Living the Fat Life

Text: Luke 22:14-23:56

Pastors are advised by the instruction manual to prepare no sermon for today, or at least keep it very short. So while I do not want to leave without commenting on this dual‑purposed Sunday, I’ll keep it short.

We are tempted by beginnings and endings. The temptation is to forget or elide the middle. And instead to condense it into kind of historical concentrate, holding more than its due of hopes and regrets. In the church, days like today aggravate this view that life is mostly about big events, big changes. Today is especially guilty, where in one Sunday we have the triumphant march of Jesus into Jerusalem followed within a few minutes by the horrible execution of Jesus. It is not really understandable. Even though joys sometimes do turn suddenly to sorrows, this does not seem like one of those occasions.

The danger here is not just that we sentimentalize the story of Jesus. Which we do. Or that we pay too little attention to the ministry of Jesus in the world. Which we also do. (Our creed, for example, goes “Born of the virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, crucified, died, and was buried.” Is that all there was of Jesus? Born and died. What about the life that Jesus led and the people who heard and followed him? And the great missionary Paul rarely mentions the life of Jesus.) But danger is not there. The danger is in thinking that Jesus has nothing to do with his death. And that things happen without a reason (other than “God wants it”). And that people killed Jesus because he was good and they were bad. Mostly people do not do that. Mostly people do not hate goodness. Mostly they hate being scared.

Life is more than beginnings and endings. Jesus’ life and our lives. What happens to us happens mostly in the middle. This story in Luke, though momentous and important, fits into a larger story of the life of Jesus. This is especially true in Luke, which is really just the first part of a two-part story that continues into Acts (most scholars refer to Luke and Acts together as “Luke/Acts.”) The events of Holy Week are in the center, but there are edges, too. The life of Jesus. The life of his followers.

The twin Gospel readings for today in Luke leave out what happens between the triumph and the tragedy. But the Gospel of Luke does not leave them out. Once in Jerusalem, Jesus stops healing and starts preaching in a major way. And what he says surely scared the people, at least the people who had the power to execute someone. He preaches about the end of the old times and the certain coming of new ones. That means the destruction of the Temple and of the city of Jerusalem. It means that what the people had counted on had always been wrong or was about to be wrong. He preached about corruption in high places. He preached about a culture whose foundation was crumbling, and he preached it with a little bit of regret and a whole lot of satisfaction. And he preached that this would happen soon. In their lifetimes. Be watchful, he said. Be careful.

We cannot help focusing on the end points. The transitions. Because they are times of intense hope and despair, birth and death, adventure and grief. On this strange day, the boundary between Lent and Holy Week, when we hear eager anticipation of the crowd turn into confused unbelief, and we ourselves peek to Easter when it all gets turned around again, we might be as shattered emotionally as we are when sorrow and joy butt up against one another in our lives. But of this time and that, we need to remember that highlights and lowlights make thin gruel.

Our lives are fatter and richer than that. I’m not saying that events like this are not a big deal. They are just not the only deal. Or even the majority deal. We rightly celebrate the peaks, but we live mostly on the plains. We are a plain people.

Between birth and death, triumph and tragedy, we live. And human divine Jesus lives there, too.

Rubbish, I Reckon, Compared to Jesus

Text: Philippians 3:4b-14

There are at least two ways to hear these words of Paul in his letter to the Philippians.

Paul, who is in jail (it is hard to say where and when), writes to the church at Philippi, comforting them that he is all right. And, as usual, advising them about how to be a better community of people who follow Christ. In this passage we just heard, he writes to warn them of the teachings of what Paul calls the “dogs and evil workers.” That part the assigned reading somehow skipped over. As Paul often does, he is making a case.

One way to hear his words are as a polemic against materialism. And against our worshipping of accomplishments. Against, as Paul says, our confidence in the flesh. By which he means not our bodies—this is not about that kind of morality—not our bodies so much as our soul’s captivation with stuff, things, achievement, and conversely our fear of their loss. I have spoken about this before, interpreting this passage as some kind of scriptural support for deaccessioning. Get rid of all that stuff, and you will be free. Not intending to question the ethics of having and hoarding, though that is a good thing to question. But to offer a promise of freedom from its burdens. Nonetheless, those sermons always sounded like: get rid of your stuff, you’ll be better for it. More law than gospel.

Still, there is some truth in that (I’m not ready to let it go just yet) and to hear Paul that way is not a mistake. After all, he does say that a bunch of things that he and we value he now counts as rubbish. He gives us his résumé. On it are things both 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.

Before he met Jesus, Paul had been an enforcer for and a member of the power elite. He searched for followers of Jesus and brought them to jail. He was skillful, sophisticated, and well-educated. He was a faithful worshipper. he knew what to wear and how to meet and greet. He knew how to be smooth when he had to be. He was the right people.

What he does not talk about here, but which are just as much things of the flesh, are our fears that are the flip side of our résumés. Of being alone—at any age. Of being sick and helpless, in the hands of others. Of not being able to think straight. And all we do to keep those things at bay.

We trust in things of the flesh because we think that they are safe, attainable, and effective. By good and energetic action we can ensure the health and life of us and our friends and family.

But that is not true, says Paul. All these things that he thought were so great he now reckons, now figures, now counts, as rubbish. As refuse. The word he uses means things pretty disgusting. Like the grad-doo that ends up in the gutters on Cambridge streets after a long and wet winter. He is not talking about stuff you just don’t like but which you might decide to store away in the cellar or attic for a while. This is stuff you want to get out of your house and life as soon as possible.

I hold these things, Paul says, to be a loss. The word in this case means not something mislaid and sought for. But something which causes damage and it’s good riddance to bad rubbish. The word literally means not tamed. These things of the flesh narrow our lives and hem us in. We might consider how much time and energy we give to these wild things.

Yet even so, and in spite of the picture I just painted, Paul does not say these things in themselves are bad things. “I too,” he writes just before this passage, “I too have confidence in the flesh.” Not had. But present tense. Many fleshy things are useful. Pens to write with, shoes to walk with, roofs to keep us dry.

Paul trusted these things, as we do, to protect him, to give him purpose, to bring him peace, and to provide a solid base for action in life. But in practice they did not. It is just that none of these things ever got him one bit closer to where he wanted to go. Where he wanted to be.

The things are rubbish not in themselves. They are rubbish only compared to Jesus. Which is, finally, the second way to hear this passage. The words of Paul about the dangers of things of the flesh might be compelling and useful to us. I find them so. But without Jesus in the picture they are only musings of a wise man on clean living. Paul’s relationship with Jesus Christ overwhelms his admiration for things he once valued, still values. But they no longer bless him. Jesus does.

We want to be blessed. We want to be favored. We want to live the good life. When we say at the end of the Sunday worship, “the Lord bless you and keep you,” we are hoping for each other that we all get to live fine lives. That we will be safe, and have peace of mind, to know beauty in the world and joy in our friends, to feel like we rest on good foundations.

Christ has given Paul blessings. You can feel it in Paul’s writings. In so many words and so often he tells his churches and us: “I feel so blessed I can hardly stand it.” Blessed in spite of his ailments and all. Much more blessed than he was with that rubbish.

The feeling I get from Paul—and this is total speculation—is that in Christ he feels a unity that all the other things in his life never gave him. Our stuff and our accomplishments, accentuated sometimes by our fears, are fragmented. They are never quite whole, and never have what it takes to make us whole.

I want to know Christ, Paul says. (Maybe—I wonder—to know as Peter did. Jesus’ friend. To be connected with Jesus in the deep and pervasive way that you know someone you love.) I want to be found in Christ, Paul says. I want to gain Christ. Paul does not want to know about Christ. Paul wants to find in Christ a unity of life and spirit and that comes from being a part of the larger story of God and God’s world.

Not that he is—or we are—already there. Not that I have already obtained this, he says. It is not something Paul or we accomplish. It is the intervention of God, not our own power, that lets us know Christ. It is a blessing. Brothers and sisters, Paul says, rejoice in the Lord.

What has happened to Paul is that his eyes are different. He sees that he was looking for the good life in all the wrong places. But now he has had a glimpse of what is possible. He sees that knowing Jesus Christ will bring him nearer to where he wants to be. He has decided to act as if he did. For that he is already blessed. Just wanting that is a blessing.

Lent is a time when we try to be quiet enough to be open to the workings of the Holy Spirit. How do we stand with regard to rubbish and to Jesus? Where do we want to be? Are we getting there? Who will guide us there?

Found Things Don't Have to Repent

Text: Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

Unless you are perfect, you have sinned. You have sinned against God and against other people.

We sin against God. Some people take this to mean that God is recording all our little mistakes (and big ones) in a large book (the one that St. Peter looks to at the pearly gates, I imagine). And that God is judging us daily, disapproving of things now and at the end of time.

There is another way to look at this, though. Another way to look at this is to say we have sinned against Good. Against the good. Not all our sins are against others directly. We do things we ought not to do. We cheat at something. We disdain others for no good reason. We think bad thoughts or act like idiots. We agree with plans we know to be evil. Or we make those plans. We keep more than we need. We lie to ourselves. We live high on the exploitation of others.

Or we do not do as we ought to do. We turn our backs on someone who asks for help. We are silent when a courageous voice is needed. We are timid because we are afraid.

We do things that are not good and do not do the things that are good. I don’t know if God is disappointed or chagrined or annoyed at us. We, in moments of reflection, certainly are.

There is no one to forgive us these sins of doing and not doing. When we pass by a sick man asking for help on the street because he makes us nervous or frightened, that is not good. But who can forgive us? The needy man is gone. We cannot apologize to him. (Except perhaps on judgment day, when we pray that all those we passed by and passed over will forgive us.) But now, we have no one to forgive our sins. Only God forgives us these sins against Good.

But just as often, we sin against others. The harm our sins cause is personal and obvious. Horrible sins that cause death or suffering. Or that cause others sorrow or loss. Angry, stupid sins and clever, intentional ones. For those sins, we ask particular forgiveness. We hope to make amends. If we are fortunate, we can seek reconciliation. We hope that we may be forgiven by the one whom we have harmed.

The younger son in today’s Gospel story sins against both the good and against others. “I have sinned against heaven and before you,” he says. He says it twice, once in planning his return and once when he sees his father. He has done what he knows he should not have done, and he has hurt his father and also his brother.

Regarding the sins against others—forgiveness is theirs to grant or deny. The younger son is forgiven by his father, but it seems not by his brother. That’s how it works with others. We can only offer. And wait. And sometimes remain unrequited.

But regarding the sins against God, we can be more hopeful. The Pharisees accuse Jesus of eating with sinners. Jesus says to them, “you bet I do.” The implication is that that is what God requires. The Good demands that not only are sinners tolerated but welcomed. And if to that we add Luther’s proclamation that all of us are saints and sinners, we get that God demands that we all welcome all people. That we are more than not mean to them but that we sit down with them and eat with them. That is, treat them like our friends and family. At least, that’s what Jesus does in Luke’s Gospel.

But in the parable that Jesus tells, the father goes further than that. Now only does he tolerate his younger son and welcome him, but he keeps an eye out for him (“while he was still far off, his father saw him,” it says. He was watching and waiting). And more, he ran to him to greet him and to invite him home.

Now, you can—and people do—see yourself as one of these characters. The profligate and dissolute younger son, or the betrayed older son, or the anxious and then enthusiastic father. I certainly have been all three, at one time or another. But this is a parable, not a moral tale. It tells us about God.

Some say, since this is a Lenten reading, that it is about repentance, and about how the younger man comes to his senses and turns into a better person. But first of all, the father watches for the son and seeks him and runs to him before the father has any idea of what the son intends. He does not know whether the son repents or just wants a few more bucks. And second of all, we don’t really know what happens after the story ends; all we know is that he came home this time. Who knows what happens next?

And third of all, this parable is the last of three in Luke about searching for something that is lost (the other two being lost sheep and lost coins). And lost things do not have to repent for us to want them back in our fold, or purses, or homes, or hearts. The finding of things lost has more to say about the finder than about the thing lost.

When we seek forgiveness from others, we seek them out in reconciliation. But when we seek forgiveness from God for sins against Good, it is God who does the seeking. It would be nice if we repented. Repentance makes God’s forgiveness understandable. It puts it in context of our sin and regret.

But in the story, the father has forgiven the son long before the son repents, before he returns home. The father has forgiven the son because he is his son.

We forgive others in time, or pray to. But God forgives from the start.

A Devotional

Text: Psalm 63:1-8

Lutheran World Relief is an admirable organization that provides help for hungry, impoverished, or devastated people all over the world. They know that God calls them to help those who need help, and they are dedicated to do so effectively and efficiently. This church, Faith, and individuals in it have supported them by giving them money. I think they are great.

In a recent issue of their newsletter, the president of Lutheran World Relief offered what he called a devotional. “A Christian Devotion,” is what the article was called. In it, the president talked about how his organization hears the cries of the suffering, said that evil is real and sorrow inevitable, told a little story from his personal life, and ended by quoting Luther. It was a nice article. Encouraging and hopeful. But how was it devotional? How would we have known? If the newsletter had not labeled it “A Christian Devotion,” how would we have recognized it as anything different than a reflection by this good man on the need to help others? Or is that the same thing as a devotional? What does that mean anyway? What is devotion?

Devoted, devout, devotion. All related words. But not too specific. People say things like “he’s devoted to his mother,” or “she’s devoted to her husband,” or “she’s devoted to her job—she comes home late and works hard.” Or “he is devoted to his political party” or “devoted to an idea.” Paul Farmer is devoted to the people of Haiti and the idea of providing them medical care otherwise not available. Are devotion to parent, spouse, employer, calling—are they all the same? We say that a dog is devoted to his owner. How about that? Is that the same thing, too?

Lutherans in the past have been a little nervous about the word “devotion.” That is because there have been battles in the past about whether Lutherans should be more or less interested in doctrine or more or less interested in one’s relationship with God. Especially if that relationship has anything to do with an emotional attachment to God. Which a devotion to God certainly does. But whether you are somber or passionate, an emotional attachment to God is part of your faith, even if you are Lutheran.

Someone wrote about today’s psalm that it is “one of the truly great pieces of devotional writing in all of human history.” This psalm is all about the relationship people have with God. Or to be more exact, what one person has. “People” is too general here. This is about a person and God. About, if you choose to make it so, about you and God.

The word “devotion” hardly appears in the Bible. But a devotional life has been part of people’s response to God since way before Jesus. Anything that starts out “My God, you are my God,”—that’s devotional. Anything that starts out like a letter to God written from the heart—that’s devotional. Scripture, poem, prayer, or thought, it does not matter.

Devotion has been fundamental to Christian experience. It is both something on which our faith stands and, at the same time, something that is a result of what we do in our faith. It is a pre-requisite and a perquisite. We need it to give power and energy and patience to our Christian life, but it is also a benefit of that life.

Devotion is a word that describes a kind of intense relationship. It does not have to be a happy one. Someone who is devoted to his or her dying spouse does not have to be thrilled about it. Someone who is devoted to his or her job or calling usually has good days and bad days. Same with devotion to God. But it is still devotion.

Devotion, to God or otherwise, has two attributes that are key. The first is that it is other-centered. That is, if you are devoted to another, that other person is the center of your life. Not necessarily all of your life, but the focus of its attention. What you think about in the idle times, the things you wake up wondering about, the mental reminder notes you write yourself.

The second attribute of devotion is that it changes you. It changes the way you act and it changes the way you see. Toward the object of your devotion you are more attentive, expectant, and patient. People sometimes say of someone’s devotion: “I don’t see how you can put up with that.” “That” being some difficult condition, or demand, or effort. But it does not matter; devotion uses some other calculation.

When we are devoted to something or someone, we see them differently than others do or than we ourselves did before. We see ourselves, perhaps, more as servants than as served. More humble. More generous to others. Our hopes become both less grandiose and at the same time more likely to be met. “I hope I can make a difference here.” “I hope I can be with her until the end.” “I hope to be at peace with my life.”

Psalm 63—this great piece of devotional writing—paints a picture of the devoted life. It tells us what we might expect when we are devoted to God, who is the object of devotion here, and hints at ways we might strengthen that devotion.

The protagonist in this psalm—what religious folks call the “psalmist”—the psalmist can hardly stand it. He or she feels a deep longing toward God that is so powerful that the psalmist faints in desire. This is how you feel when you first become infatuated with someone. You can hardly stand up. A glimpse of that person, a voice, makes your insides go all crazy. The protagonist needs God just as desperately as a starving person needs food or water—more so. As much as an insomniac needs sleep. “Your love is better than life,” it says.

The psalmist seeks God out in church, in the sanctuary, where God is likely, one hopes, to be found. He or she speaks aloud to others about God—“my mouth praises you with joyful lips.” The psalmist tells God what’s going on: I bless you, I praise you, I life up my hands to you. God, you are great. God, you are my God.

And in the end it comes down this: the object of your devotion is worthy of it, and worthy of your trust, and that you consider yourself worthy to be devoted. In the end, the writer of the psalm sings out in joy. “My soul clings to you, your hand upholds me.”

It is these kinds of words, these powerful and radiant words, that has made Lutherans queasy. It sounds pretty emotional. It sounds pretty pious.

And so it is. But our quest is the quest for the ultimate. It comes from our whole selves (what the psalm calls soul) and from our bodies (what the psalm calls flesh). People rarely show up in church because of, or only because of, intellect and right thinking. They show up because they want to know God. The words of the psalm are over the top. Good. We want some of that.

How do we get there? There is a chicken and the egg nature to devotion. Devotion leads to acts that bind us together with the person, the thing, God, to whom we are devoted. At the same time, acts of devotion—worship, kindness, mindfulness, patience, praise—lead to powerfully connected relationships.

It is blessed for us that this is a virtuous cycle. It grows on you. Devotion is not a feeling. It is a practice. And like other Christian practices—prayer, charity, compassion—it takes practice. The husband was not the devoted nurse at the start. The worker was not devoted to her job at the start. The psalmist, probably, did not go weak in the knees at the start.

Devotion is an intense and intimate relationship. But it begins with small steps. The psalm teaches us. Send God messages from your heart. This Lent, may we open each day, praying: My God, you are my God. I seek you. And may we end each day: My spirit is content.