 
Do not enter into judgment with your servant,
    for no one living is righteous before you.
For the enemy has pursued me,
    crushing my life to the ground,
    making me sit in darkness like those long dead.  
Therefore my spirit faints within me;
   my heart within me is appalled.
I remember the days of old,
   I think about all your deeds,
   I meditate on the works of your hands.
I stretch out my hands to you;
    my soul thirsts for you like a parched land.            Psalm 143:1-6

There are a lot people who think of the church as an anachronism, an aging institution caught up in the past, with little or no relevance for present or future. There are faith communities who do little to disabuse people of such notions. Even those of us who dearly love the church and anticipate a vibrant future for it are all too familiar with Christians and church congregations who seem to worship the past. They look back and long for former glory, for Christian hegemony, for a full sanctuary, for cultural status, etc. When such folks remember, it often serves to deepen their despair.

As this morning's psalm begins, its author is clearly in a bad place. Things are not going well, and the psalmist seems near hopelessness and despair. Such psalms are surprisingly common in the Bible, and by some counts, psalms of lament are more numerous than any other type. I say "surprisingly" because I have met so many people of faith who think it irreverent or inappropriate to speak to God in the raw, straightforward manner of these psalms.

In psalms of lament, the dire circumstances almost always provoke a remembering, but this remembering is often little like that of present day Christians who lament and long to turn back the clock. In the psalms, remembering is done in order to hope for the future. "I remember the days of old, I think about all your deeds, I meditate on the work of your hands," says the psalmist, and this is no longing for the good 'ole days. Rather it is recalling and rehearsing the character of God who has acted in certain ways in the past and so can be counted on to act in those ways now and in the future.

That someone would remember in order to hope is hardly earth shattering. We don't go into a panic when the sun disappears and the world goes dark each night because we know - actually, remember - that we will see it again the next morning. Some of the wisdom that comes with age derives from a greater repository of remembrances. Great losses and tragedies have occurred, but life has somehow continued and been filled with things to be grateful for. Broken relationship that seemed beyond repair have been reconciled. Terror and evil have seemed to hold the upper hand, but then have faltered and ultimately failed. It makes me wonder if optimists, at least the non Pollyanna sort, aren't simply good and practiced rememberers. 

I've been thinking about remembering a lot as we draw near to the seasons of Advent and Christmas. Christmas and Advent, which has unfortunately turned into little more than pre-Christmas, feature a great deal of remembering. We remember and rehearse old stories along with old songs. It can and sometimes does devolve into little more than nostalgia, but it can also be a sacred remembering that allows for hope in something new. It can be faithful wisdom that sees clearly the world's darkness yet knows the light that cannot be overcome by it. It can be the source of a holy longing that hurts for the pain and brokenness of this world yet still calls out with hope and anticipation, Come quickly, Lord Jesus!

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I'm Not Who You Say You Are

The daily lectionary has been working its way through the book of Revelation. (Notice there is no "s" in the book's name. That' a pet peeve of mine.) Revelation or, more properly, The Revelation to John, is a most interesting work. Its imagery is quite odd to modern readers, though its style seems to have been well known and much more accessible to Jews and Christians at the time of its writing. And while it is understandable that many modern folks might struggle with the book, what I find most intriguing about it is how Revelation seems to have become the sole property of one wing of the Christian faith.

Aside from some of today's verses making an occasional appearance at a funeral, I don't know that I ever heard a word from Revelation as I grew up in the church, and that includes both worship and Sunday School classes. That is not to suggest all Christians share my experience. In some congregations it appears with much more regularity, but those are generally not Presbyterian congregations, certainly not moderate to liberal ones.

Somewhere along the way, presumably with the advent in the 19th Century of Dispensationalism, the strange theology that brought us the notion of a rapture, Revelation was ceded to those Christians who saw the book as a cryptic manual outlining details of how and when the world would end. Because these rapture folks liked Revelation so much, differently minded Christians said to them, "You can have it."

Simply on its own, the loss of Revelation is a significant loss to the liberal end of the faith. The book is a book of hope written to people going through great difficulties, and there are many times when it speaks a word we desperately need to hear. But even more, the abandonment of Revelation is part of the larger practice of defining ourselves as "not like them," a practice that undermines the very faith we claim to profess.

Think of all the things more liberal Christians don't do because they don't like the way conservative Christians do them. Your list may be a bit different from mine, but mine includes, "We don't do evangelism. We don't talk about Jesus as Savior. You can't take the Bible too seriously," and so on. I think you can see the trajectory. All this is quite understandable, but it also means that liberal Christians often know much more about what they are not than about what or who they are.

Brian McLaren's latest book, Why Did Jesus, Moses, the Buddha, and Mohammed Cross the Road?: Christian Identity in a Multi-Faith World, sees this as perhaps the biggest challenge facing Mainline and liberal churches. In response the the strong, but largely hostile Christian identity of more fundamentalist Christians, we have created a very open and friendly, but at the same time, very weak identity. And in a post-denominational, some would say post-Christian culture, this identity is nearly impossible to pass down to those who come after us. It has nothing particularly compelling or distinctive. It only makes real sense in a world where everyone "has" to be Christian, and there are large numbers of people who don't want to be "like them." McLaren argues that the future of groups such as Presbyterians, Lutherans, Episcopalians, etc. depends on our discovering our own strong yet benevolent identity.

I couldn't agree more, and perhaps one small step in building such an identity is to reclaim Revelation for ourselves, to trust that it has much to show us, and that God can and does speak through it. Revelation does not speak of a rapture, or of the destruction of the world for that matter. But it does speak good news, and we would do well to listen to it rather than simply rejecting what someone else says the book is about.

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You Never Listen to Me

A common lament among couples regards not listening. When complaints about listening are offered, a distinction is often made between "hearing" and "listening." These words can function as near synonyms, but to listen usually implies more active intent of the listener's part. I may hear the loud noise of a car crash, even if I was busy concentrating on something else. But I may not understand what someone is saying if I do not listen. I may only hear that person's words as so much extraneous background noise.

Today's gospel reading features Matthew's account of the Transfiguration, where Jesus literally glows and Moses and Elijah join him for a chat. In the midst of this remarkable event, the divine voice speaks, terrifying the Peter, James, and John. “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!”

If you are a person of faith, you may know first hand that divine speech is frustratingly infrequent. God apparently does not feel the need to speak all that often, at least not in a manner that is unmistakeable. But God speaks here with great clarity and brevity. Jesus is God's special, beloved Son, requiring a single, simple imperative. "Listen to him!"

Jesus says quite a lot, much of it repeatedly. It is perhaps to our benefit that those first disciples were a bit slow on the uptake. In reading through the gospels, Jesus makes many of his points over and over. On a number of topics it is hard to miss what Jesus wants us to do, but if Jesus suddenly appeared in my office, he might be justified if he complained, "You never listen to me!"

If Jesus did offer that complaint, I think he'd only be partly right. Often we have listened a bit, enough to discover that Jesus says some really troubling or difficult things. And so we in the church often focus on other things to the extent that they drown out what we don't want to hear. We worry about how we worship, the music we sing, the buildings we build, getting our doctrines correct, and most of the hot button social issues of the day. These things are not unimportant, but all too often they become so much extraneous noise, drowning out teachings on loving our enemies, denying ourselves, not worrying about wealth, or being willing to suffer for the gospel.

I think that much of the fascination with the new pope in Rome, all those #popecrush hashtags on Twitter, is about a church leader who seems to have done some listening. By many of his statements and actions, he gives the appearance of someone who puts what Jesus says above institutional agenda items that tend to drive many denominations and congregations. And in the process, Pope Francis has made the church attractive to many who had written it off. Who knew that might happen, if only we listened to Jesus.

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Signs of the Times

There's an old saying that goes, "Red sky in morning, sailor take warning, Red sky at night, sailor's delight." This is folk wisdom rooted in sailors' observations, but there's a sound meteorological basis for the saying. Jesus and the people of his day clearly knew about this significance of red skies, and Jesus uses this to chastise his opponents. "You know how to read weather signs in the sky," says Jesus, "But you are oblivious to the signs of the times."

I and most people reading this are not opponents of Jesus, at least not intentionally, but I wonder if we are any better at reading signs. Like Jesus' opponents there are many signs we read quite well. We can predict weather in a manner unimaginable in Jesus' day. Many are expert in reading the political winds and trends. In just about any given field there are experts and consultants who can tell you how to prepare your business or institution for the future, find new customers, or increase your market share, etc. Not all such knowledge is correct or helpful, but there is a great deal of wisdom  and knowledge in our world about a great deal of things. But what of those signs of the times?

Jesus is, of course, speaking of what God is up to, of the kingdom drawing near with an attendant need to make changes accordingly, just the sort of things we in the Church will soon begin to focus on for Advent. In today's culture of experts and consultants, we in the church should be the go-to experts on signs of the times, on seeing what God is up to. Yet very often, our expertise seems not to extend into this area. We know how to do worship, run Christian education programs, study the Bible, and so on. But if you ask leaders in congregations to figure out what God is up to right now, what God is calling that congregation to do at that moment, many will look at you like you just asked them to read tarot cards.

My denomination's foundational documents include this statement.

In the power of the Spirit, Jesus Christ draws worshiping communities and individual believers into the sovereign activity of the triune God at all times and places. As the Church seeks reform and fresh direction, it looks to Jesus Christ who goes ahead of us and calls us to follow him. United with Christ in the power of the Spirit, the Church seeks “not [to] be conformed to this world, but [to] be transformed by the renewing of [our] minds, so that [we] may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect” (Rom. 12:2).

We say that we are a Spirit led people moving toward God's newness in Jesus. So... what are the signs in God's sky say, "Not this way, but that?"

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Taking God to Task

Have mercy upon us, O LORD, have mercy upon us,
     for we have had more than enough of contempt.
Our soul has had more than its fill
     of the scorn of those who are at ease,
     of the contempt of the proud.     Psalm 123:3-4

More than enough... I can imagine all sorts of situations that might prompt someone to cry out, "I've had more than enough." Most of us have probably felt this way at times. And then there are those unimaginable events that are hard to comprehend. Think of people in the Philippines at this moment with loved ones dead and missing, with all their possessions gone, with no food or safe water to be found. "Have mercy, God, have mercy. We cannot go on otherwise."

When the psalmist pleads for God to have mercy, I wonder what emotions were churning. Was there anger at God for allowing so much "more than enough?" Was there bewilderment that God was not doing anything to help? Clearly the psalmist looks longingly to God for something that has not been forthcoming. The psalmist knows God in some sense, and God is not acting like God's character would suggest.

When I read this psalm, I hear a cry for God to be God. God is a God of mercy who comes to those in distress, but that has not happened. Perhaps someone without the poetic sense of the psalmist would simply have cried, "Dammit, God! Act like God!"

No doubt some find it offensive to address God this way, but I have always thought that anger at God requires a significant amount of faith. It is hard to be angry with a notion of God or a general concept of goodness or morality. To be angry at God is to have expected God to behave in some manner. Perhaps this expectation was wrong (mine often are), rooted in a misunderstanding of God's nature, but even if we don't know God like we think we do, to know God at all is to expect God to be God. And when God does not, that is a moment of crisis.

Anger at least acknowledges that. Far worse is the sort of numb, resignation that cannot be upset by God. Then God may become little more than nostalgia, a childhood recollection of Santa Claus, a lingering warm feeling but not someone I expect anything from. If I do not get any wonderful presents for Christmas, I will not be the least bit disappointed in Santa. Is it the same if I find myself in a prolonged bought of spiritual dryness, if I cannot glimpse some sign of a renewed and reconciled creation, or if I despair that the world is horribly lost? Is my God as impotent as Santa?

O God, are you there in the Philippines? O God, are you there in the brokenness and hurts of so many? O God, show yourself. I implore you. Be God!

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Sermon video: Seeing Something New

Audios of sermons and worship available on the FCPC website.