Thick Like Jello

Text: John 8:31-36
Other texts: Romans 3:19-28

It is an unfortunate fact of life that the older we are the creakier we get. Speed becomes slow. Fresh becomes foul.

This tendency of things flowing and free to thicken up like jello in the refrigerator appears in organizations just as much as it appears in organisms. The brash entrepreneur becomes the timid boss. The upstart competitor becomes the conservative market leader.

And it happens in the church. The counter-culture becomes the establishment. Those who preach poverty become rich. Those who preach humility become powerful. Those who beg God for deliverance become those who hold the keys. Until someone comes along to shake things up again.

If Martin Luther, the man after whom the Lutheran church is named, could look down on us this day, I’m sure he would be dismayed. He never hoped to break the church universal into two, and then many, denominations. Luther never planned to start a new church. He once said, “I ask that men make no reference to my name; let them call themselves Christians, not Lutherans. What is Luther? After all, the teaching is not mine. Neither was I crucified for anyone. St. Paul would not allow the Christians to call themselves Pauline, but Christian. How then should I—poor stinking maggot-fodder that I am—come to have men call the children of Christ by my wretched name? Not so, my dear friends; let us abolish all party names and call ourselves Christians, after him whose teaching we hold.” Yet here we are, sitting in a church called Lutheran.

But Luther perhaps forgot that Jesus would have felt the same way about people calling themselves Christian. Though he spoke a lot about himself and his role, Jesus was not out to start a new church. He was a reformer, a Jew out to fulfill and refresh the law of the Jews.

Both Jesus and Luther lived in a time when the vibrant core of people’s faith and the intimate connection it had with God had become old, tired, and most of all entrenched. Their organized religions had become the main powerful and greedy institutions of their day. These institutions had begun to forget their source in God. And they had begun to forget what their scriptures told them: that they were once the hope of poor and outcast people against the power of the world.

Today is Reformation Sunday. On this day we celebrate the Reformation. It is a little ironic that this day is the only day in the church year in which we focus on an event in church history and not on something in the life and teachings of Jesus. Not even on a theological theme as some other Sundays, like Trinity Sunday, do.

Reformation Day, which is Friday, is the 491st anniversary of the day in which Martin Luther was said to have nailed up 95 arguments, or theses, against the goings-on of the church. And the church in this case means the Church of Rome. Not the only Christian church, but certainly the one that dominated the life of Europe at the time. Luther’s pretty dry words did not start the Reformation, but they did provide the spark that ignited a lot of flammable material that had been accumulating for more than a century.

Luther’s arguments were theological. But the reason we are called Lutherans today is political. If the church had engaged Luther instead of freaking out about him, there probably would be no Protestants now. There might have been instead a slightly different (or even drastically different) Reformed Church of Rome. But the church was old and creaky and set in its comfortable and privileged ways. It did not want to be reformed at that moment. And it certainly did not want some young brash upstart to tell it how to do its business. They did not crucify Luther like they did Jesus (who also really riled up the establishment) but they did put out an order for Luther’s arrest for treason as a heretic and put his life in danger. One of the many charges was that Luther brought “confusion to all the public affairs of our Holy Mother Church.” Which was, I think, the main point.

There is much to be loved about the Reformation, including a theology of radical grace and forgiveness and the emphasis on the power of scripture over the power of tradition and churchly authority. And there is much to be liked about Luther, who could say things like God would welcome us “Even though you were scaly, scabby, stinking, and most filthy.”

But what is not to be loved about the Reformation is our sometimes sense of accomplishment and completion. There is a lot of self-congratulations about this celebration, as if we somehow had missed a close call but all that is mercifully behind us now.

If you have ever changed your ways, if you have ever struggled with some dangerous obsession or been in deathly deep sorrow, you know that being reformed is never a one-time thing. It is an ongoing process that involves vigilance, hope, and gratitude.

Paul writes in his letter to Rome, “Then what becomes of boasting? It is excluded.” This verse, even more than the famous next verse in which he talks about justification, seems to me to be one of the most important things Paul says. There is no boasting allowed. Not because it is prideful, which it is, but because it is stupid.

Our denominational parters, the reformed churches, have a motto. It says “reformed and always reforming.” The purpose of this motto is to remind them that God is still at work in the world and in the church. God did not stop after Moses, Jesus, and Luther. God is constantly messing about with the world and encouraging us to be on the lookout for chances to reform what is stuck, to renew what is decrepit, and to restore what is broken.

Just now we baptized young [child just baptized]. Baptism is a one-time event in the life of Christians, but it is not the last event. Something has happened, but not everything has happened. We have sent [this child] out in mission—even though he is very small—out in mission for the life of the world. By making promises for him, we remind ourselves that God continues to act here, and that we are part of that action. Let your light so shine.

It is great to celebrate the Reformation, the courage and practical intelligence of Martin Luther, the passion of all the reformers, the theological insights that resulted. But we do not celebrate this event because it accomplished something grand and permanent. We celebrate because we have enough trust in God that we might hope for reform again and again.

Coin Tricks

Text: Matthew 22:15-22

There are some who say that Jesus is doing a coin trick. Holding the coin that the Pharisees give him, Jesus says: Give to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s. Give to God the things that are God’s. The trick, according to some, is that Jesus knows that nothing is really Caesar’s. Caesar claimed divinity, but Jesus knows, and we know, that Caesar was just a man. He neither made the world nor owns the world. The world is made by God and the world is God’s. So what is God’s is everything. And Caesar deserves nothing. This interpretation of the passage is good for those who are trying to get people to give money to the church.

There are others who say Jesus is doing a coin trick, but of a different kind. Holding the coin that the Pharisees give him, Jesus points out that it has two sides. On one side is an image of Caesar. The trick is that on the other side there is not. According to some, Jesus is proposing that the world is divided into two parts, as cleanly split as the two sides of a coin. A secular worldly realm ruled by Caesar or modern equivalents, and a divine realm. Some things in our lives belong in one realm and other things belong in the other. Taxes and rents and passion belong to Caesar. Prayer and scripture and preaching belong to God. This interpretation is good for people who would like to live two kinds of life: a worldly life and a Sunday life.

But there is no coin trick of either kind. On the one hand, Jesus does not say in this passage that everything is God’s. The passage does not pretend to settle disputes between the world and the divine about who owns what. It is not about sovereignty. It does not help us decide what to do with our money or our time or our affection.

And on the other hand, Jesus does not say we should live a balanced life. Jesus is not proposing that Caesar and God have some kind of equity, some similar legitimacy, some equivalent claim on people. God and Caesar are not on opposite sides of the same coin. Jesus is not saying: some things belong to the world, some things belong to God. You pick. It all depends. Jesus is not saying that. This passage is not support for what Martin Luther called Two Kingdoms. It makes no statement about the role of worldly power.

This passage is not about claims that God or Caesar make on us. It is about claims we make on God or Caesar. It is about the ways we try to stand up as humans in this world. About what we grab for when the ground of our existence is shaking. It is about trust.

In our pockets we carry these little pictures of George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, and such. We are not worshipping these people or the coins or even any thing they stand for. But we do count on them. When we have more of them, we feel better. They protect us and feed us. We trust in them.

When Jesus holds up that coin, he poses a question and makes a proposition. The question he poses is this: whom do you trust? On what do you rely? To whom do you turn? God, or something else? And the proposition he makes is that you cannot answer “Both.” You cannot answer “I trust in both.” Jesus is saying that you cannot answer that way.

There is an idea in physics—I may have this wrong, I’m no scientist—that says that two connected particles, even if separated by great distance, can affect each other instantly, faster than light. Before either particle is observed, its state is unknown, probabilistic. But once you look at one, it becomes known. And at that minute, so does the state of its companion particle. Choosing to trust God or Caesar is a little like that. Which one you choose affects how you see the other. Hypothetically, we can rely on things of the world and on God both. But in practice it seems not to work out that way.

In my case, I might say I trust in God, but I end up worrying about what I should be doing, just in case. Or it is like accepting an offer of a ride back from the movie with a friend, but then calling a cab as insurance. Or inviting two people to go out on a date at the same time, because you’re afraid of being stood up by one of them. Someone is not going to be happy.

When we speak of faith we sometimes say “I believe.” I believe in God. But believing in God doesn’t mean believing that God exists. For the readers of the Bible and the followers of Jesus, the question was never God’s existence. God’s existence was assumed. It goes without saying: God exists. The question is one of trust. Which is another word for faith. Believing in God means believing that God exists for you. That God knows you. That you can rely on God. That you can trust God.

[Child just baptized] is just a little baby. Does he know whom to trust right now? Probably. Trust mom, trust dad. Everyone else, he’s not so sure about them. In his life he will live in a world in which Caesar and God both exist. His parents and his sponsors have just promised “to live with him among God’s faithful people, bring him to the word of God and the holy supper, and nurture him in faith and prayer.” Why? “so that” they have promised, “so that he may learn to trust God.” This is practical advice for people learning to trust God. Gather with others, read the Bible, share in the Lord’s Supper, pray.

Caesar is great. Caesar gives us a lot of things that it seems we cannot do without. Caesar keeps the cars driving on the right so we don’t smash into each other. Caesar organizes firefighters so that buildings don’t burn down. Caesar creates money banks and creates food banks. But in the end, Caesar does not really care about us. Not about you and me in particular. Except as they affect Caesar and the things Caesar cares about. Caesar needs things to work. Caesar’s affection for you is contingent. It is conditional. If you are good in a way that Caesar defines (and I’m not saying you wouldn’t define it in the same way, I’m not saying you wouldn’t think it good, too), if you are good in that way, then Caesar loves you. If not—well, then not. This is not evil or wicked or mean. It is just the way the things of Caesar work. Caesar is, in the words of the Gospel passage, partial. Shows partiality. Between you and Caesar there is always something that gets in the way. What always gets in the way is Caesar’s requirement to see us as functional.

God is great. But unlike Caesar, God cares about us. God is passionate about you, meaning God has feelings for you. God has compassion for you. You in particular. The way we understand God through our experience and through Jesus, God cannot be dispassionate about you. God’s compassion for you is unaffected by your worth or goodness or behavior. That does not mean that God isn’t chagrined or saddened or annoyed by things we do. But God’s compassion for you is not contingent. It is unconditional. God does not regard people with partiality. There is nothing in the way between us and God.

Whom shall we trust? Whom shall we trust with our hardest questions? Who we will let guide us? Whom do we thank for the gifts of life? Whose words make the world understandable?

How do we best stand as humans in this world? To whom do we turn when the ground of our existence is shaking?

The Open Air

Text: Philippians 3:4b-14

Paul writes about claustrophobia and about the open air.

He writes about forest-covered narrowed-horizon New England and about the open plains of the midwest where you can see the weather coming miles away. He writes about Tokyo with its twisty narrow streets and about Paris with its grand wide boulevards. He writes about oppressive, stultifying relationships and about partnerships of shared adventure and enthusiasm.

He writes about these things, but not in so many words.

Paul writes about things of the flesh. Not about flesh itself, not about our body’s joys and foibles. When Paul speaks about the flesh, he means things of this world. He means stuff. Stuff that we carry around with us. Stuff we store away. Stuff we fret about. When Paul writes about flesh, he means all the things to which we are so attached and so attracted, all things that we hope will give us comfort, safety, and a sense of purpose. Some of that stuff is material. Material goods. Shoes and iPods and wallpaper. Lines of credit. Student loans. But mostly not. On Paul’s own list are things of accomplishment and birth. Status, class, ethnic origin, positions of authority and responsibility, titles, reputation, the respect of friends and colleagues. It’s things and things associated with things.

Paul had been a hot ticket in Palestine. He had been an enforcer for the power elite. He searched for followers of Jesus and brought them to justice. He himself was a member of the power elite. He was skillful, sophisticated, and well-educated. He was a faithful worshipper. he knew what to wear and how to meet and greet. He was the right people. Besides all that, Paul was a Roman citizen, a man of special privilege that extended beyond Palestine to all the Roman empire.

Paul trusted these things, as we do, to protect him, give him purpose, bring him peace of mind, and provide him a solid base for action. But in his life, things did not prove trustworthy. What Paul depended on turned out to be not dependable. They did not bring him what he needed. The things Paul turned to were worse than unreliable. They were harmful.

Things—material and immaterial—make demands on us. We think they serve us, but we serve them. They require maintenance. They require polish. The require upkeep. They require dealing with. Taking out, putting away, classifying, certifying, and qualifying.

Things define us. And they define us often in ways in which we do not want to be defined. We are known by the things we keep. And we are known by the things we are born into. We are known by the skills we have acquired. I’m a craftsperson. I’m a scientist. I’m a person of faith. I’m a protector of others. I’m an enforcer, says Paul, I’m a Roman, I’m a follower of Jesus.

Things speak for us. They tell others what to expect from us. But more often than not they lie. Things of the flesh tell lies about us. We are not what we have or have accomplished. Things of the flesh steal us, they steal who we are. They steal our future. They are liars and cheats. They do not give us what they promise.

Paul says so. I trusted in the flesh, he says, but now I regard all those things as so much rubbish. Worse than worthless.

This is not a glorification of poverty. It does not glorify loss—inflicted or accidental—and turn it into gain. This passage, at least, is not about self-denial or suffering. It does not mean that material things and accomplishments are useless. Paul eats. Paul exploits his Roman privilege. Paul writes letters. Paul uses his skills of persuasion.

But it does mean that things have very little to do with him. They have lost their power over him. He is not seduced by their demands. They do not define him. They do not speak for him. What has changed for Paul is that he no longer trusts in the flesh. The flesh is not trustworthy. It is trash.

What is trustworthy, what is not trash, Paul says, is Jesus. I want to know Chrst, he says. I want to gain Christ. Jesus is different from those other things, that trash. This is a ongoing realization to Paul. Something that proves itself to him again and again. Changing one’s point of view, no matter how lovely the new scene, is not easy. I press on to the goal for the prize. I’m looking that way, says Paul. Forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead.

This passage of Paul’s is not a book of rules for good Christians. It is not a big “should.” It is a poem. A poem of praise and thanksgiving. Paul sees and knows from his experience that the things of the flesh press in on us. To trust in the the flesh is claustrophobic. Things take our breath away and suffocate us. We, who are designed to need things are not designed to be trapped by them.

We are designed to be free. Paul’s passage is a long and enthusiastic sigh of relief. Turning to a new kind of life, he can breathe again. Thank God!

A few minutes ago we baptized [a child just baptized]. Among other important things, baptism is a kind of initiation into a point of view. We say that to be baptized is to be reborn, to be born renewed. How can a young child be reborn? But we are born, as Paul says, to the flesh, to the world of stuff. We are baptized into Christ. What [the child's] sponsors and parents promised was to show her that point of view. Paul’s point of view. To keep her eye on the prize. To make sure that she knows what counts as rubbish. And to keep her free.

A monk recently described humans as a bit of gold, but a bit of gold buried in a trash heap. Paul does not want to be found in that trash heap. I want to be found in Christ, he says. I want to be surrounded by Jesus, he says. Not by junk.