Coming Down

Text: Luke 18:9-14

This parable is not for everyone. Jesus did not tell this parable for all to hear. He told the parable to some, it says. Some who trusted in themselves and regarded others with contempt. Perhaps a small group. Perhaps not.

This story is about two sinners. Two men who sin. And two who are favored by God. Two men who are blessed. The same two men. A Pharisee and a tax collector.

The Pharisee is blessed by being good. The Pharisees were a bunch of liberal, pretty inclusive, religiously observant faithful people. They had the blessings of living a life a faith, the confidence that comes from knowing that you are known by God. The joy of the discipline of a faithful life and the strength that living a life founded on faith can be. The Pharisee is thankful, generous, nearly always mindful of God and God’s ethics. He seems in this story to be content and happy. What we hope for in our own lives of faith.

Yet the Pharisee is a sinner. He personifies the problem in the story. He is the one, we soon figure out, who embodies the two sins that are the point of this parable.

The first sin is that he trusts in himself to be righteous. Which means that he believes his many blessings are a result of his own effort. He is good because of the person he is, the work he has done, his generosity, his careful living. The Pharisee is like us when we think that gifts of body, mind, or character—being smart, or healthy, or kindly—are something that we have been responsible for on our own. God favors the Pharisee, he thinks, because of the way he acts. His blessings in life are proof of that. And in his arrogance he sees—his second sin—he concludes that those who are not blessed are condemned by God. And so rightly—by his own judgment—he despises those not like him. “I thank you, God, that I am not like other people.” People like that tax collector over there.

The tax collector is a sinner. Tax collectors at that time were in general not nice people. They were not government employees, but independent contractors given a license or concession by Rome. They paid an upfront fee to Rome. Their business was to make a profit beyond that fee in any way they could. They were known as greedy, nasty, extortionists. Rogues and thieves, as the Pharisee calls them.

Yet the tax collector is blessed. He is justified, as it says in Luke, meaning that he has it right. He is humble before God. He knows in his heart that it is God to whom he must answer. He acknowledges, unlike the Pharisee, that he has made a mess of things, and he desires for God’s blessing in spite of his deeds, not because of them.

Both of these men seek to be righteous. Righteous is a strange sort of word. It means “fine,” as in “what a fine day.” Or “what a perfect day,” but not “a perfect score.” It does not mean “good,” as in “be a good boy,” but it does mean “good” as in “it is good to be here.” Or “good” as God said when God created the world. It means to be right with God. In that way, it stands for all the ways there are to be at peace, content, “actualized” as people used to say. To be righteous is to be as God created us to be and as we each of us always wanted to be. To be good, to be fine, to be happy.

Most of our lives are a little gritty, and little out of sorts. Things are a little out of key, off color, clumsy. We get tripped up and trip over ourselves. This kind of minor daily suffering is the opposite of righteousness.

Justice, which comes from the same word as righteousness in the Bible, is the setting of things right. To right what is askew, or off kilter. So we have social justice, economic justice, ecological justice. God is righteous because it seems that God’s deeds match what we imagine God’s nature to be. God is just because God’s intent is that things will be made fine.

The tax collector goes home justified because he has given himself up to the way of things as they should be, to the way of God. For the moment, at least. Who knows what he did later. It does not say. It does not matter. The Pharisee, for all his claims of righteousness, is not. Because he has given himself up to nothing. He goes his own way. And we who hear this story feel it to be so. In spite of our knowing that the Pharisee is a good man and the tax collector a nasty one, we can see that in this story, at least, it is the tax collector who is blessed and leaves the story in peace. But the Pharisee just leaves.

In the parable the Pharisee looks up and the tax collector looks down. The Pharisee looks to heaven (though it does not for sure say so), and the tax collector looks to the earth. In our Sunday worship, in the dialog (the beginning of the eucharistic prayer), the minister says “lift up your hearts,” and the congregation responds, “we lift them to the Lord.” A scholarly colleague said last week at a clergy gathering that this is unfortunate wording. He prefers “open your hearts,” and “we open them to the Lord.” So we are going to try that today. His point is that, especially for Lutherans, our job is not to lift ourselves up to God, ascending, sort of, to the heavens. To become divine. Our job is to be creatures of the earth, opening ourselves to the God who comes to be with us. This being with us is what Jesus did. This is what God does in almost all the stories in the Bible. We are on an adventure with God, but the instigator and guide of this divine journey is God, not us.

The Pharisee in his arrogance wants—expects, maybe?—to be exalted. To be made more heavenly and pure. The tax collector knows that he is always a sinner, but that God is always with him nonetheless. It is not helpful in prayer to prove ourselves to God, to impress God. God is already impressed. Or not. But to call on God to be present in us.

We come here hoping for something. You might say we come hoping for righteousness. We come for some transformation, some new thing, new way to live and to be. Not to be immaculate. But to be as earthy as God made us and at peace with all things, ourselves, and others. That is a big hope. As in all transformations of this sort, we start by acknowledging that we live in sin and suffering—what the tax collector did and the Pharisee did not—and that it is beyond us by ourselves to transform ourselves—as the tax collector realized and the Pharisee did not. To open ourselves, asking God to transform us, and not to leave as we arrived, unchanged.

This parable is not for everyone. Not all will hear this parable. For those who do trust in themselves that they are righteous, who trust that they can right themselves, this parable is empty of meaning. For those who do not suffer, for those who not sin, for those who are content, this parable offers nothing. But for the rest of us sinners, it reminds us that we may open our hearts to God in expectation of new life.

Striving with God

This sermon preached by Craig Simenson, a leader at Faith Kitchen and vicar at Faith last year.

What does it mean to strive with God? Where does it happen, and who can we expect to be when it’s all over?

Jacob, “the swindler.” Jacob, the one wrestling all his life. Struggling with his brother even within their mother’s womb. Jacob, the one tumbling out at birth, still holding on to Esau’s heel.

Jacob, the one left all alone now on the banks of the river Jabbok. Undoubtedly, agonizing over what daybreak will bring to him, and how he will ever face his twice-swindled brother and live. Jacob, left only with himself. Left only to wrestle in the dark, against the one who refuses to tell us his name. Jacob, the one who will not let go, who will not give up.

The one who prevails and yet cannot walk away from this so-called victory whole. Jacob, who sees the face of God and lives—A better man for the encounter, maybe. But, most certainly, a man who is only able to walk away limping as he goes.

This wounded Jacob, this one now known to us as Israel, offers us a different vision of what it means to strive with God and prevail. A vision that might look very different from how we imagine our lives should go. A vision for ourselves and what it means to not give up—for what it means to be faithful—that might look very different from the way we hope it will work out for us in the end. A different vision that perhaps challenges us to let go of the idea that if we keep on working at what’s wrong in our lives, that if we hold on in the struggle, we will finally win unscathed and completely changed. That we’ll finally become the people we always thought we should be, the kind of people that we thought God always wanted us to be. That, if we’re faithful and don’t give up hope, we’ll finally be able to fix everything that is wrong in our lives—that we’ll be healthy again, that our loved ones won’t be sick anymore, that our once-happy relationships will be just the way they were before, that we’ll be able to leave our nagging doubts behind us, that we can finally just shut all of our problems up and shut them out of our lives.

In Jacob, we are called to let go of the idea that striving with God and prevailing means that our fears and doubts, our grief, hurts and disappointments in life will suddenly vanish. Called to let go of the idea that prevailing in the trials of our lives always means walking stridently forward. Called to let go of the expectation that getting it right will finally mean getting our feet back under us again.

All of this is not to say that transformation and healing does not happen. All of this is not to say that hope does not matter in our lives. But it is to say that, at a fundamental level, transformation does not change our woundedness. We cannot wrestle with God and ourselves, and expect that our victory will mean an end to the struggle and suffering in our lives. We cannot expect that we will endure the trials of our lives to one day find that all of our hurting has finally left us alone.

Rather, Jacob shows us that being faithful, that not giving up in our struggling and striving, finally means finding that we are forever marked by the wounds of that great struggle. Seeing the face of God and living to walk away from it means that our woundedness will most often be more evident than it ever was before. Seeing the face of God is to see that we have always been limping, that we come to victory in life and death already beaten.

This is what it often means to live from day to day. This is what it means to journey with God. For Christians, this, too, is what it means to pray. For we come to our prayers limping as we go. Alongside our joys and celebrations, we pray listening to what cries out in our lives. We pray paying attention to our wounds, to what is hurting, to what is broken inside of us and around us beyond repair. Wrestling with them as we go. Holding onto them even in the dark, even when we cannot name them. Embracing them, holding onto them in love even when they break us.

We pray faithfully limping. In faith, trusting that God’s justice will somehow prevail. Somehow trusting in a love that runs to meet us even as we limp ahead.

Trusting in a victorious God who comes to us already beaten, a God forever marked by the wounds of our great struggle. Christ lifted up before us not on the throne of judgment but on the bloodied tree, a body broken, with wounds that not even resurrection could erase. A God—holes in his hands, wound at his side—limping to meet us, too.

Alleluia.

It Starts with Thanks and Praise

Text: Luke 17:11-19 and 2 Kings 5:1-3, 7-15c

In most Lutheran churches the readings for the day are listed in a lectionary. The first reading and the Gospel reading are supposed to be related in some way. Sometimes the connection is obvious. But sometimes it seems they are hardly related at all. And sometimes it seems like they are related by only trivially, by some common word. And sometimes, like today, they are related in a deep way.

The first story is about Naaman, commander of the army of King Aram, who defeated the Israelites in battle. But Naaman is sick. He is sent to Elijah the Israelite prophet. He has what is described as leprosy, which is probably some skin disease, but not what we’d call leprosy today. The second story is similar. Some men who come to Jesus because they are sick; they have leprosy, too, another skin disease that is also not what we’d call leprosy. In both stories, the sick are cured. In both stories the healing is done at a distance.

But that is not what connects these two passages. There are lots of stories in the Bible about sick people getting cures. What strikes us in both these two particular stories is that they both reveal moral defects. We are shocked at the behavior of Naaman in the first story and the nine men who walked away in the second. They seem to be arrogant and entitled. They are oblivious to what is going on. And, at least for a time or at least for some, they are ungrateful.

There is a persuasive power to ideas. That’s sort of by definition. Any idea worth its salt changes things in people. But some thoughts, some of the time, in some people, cause a kind of blindness. We do things based on what we think things should be instead of what they are. Prejudice is a common example. Our thoughts about people blind us to the real people in front of us. Disappointment is another, where our thoughts about how things should go turn out blind us to the gifts that we are receiving. This idea-blindness influences everything from what we do and say in relationships, to how we vote, to how we do our jobs, to how we walk down a city street, to what we wear, to how we view God.

Naaman comes to Elijah the prophet with expectations—which is an idea in which “what should be” replaces “what is.” Naaman expects that because of his stature, his rank, his value to the king who is in power over Israel, and probably even his character and goodness—Naaman expects something appropriate will happen when he visits this Hebrew prophet. He expects deference. But Elijah does not even greet the great commander. Instead, he sends Naaman some stupid instructions by messenger, the email of his day. Naaman gets angry. “I thought,” he says, “I thought at least Elijah would come out and stand and call on the name of God and wave his hand over the spot and cure me.” Very particular and detailed expectations. Though Naaman is offered the gift of health, he nearly refuses it.

Naaman is not alone. In the portion of the passage that the lectionary skips, Aram sends the king of Israel a gift of 750 pounds of silver, 150 pounds of gold, and some fine clothing. Rather than pleasing the king, it makes him frantic. He has an idea that Aram is making demands on him and he is afraid he will fail. “Look” he says, “Aram is trying to pick a quarrel with me.” Though the king is offered the gift of a fortune, he nearly refuses it.

Our expectations of the way things should be blind us to the gifts that God has given us. Rather than feel blessed we feel deprived. Rather than feel surrounded by much good, we feel shortchanged. Rather than feeling joy, we feel fear. And because we do not see the gifts, we do not see the giver. All we see are situations and transactions and conditions—all lacking somehow. God becomes invisible.

Ten people come to Jesus for a cure. Jesus sends them all away. And as they go, they are in fact cured. What a scene that must have been on the road. We do not know what nine of them did. But we do know what one of them did. He comes back. He throws himself at the feet of Jesus and thanks him. This is not mostly a story about a miracle cure. The cure itself takes place off-stage. We do not see it. But we do see the man returning. As we see Naaman returning. Both men are transformed. Not only transformed in health but also transformed in sight. They both see God where they did not before. God has become visible to them. They return in thanksgiving. And being thankful, they see God.

Thanksgiving is the foundation of faith. Hallelujah—hooray!—says the psalm. I give thanks with my whole heart and mind. Thanksgiving is the fruit of the creation story in Genesis, whose story line is essentially: what a great world God has made! Thank you, God. God’s work, says the psalm, is full of splendor and majesty and marvels. This sense of awe and wonder and mystery is a form of thanksgiving. Thanksgiving to God creator and provider of all things. God who gives us life—amazing in itself—and that we are able to take pleasure in it. Even more amazing.

To be thankful is not a chore, but a joy. Not law, but grace, Lutherans might say. Naaman and the man come back to Elijah and Jesus not because of social obligation or guilty consciences, but because they are overwhelmed with gratitude. Praise God! they say.

Writing about the story in Luke, one scholar asks “Who actually would enjoy the thought of owing everything good and worthy in his or her life, indeed life itself, to someone else, to confess that we are definitely not self-made but—quite the opposite—created beings? Who would claim that leading a life of thanksgiving is the reason for and foundation of personal and communal joy?”

Wow. I read this and thought: I would. And I think that many of you here would, too.

Thanksgiving is the center of Christian worship. What we do here is by and large gratitude expressed in ritual. Let us give thanks to the Lord our God, begins the Great Thanksgiving of the Lord’s Supper. The word for the Lord’s Supper, for Holy Communion, is Eucharist. That word, letter for letter direct from the Greek, means thank you. It is the word the leper uses to thank Jesus. The church and worship is like a workshop for thanksgiving, a bench, tools, instructions for living a grateful life. What would worship be like without thanksgiving? A dismal expression of sacrifice and fear.

I am a little concerned for the world these days. What I see is a stinginess of character. Rather than generosity of spirit. A sense among many people that they are not getting what they expected. That they are deprived. It makes people sour. Gratitude is a basic human need. We need to be grateful much as we need to eat. Naaman and the man get a double gift: they get health and they get to be grateful. But we are starving for gratitude.

C. S. Lewis wrote that gratitude and praise—its verbal expression—seems almost to be inner health made audible. But more often it works the other way around. Expressing thanks promotes inner health. When we are feeling hungry, we need to eat. Likewise, when we are feeling deprived, we need to give thanks.

The psalm says: God calls God’s wonders to be remembered. Therefore we pray: Remember when we get up in the morning and when we go to bed at night. It is good to give God thanks and praise.

Being Faithful

Text: Luke 17:5-10
Other texts: 2 Timothy 1:1-14

You cannot plant a bush in the sea. Jesus does not suggest you can. Or that you should. This is a not a story about super powers and impossible feats. The disciples asked a silly question. Jesus gave them a silly answer in return. Disciples are students. Jesus is the teacher. This is a way he teaches. He is mocking them. Just a little. In a nice way.

The disciples want more faith. What does that mean? Faith is not something you can put in your pocket. Faith is not something you can store in a drawer. Faith is a gift, as it says in the Second Letter to Timothy that we just heard. But it is not something you would get in a package. It is not an infusion you can put in your tea or a coat you can wear on your back. It is not a thing at all. You cannot get more of it. As one Bible translation says of this passage: “the Master said, ‘You don't need more faith. There is no “more” or “less” in faith.’ Faith is not something you have. It is something you do. People say of their especially faithful friends: you have so much faith. They mean: I see by what you do that you have a close relationship with God. I see that you are tight with God.

The disciples asked a silly question. But it was not a stupid question. The disciples need something from Jesus. There is something missing in them that they ask Jesus to supply. There is some void in them that they are asking Jesus to fill. Jesus, help us!

What do they want? What is it we want in a faithful relationship. What do we mean when we say someone is faithful? A faithful spouse, say. Or a faithful friend. Or a faithful employee.With people we can say what a faithful relationship means. What being in a faithful relationship gives us, why it is valuable, and why we seek it out, and even why it is so tragic when it falls apart. Or feels like it is about to. And when, in that case, we cry out: Give us more faith. Something is not working. Help us. That’s how it is with God, too.

A faithful relationship gives us at least three things. First, it gives us courage in the face of an uncertain future. The future is both exciting and scary. We both rush into it and we hesitate. No one knows what is going to happen. The disciples have hooked their wagon to this star that is Jesus. What an adventure! What a risk! God did not give you cowardice, it says in Timothy. But we are all cowards. Another translation says: God did not give you timidity. That’s easier to take. We are all timid. A faithful relationship—with God, with someone you love—gives us courage.

And second, it gives us the humility not to feel we have to do everything ourselves. We need partners in life that we can count on. We do not have enough time, energy, or even skills to do all the important things we have to do. In the world, in our families, our jobs, in our selves. Who can give us a hand? Someone who knows us well enough to do what we hope for. Someone who loves us well enough not to intentionally hurt us or betray us or let us down. Someone who will let us put aside our protective pride and to whom we are willing to hand things over a bit. A faithful relationship—with God, with someone you love—gives us humility.

And third, it gives us the satisfaction of wholehearted engagement with someone else besides us. We are often alone, tentative, private, and careful. We have to do that, but it does not mean we like to. We long to be totally present for another, to be present for them. Probably satisfaction is too weak a word. Maybe thrill plus contentment would be a better way to describe it. Fulfillment would work. And engagement: maybe entanglement would be better. A faithful relationship—with God, with someone you love—gives the thrill plus contentment of wholehearted entanglement.

These gifts of a faithful relationship are ours because we count on the faithfulness of another and have in turn promised our own. The word for that counting-on is trust. It is not a coincidence that the word for faith in the Bible is exactly the word for trust. What the disciples want to know is whether they can trust Jesus. They want to know—in the face of all the hardships and hard work that following Jesus entails—whether they should stay with Jesus or leave him. They see the gifts of faith. They are asking Jesus whether they can trust him to be faithful. And they are asking themselves whether they can be faithful to Jesus.

The Second Letter to Timothy has been called practical ecclesiology. That is, a letter about what churches and church goers should do. It is unlikely that the letter was written by Paul, but it certainly shares some of Paul’s concerns. And one of Paul’s most pressing concerns was the health and future of the churches that he started. You can detect in this passage a worry about whether Timothy is going to hang in there. So it, like the passage in Luke, is not so much about theology as about how to live. Timothy and the disciples know what to believe—they no doubt believe the right things—they are just not sure they can do the right things. The writer says to them: You can.

In Luke, the disciples ask for more faith and Jesus tells them about service. Our doubts, questions, and demands do not diminish our faithful relationship with God. They strengthen it as much as our prayers and praises and song and thanksgivings do. Just as in relationships with people. Our call as Christians is not to win arguments with others or even with ourselves. It is, as Jesus taught in a few verses earlier in Luke, to forgive others seventy times seven times. To love our neighbors and our enemies as ourselves. To act justly, to love mercy, to walk humbly with God.

Help us! cry the students of Jesus. They—we—are advised in Timothy to rekindle the gift of God which is within you. To rekindle the flame. That’s a good word for relationships. Rekindling the flame is a modest task that keeps relationships faithful in times of trouble and doubt. With God and with those you love. It is task that requires only patience, delicacy, and attention. Not even belief or hope. Start small, protect the flame and nurture it, give it space and air, fan it when it becomes more robust. That’s how it goes with God and with people.

There is no need for superpowers. Instead, remember, it says in Timothy. Remember what it means to be faithful. Remember the one in whom you trust. And who trusts you. And keep up the good work.