Lighten Up

Text: Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

Jesus offers lots of guidance, most of which we don’t follow. Jesus makes lots of suggestions, most of which we don’t take. Jesus gives us a few commandments, most of which we don’t honor. Jesus makes lots of promises, most of which we decline to accept.

This is not something we need to be ashamed about. We say that Jesus’ teachings are teachings of grace. That means they are offers without strings or judgment. They are not promises that end with “or else,” as in “do this, or else.” Rather, they are promises of “and then.” Do this, and then see what good things will happen. So when we don’t do what Jesus teaches us to do, it is not something to be ashamed or guilty about.

But it is something to ponder. If Jesus is making us offers, and if the offers seem to us to be good, why do we so often refuse them?

It is not like we couldn’t use a little help with things. We have a lot on our minds and a lot on our shoulders. Burdens, as Jesus says in today’s Gospel passage. We are weary, as he says. We are weary, often to the point of exhaustion, and we are worried. We are worried about whether we will prosper. Whether we’ll be able to provide for ourselves and our families. Whether we will be safe. We are worried about what the world is coming to.

Our deepest urge and longing is to be happy and be useful. We worry that we haven’t been, that we are not now, that we might never be.

We are burdened with responsibilities to others, with apprehension about what the future holds. We are burdened with doubts about our own abilities to be the person we want to be and do what we want to do. We are burdened with anger and regrets. Jesus is right. All this is exhausting.

Come to me, all of you, Jesus offers. All you, who are weary and carrying heavy burdens. Come to me, all of you, who are trying to cope. All of you, who are working so hard. Come to me, all of you, Jesus offers, and I will give you rest.

What a great offer. What a welcome offer. I will give you rest. It sounds wonderful. It brings to mind pleasant images. Green pastures. Still waters. Wide white beaches. Quiet streams and sunny glades. Open meadows. Or large, cool, quiet rooms full of light. The word Jesus uses means relief and refreshment. I hear in this passage his sympathy and concern for us, his brothers and sisters. You will find rest for your souls, he says. He uses a word here that means your deepest self, your complete self.

We ask: How can we accept this offer? How can we get this rest? Jesus answers: learn from me. And he teaches us. His teaching is this: Take my yoke, he says. I am gentle, he says, I am humble. Be like me in that regard. These are strong words, these words of seeming weakness. Gentle implies meek, accepting. Humble implies submission. A yoke is a device the farmer uses to control oxen.

Evidently there is a connection between rest and humility, rest and gentleness. Between rest and being led around by something or someone else, not yourself.

This is not a welcome answer. This is not what we hoped to hear. It sounds a lot like giving up and giving in. It sounds a lot like losing mastery of our own fates. What about standing up for ourselves? What about planning? What about taking control of our lives? What about fighting the good fight? What about saving and making lists and goals and vision statements and proposals? What about keeping our eye on the ball, our shoulder to the wheel, our nose to the grindstone?

Jesus says to be gentle and to be humble. We can hear this as a betrayal of our selves, a loss of our souls. Weaknesses. Or we can hear this as a simple acknowledgement of the way things are. We spend a lot of time trying to control things. We try to control the present. We worry about the future. We regret the past. I can, I should, I should have. These are mottos of control.

But the truth is we do not have control over much. And if we insist that we do, we’ll end up disappointed. It is simply not possible to control everything about us and around us. If we try, we’ll end up tired and sad. We’ll end up weary and we’ll end up carrying heavy burdens. We are so used to figuring everything out that we forget that most things can’t be figured out.

When Jesus tells us we should be humble and gentle, he is telling us to let go. When he tells us that we should put on his yoke, he is asking us to agree to let someone else—to let God—guide us. That does not mean that we are not going anywhere. But it does mean that we might end up in places unforeseen. It does not mean that we have no goals. But it does mean that we have no expectations. It does not mean that we have no plans. But it does mean that we have no worries. A yoke is a device of action. A yoke augments and concentrates the force of the animal who wears it. Jesus doesn’t say his yoke is weightless. He says it is easy. He doesn’t say we’ll have no burden. He does say our burden will be lighter than the one we are carrying now.

Jesus makes us this offer. He says: If you are humble and gentle you will be happier and more useful. And mostly, we don’t accept this offer.

We don’t for two reasons. The first reason is tactical and minor. We don’t accept his offer because we are not quite sure how to do it. We are not quite sure how to be humble and gentle. We aren’t taught how. We don’t have classes in humility and gentleness. But we do have a textbook, which is the Bible. Jesus says “I am humble and gentle.” So we can look to what Jesus does and how he behaves and what he says about living in the world. We can see what he pays attention to and what he ignores. We are Jesus’ disciples, a word that means student or learner. Jesus is our teacher.

But the second reason is strategic. And more serious. The second reason we don’t accept Jesus’ offer is, I suspect, that often we don’t believe him. Even though we call him Lord, we are uncomfortable following him. If we are humble, if we are gentle to the point of meekness, what will happen to us? And we think the real answer to that question is not Jesus’ answer. Jesus says we’ll be happy. But we think we’ll be sad. And poor, beat up, exploited, and scared. We can believe in our teacher, but it seems harder to believe him. So we act like the people in the first part of the Gospel reading, pretending not to hear Jesus. We act like children with our hands over our ears saying “la la la.”

We want to be in control because we are fearful. We are fearful because we are creatures. Experience teaches us that people who are humble and gentle finish last. And culture teaches us that people who finish last are losers. And finishing last is a fate nearly as bad as death.

To follow Christ is to live against that fear. It takes a huge amount of courage to be humble in the face of fear. It takes courage to let go. It takes courage to trust God. It takes courage to drop our burdens and worries on God. We are already in God’s hands, but it takes courage to live as if that were so.

But we would not be here today it we did not suspect that Jesus is correct about a thing or two. Though we as creatures live in fear, we trust Jesus when he says that worry and sadness are not our destiny. The current way of doing things doesn’t seem to be working too well. We follow Jesus because we want to know the better way.

We are drawn by the promises, and offers, and commandments of Jesus. Do this, he says, and then see what good things will happen.

Doctor J

Text: Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26

Healing is as much at the center of human existence as suffering is.

We are not just creatures who suffer, we are also creatures who are relieved of suffering. We get sick and then we get well. Our vocabulary of faith holds words like renew, restore, redeem, repent, resurrect, refresh, reborn. Words of healing.

Jesus is a healer. It was an important part of his ministry and is an important part of our understanding of who he is and what he accomplished. But we need to be careful how much we read into the many healing stories in the Gospels, and especially in Matthew. We needn't get all symbolic or theological about these episodes. We needn't worry too much about what they mean. Sometimes healing stories are just healing stories.

That does not mean they are not powerful. Being sick or sad or broken is powerful. Being treated is powerful. When we go to the doctor or therapist and come home healed, that’s powerful. When we enter a program of treatment or recovery and emerge healthier, that is powerful. We cannot help being moved.

Healing makes us grateful. Grateful to our healer. Grateful that God make us creatures that can be healed (instead of just rusting away like less lively things). Grateful that humans have developed systems and schools and structures that make healing possible.

Healing makes us hopeful. Hopeful that future ills may be likewise healed. Hopeful that we have been cured. Or permanently changed. Hopeful because our worst fears have been calmed for a while.

Healing reminds us about our mortality. Reminds us that someday we will die, of course. But also reminds us of our own physicality, our own body-ness, about how great it is to be a creature, even a mortal one. About how we are made of stuff of the earth, and our bodies made up of and being hosts to tiny other creatures. About how our thoughts are in our brains. About the amazing world of life and the gift we have been given of being a part of it for a while. That it works at all is a miracle.

And finally, healing makes us aware that we are not alone. That we are children of God. And that our brothers and sisters need and will always need to be healed.

So when Jesus tells the Pharisees that, like a physician, he comes only to those who need healing, he is making a little joke, as he often does. For the group of those who do not need healing has no one in it, and the group of those who do need to be healed has everyone in it.

There are more stories of Jesus healing people in Matthew’s Gospel than in any other. Matthew introduces Jesus—twice—as a healer. “Jesus went about all the cities and villages,” it says, “teaching in their synagogues, and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and curing every disease and every sickness.” In today’s reading, Jesus heals a woman who had been bleeding for twelve years. He heals a young girl and raises her from the dead. He restores relationships with the sinful tax collectors and sinners. And in the next few verses he restores sight to two blind men and casts out a few demons.

Why all these healings? Not to prove the Jesus was divine, which was probably not an issue for Matthew. The stories are here, I suspect, because according to Matthew, Jesus’ power and passion to heal are the key to the good news of Jesus Christ. Each of the healing stories in Matthew shows Jesus healing some central human hurt. Hunger. Sickness. Feelings of meaninglessness and uselessness. Craziness. Loneliness and isolation. Pain from accidents and diseases. In other words, whatever we suffer from. Whatever it is when people are broken.

This is Christ’s church. We are Christ’s disciples. And because of that the church is a place of healing by definition. And it is filled with healers. By that, I mean you. People walk through those doors off Broadway to find healing of many kinds. Some come to pray that their bodies may be healed. Some that they may have peace of mind. Some come because they are hungry or impoverished. Some to have their regrets and sorrows removed. Some to be forgiven, or for the power to forgive someone else. Some to replace confusion with clarity. Some to replace rejection with community. Some of those people might be you now, might have been you once, might be you someday.

We have been talking here recently about our mission as a church. We think of ourselves as a welcoming place. All churches think that, or they certainly should. But we are more than just a group of fun-loving hard-eating Lutherans. We are a church. That means that first we should expect people might come here looking to be healed. Second, that we ourselves can come here expecting to be healed. And third, that as we think of our mission we might ask how what we do here helps us heal others.

We feed people at the altar because they are hungry for God. We feed people at Faith Kitchen because they are hungry for food and companionship. We speak of our faith to others so that they might know that their doubts and convictions are not crazy. We pray for the health of our friends here and their friends in turn so that all might suffer less. We pray in celebration so that we remember that we are not alone.

The passages we read every Sunday come from the Revised Common Lectionary. This is a book of standard readings that are arranged in a three-year cycle. So every three years we hear the same passages. The last time we read these verses from Matthew, for example, was three years ago, in 2005. Nine years ago, three complete cycles ago, it was 1999. And on this day we heard this same passage from Matthew. Coincidentally this day was my last day at Faith as a temporary pastor. I helped here, a year before I came to be here permanently, when the previous pastor suddenly resigned. Nine years ago, of course, I had no idea I’d be returning to Faith. (Actually, that’s a lie; I certainly had wishful fantasies of returning). On that particular Sunday, my last, I thought, last Sunday at this church, I made some observations and predictions about Faith. I said this:

Faith church would be a favorite of Matthew, for this church has a gift of healing. The hospitality for which Faith is famous is a healing gift. It is not just that we like to party. It’s not just that we like to eat, though being Lutherans we do. It’s that people of all sorts are welcome here. Those who are lonely can find fellowship here. Those who sorrow find comfort. Those who are isolated find company. Those who are ashamed find acceptance. Those who feel empty can be filled with God’s spirit.

I know you have a gift of healing because I have seen you heal yourselves. I know you have the heart to survive and flourish. I know you have courage. I have seen the love you have for one another. I have seen you laugh.

I know you love the people who walk through those doors, who visit afterward for coffee, and the people who stop by from time to time and then somehow come back again week after week.

Someday, I predict, Faith will heal others in other ways. We are already talking about distributing excess food to the hungry. Our space downstairs and our kitchen are ideal for some kind of community supper. ... We may become a place in which lonely students far from home may gather. In these ways, or some other ways, I am convinced that Faith will be known as a healing presence in this community.

And sure enough, it was so. And, I trust, in this church it will always be so. It is our call.

Jesus came to heal the world, to repair the broken people, to replace violence with peace, to feed the hungry, to bring courage and hope to the frightened. That is how he came and that is how he calls us to be. Jesus sends his disciples out as he himself was sent. Jesus is the healer. We are sent as Jesus was sent. We are disciples. We are healers.

Less of the blah blah blah

Text: Matthew 7:21-29

Blah blah blah.

We are none of us short of words. We are generous to a fault with the words that come from our mouths. We are rich to overflowing with the abundance of words that come to our ears and eyes. Everybody has something to say and there are lots of ways they can tell us about it. We are a wordy culture. Words are the primary output of our economy. Words, more often than things, are what we work with.

Not all words are reliable. We have words for meaningless words: Words are cheap. It is easy for you to say. Do as I say, not as I do. Words are untrustworthy. I misspoke, the man said.

Not everyone who says to me, “Lord, Lord,” will get what he or she expects, Jesus says. We can say, “Lord, Lord,” until the cows come home, Jesus says. It is just so many words. You’ll say: Didn’t I quote you on this or that, didn’t I invoke your name for this or that. “Jesus says such and such.” And Jesus will say, “I never knew you.” He’ll say, “Go away.” In our Bible Jesus calls them evildoers, but what he really calls them is “people who know the law, the rules, but don’t follow them.” All words, no action, would be a good way to say it. Talk the talk but can’t walk the walk.

Christianity has come to the sorry state that we are known more for what we say than what we do. We are not the light to the nations that we might be, serving by our example—by our actions—to show the benefits of a godly life. We favor proclamation to action. We are easily, and often rightly, called hypocrites. We have come to interpret the motto “faith, not works” as meaning “say stuff, don’t do stuff.” That is not, especially in this passage of Matthew, that is not what Jesus told us.

Jesus talks here about two kinds of people. People who hear these words of his and put them into practice. And people who hear these words of his and do not put them into practice. Both of these kinds of people could claim to be followers of Jesus. Following Jesus is not what separates these two kinds of people. Both could listen intently, seriously, and honestly to what Jesus said. The distinction is not about belief, or praise, or reverence. It is putting words—“these words of mine”—into practice.

What are “these words of mine,” that Jesus mentions? This passage in Matthew contains the closing words of the Sermon on the Mount. This sermon, these words, are the great ethical teachings of Jesus. “Lord, Lord,” is how students in Jesus time called on their teachers. Jesus has taught his followers how to behave. These are the words to which he refers.

It is not surprising that we give lip service to these teachings. They are really hard. Don’t kill. Don’t even get angry. Stay true to your word. Can you do that? Don’t grandstand: pray and give and fast in secret; it’s between you and God. Tough, but they get tougher. When someone begs from you, give them what they ask for. Can you do that? When someone demands something of you, give twice what they demand. Don’t amass wealth. Tougher still: don’t resist evildoers. If someone attacks you, don’t fight back. Can you do that? Love your enemies. And the toughest of all: don’t judge others. Can you do that? These words are easy to admire—or sometimes not even—but these words are hard to obey. Hard to put into practice.

Jesus must have known that. He talks about two kinds of people, but he does not condemn them. He does not say that one is better than the other. What he does say is that one is foolish and the other is wise. That’s a practical distinction, not a moral one. Something that is foolish is something that is dumb (the Greek word that Jesus uses is the root of the English word “moron”)—it is dumb and will probably get you in trouble. Something wise is smart and will probably bring you to success in your endeavors. If you want to build a nice house that will last a while, start with a foundation. If you want a house that will fall down in a couple of weeks, skip the foundation. That’s not moral advice, not spiritual advice, not idealistic advice. It is practical advice.

As hard as it is for us to believe, it must be wiser to do what Jesus says than to not. It must be wiser to put Jesus’ words into practice than not to. Jesus words are instructions to the world: if you want to build a good world, follow these instructions. Do what I say. Read the manual. Then do what it says. Not because that will make us better Christians, whatever that means. But because it is wise, practical, and effective to do so. We should try it, see if we get better results than we have so far.

Sand and rock are two ends of a continuum. Two extremes. No one would really build a house on sand. Everyone wants to build a house on rock (or at least concrete: which is modern rock). No one wants to be stupid. Everyone wants to act wisely.

But there are not two kinds of people in the world. None of us is just one kind or another. Sometimes we are foolish and other times we are wise. Sometimes we do what Jesus asks of us (more or less). Sometimes we do not. Sometimes we follow our best urgings and sometimes our worst. Sometimes we are compassionate and generous and humble. Sometimes we nasty and greedy and arrogant.

The words of Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount are commandments. The story in Matthew is much like the story of Moses and the giving of the law to God’s people at Sinai. This is no doubt intentional. Matthew wants to show us how the Sermon on the Mount is like the Hebrew law. For Christians, the words of Jesus carry as much authority as the law, as much as the Ten Commandments.

Like the law, the words of Jesus are words to live by. Not words to quote. They are our legacy. Our inheritance. We have been given these rules—these instructions—that tell us in practical terms the wisest things to do.

In the season of Pentecost we will read a lot about the teachings of Jesus and the things he did day to day. There are plenty of other times to talk about belief and theology and doctrine. There are plenty of times to proclaim our faith and our hopes. But now, especially at this beginning of the mundane season of the church, it might be wise for us to throttle back on the blah blah blah. And to practice what Jesus preaches.

Ordinary Trinity

Text: Genesis 1:1-2:4a
Other texts: Psalm 8

Yesterday a few folks came to work on the garden and grounds of the church. The sun shone. The air was perfect. Plants were growing. People walked by, happy and content. It was good. It was very good.

The story of creation in the first chapter of Genesis is rich in powerful themes. The extraction of order out of chaos. The power of making things by naming them into existence. The establishment of a sacred time of rest. The establishment of time itself as a byproduct of the separation of light and darkness. The creation of life. These are all themes of physics, of some sort. Substance, order, biology— they all could have existed without comment or meaning. A universe, as some say, set into motion and sent on its ways to see what might happen. But that is not this story. In this story, the creator has an opinion about creation. An opinion that grows stronger at each step. God’s opinion is clear: God thinks that creation is good.

Before even time is created, before day and night, dawn and dusk, light itself—the power behind life and revelation and discovery—light is good. The earth and the seas are good. The plants, the seeds, the notion of seeds and reproduction, fruit: all good. Sun and moon and stars: good. Fish and fowl, bugs and sea serpents: good. Animals, and creepy crawly things: good. Everything, including the humans who come last: everything is good. Very good. God made the world, and God saw how very good it was.

It is nice that our God is good. Not everyone worships a God who is good. One of the prisoners I used to work with was taught in his childhood that God was mean and nasty. Now, as an adult, he asked me “Why would anyone want to hang around with a God like that?”

Now, you yourselves might expect God to be good. That is great. What is greater is to worship a God who thinks that the world is good. That creation is good. Not only that it exists and chugs along, but that it is good. That you, just by being part of creation, are good. God thinks you are good. What you cannot miss in this story in Genesis is that God has a ton of affection for the world and all the things in it, from the fruit of the vine to the creepy things in the dirt. From living things to the very light that makes life possible, to the days that measure out our lives. God loves the amazing cosmos and the ordinary world.

Today is Trinity Sunday. It is also the beginning of the season of Pentecost. This time in the church is called Ordinary Time. The color is green, which I guess seems like an ordinary color. The word Ordinary doesn’t really mean plain. It means numbered. Like “in order.” But in fact during this time in the church things are more ordinary, meaning plain. No Christmas, no Easter, no Lent. Nothing out of the ordinary, as in those other, extraordinary seasons. In the ordinary church seasons we hear of the stories of Jesus that are more ordinary. More about the life of Jesus in the middle of his ministry and not about his birth, death, or resurrection. In one sense, these stories are easier to grasp, being about the stuff that happens to us all the time.

Maybe it strikes you odd, therefore, that we start this season with Trinity Sunday. The Trinity is not usually considered an ordinary sort of thing. Not something that is easy to grasp at all. In one sense, the idea of the Trinity came from a theological quandary. How can there be just one God—we are monotheists, after all—if Jesus the son of God is God? To say nothing of the Holy Spirit. But in another sense, the idea of the Trinity is about something else altogether. It is also about how God can love creation. It is not only about some theological mystery, it is about great big God having personal affection for this little tiny world. This ordinary world and our ordinary lives in it.

God is really big. And probably God is really strange, too. I’m sure that there is a lot about God that I cannot fathom at all. And never will. And do not have to, for which I am thankful. God has the whole universe to look after, and not much of it looks like Cambridge, I’m sure. But part of it looks like Cambridge.

The Trinity is a description of God that makes sense in this ordinary world. In a world where things are created, and loved, and comforted, and guided, God is our creator, and lover, and comforter, and guide. The Trinity is a way of describing a God that not only hangs around with dark matter and galaxies but that shows God’s self in the form of the ordinary forces of wind and fire. And in human form.

When I consider your heavens, says the psalm, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars you have set in their courses—What is humankind that you are mindful of them, the human race that you care for them?

The writer of the psalm is flabbergasted. We have less power than we usually like to admit—we are unable to affect what’s happening in the world as a result of natural forces and even human violence. But we also are more powerful than we like to admit. Things we are doing are making a difference in the whole big world. We seem at least to have the power to bite off more than we can chew. Even so, we know that we are really not up there with angels on the power scale. We are small creatures on a small planet in a very very big universe. How can it be that God is mindful of us? Because the story of the Bible is that God is. Is mindful.

The Trinity is a way to talk about a God that can be with people without being foolish. Unlike, for example, Zeus or Apollo, who were competing with God for people’s attention at the time of Jesus. The Trinity is a way to talk about an awesome God who created the universe as vast as we modern types know it to be, who seems nearly unknowable, and who at the same time likes to hang around with us.

The God whom the Trinity describes is one who finds the world that we live in worthwhile, who finds our company at least entertaining and maybe even satisfying. A God who looks at the ordinary world, and finds it very good.

Being Prophetic

Text: Acts 2:1-21. Other texts: Luke 17:5

Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabs.

In the time of Jesus, these places spanned from one end of the earth to the other. These were people from everywhere, from all over the world. These were all the people. From all sorts of lands. Of all different kinds. Who spoke all different languages.

Some had come Jerusalem to celebrate Pentecost, the 50th day after Passover. Some were there to trade, to do business. Some were traveling through. Jerusalem was a cosmopolitan city. A meeting place of many people and cultures. A place, like Cambridge, of many languages and ideas.

The disciples, and maybe many others, were meeting. They seemed to be both hopeful and confused. Apprehensive and eager. Jesus was gone. There was work to do ahead, but no one knew quite what kind of work or where it would lead. It was a time of transition. Something was going to happen.

Suddenly, the story goes, sound like the wind rushed through the house and tongues like flame touched each of them. And they began to speak in other languages.

The people nearby were amazed. Each one heard the same story spoken, but each in his or her native language. This was a miracle of communication. But it is hard to tell whether it was a miracle of speaking or a miracle of hearing. Was it a miracle of tongues or a miracle of ears? Where, from the minds of the speakers to the minds of the hearers, where did the Spirit intervene?

Some thought this might just be a drunken party. But Peter told them that this event was a sign of a new age. It was a time of prophecy. Your sons and daughters will prophesy, and see visions, and dream dreams.

Prophets are called up by times of turmoil and change. A prophet is not really a fortune-teller or a prognosticator. A prophet is someone who sees things as they are. Someone who see clearly what is going on. And then tells everyone about it. A prophet is a truth-teller. A prophet’s main job is to tell it like it is. Sometimes a prophet warns about what is going to happen, but the prophet is not foretelling the future through some special knowledge that no one else has access to. The prophet knows what anybody could know if they only looked clearly, without prejudice, and without preconception. The prophet’s power of prediction is in the form of: if you continue to act the way you are acting, then the future will no doubt turn out such and such a way. Usually, that way is not so nice. The prophet’s statements are warnings. Heads up, guys! Watch out! Change your ways! Or else.

Therefore, people who have a stake in keeping things the way they are don’t like prophets. Prophets are trouble makers. They are anti-establishment. For that reason, there is no such thing as an official prophet, a certified prophet, an authorized prophets. Prophets are unauthorized.

When Moses came down from the mountain after speaking to God, as we heard in the first reading, all the officials were bent out of shape. These guys, they said, these guys Eldad and Medad are prophesying, and they are not authorized. Authorized by us, they meant. But Moses said: it would be great if everyone were a prophet.

Anyone can be a prophet. You can be a prophet. That doesn’t mean that everyone who stands around criticizing is a prophet. Everyone’s a critic, as they say, but not everyone’s a prophet. The spirit of God has to be with them. How we judge that is an open question. But the point is that it the powers that be are never the judge.

Anyone can be a prophet. And the flip side of this is that a prophet can speak to anyone. People whom the powers that be have excluded, or oppressed, or ignored, or underrated.

Peter says that Jesus brings a new era to the world. The rise of prophecy—with all sorts of unauthorized speakers and all sorts of unfamiliar listeners—is both a sign and and means of change. Like a hinge, prophesy connects the familiar and predictable with the strange and new. It is the Spirit at work.

In the story of Pentecost the Spirit moves people to speak and the Spirit moves people to listen. To have skillful tongues and open ears. The ongoing development of faith in each of us and in the world is a conversation. We all have obligations in this conversation. We are called to speak up about what we know about God and about what God asks us to do in the world. What we hear Jesus to say, for example. And we called just as seriously to listen to others, listening as we are guided by the Spirit.

The other day someone spoke about some people who cut out the words in a children’s Bible and put in other words. They did that because in their culture there were no sheep, and thus no lambs, and the shepherd and lamb language made no sense to anyone. So they used some other image, some other symbol of humble sacrifice. I would say this was a prophetic sort of act. Sometimes we have to speak in unfamiliar languages. But people were concerned, hearing of this, that the result wouldn’t be Lutheran.

Our job in these days is not to be the keeper of the gates. Our job is to be prophets. Sometimes that will result in a call to uphold tradition, and sometime it will result in a call to break tradition. It is not always easy to tell which is right. But we are in a time of tumult in the world. We are in a time of transition. Something is changing. It is hard, but I think it is good. We don’t have to be afraid.

One of the great things about riding the Red Line [subway] during rush hour—probably the only great thing about it—is that the train is full of all sorts of people. People of all sorts of ways of dressing, speaking, acting, even probably ways of thinking. We live in a cosmopolitan city. Full of Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia. And now, not just our city, but our world, our time is cosmopolitan. The whole world is like Jerusalem at the time of Jesus. It is a time that calls for prophecy. For truth telling. For warning, too.

Faith is not a conversation among like-minded people. Knowing that was what made Peter so excited. If everyone were the same, there would be no need for prophecy. Prophecy is a sign of God’s doing something.

We are all called to speak up, moved as each of us might be by the Spirit. We are all called to listen carefully. Go tell it like it is. Go hear it well.

The House at the End of the Way

Text: John 14.1-14

In my father’s house are many rooms, Jesus tells the disciples, and he is going to prepare a place for us.

I would like to know more about those rooms. I would like to know exactly what Jesus means by these verses. I want to know when this is going to happen, and how, and I want to know what those rooms look like. And so do the disciples. Disciples who in this reading are clearly confused.

We are a goal-driven culture. We like to know our destination. We say cute things like, “if you don’t know where you are going, how will you know when you get there.” We want our churches and our lives and our work to be purpose-driven. We want to be effective, by which we mean accomplishing goals set in advance. We like mission statements. We have a phobia about the unknown future inadequately prepared-for. It is frightening.

Lord, the disciples say, we do not know where you are going.

This story is placed here in John’s Gospel at the beginning of the story of the Passion, the story of the death and resurrection of Jesus. He has shared with the disciples his last Passover meal (Passover, by the way, started last night), and washed their feet, and has sent Judas out to prepare for his betrayal. He has told the disciples that he is going to his death. He is trying to prepare them for that time.

Lord, the disciples say, we do not know where you are going. Tell us more, Lord, about our destination.

It would be nice if Jesus answered their question. But he does not. Jesus does not talk any more about those rooms. He does not talk any more about the destination. He does not talk about the end of the journey. He talks instead about the journey itself. Lord, we do not know where you are going, they ask. And he says to them, I am the way. I am the journey. I won’t tell you where you are going, but I will tell you how you are going to get there. You are going with me. Jesus does not belittle their fears, and maybe that’s why he tells them about the many rooms. But he does want their attention at the moment. In this moment. In their lives, as his followers.

Jesus is not some kind of magic transportation device, he seems to be saying. He is not some kind of tractor beam that pulls us out of this life into the next one. We can’t get there without the hard, confusing, and joyful business of living. Sometimes it is a slog, and sometimes it is a roller coaster, and sometimes we get a lift so that we can take a load off. But in all the times, it is our life to live. We can live it lots of ways, with Jesus or without, but we have to live it somehow.

The disciples do not get it. Show us the father, Philip says, and we will be satisfied. What is it that they want? What is it about the father that could satisfy them? Do they want to know how to live? Do they think that the father will give them the secrets that Jesus is withholding from them? Do they think Jesus is holding back? Do they think the father will give them a shortcut? Philip, Philip, says Jesus. Don’t you know me yet? You’ll get no more info from the father than you have already gotten from me. If you’ve seen me, you’ve seen the father. You have seen what there is to see.

God is in all of us—abides in us, as John says—but there is a lot to us that makes us opaque, so that the God in us does not shine out so that others can see. We hide the God in us for all sorts of reasons. It is as if we were hiding ourselves.

We hide to protect our real selves. If people knew who we really were, we think, they wouldn’t like us. If people knew what we feared, they would have power over us. If people knew what we most longed for, they would laugh at us. If people knew what we thought, they would punish us. But hiding hides God, too.

But Jesus is not opaque. Jesus is transparent. Jesus does not hide. God shines through Jesus, and people do see God in Jesus. Martin Luther said that to see Jesus is to see God; that what Jesus does, God does. One scholar said “the … heart of God, mirrored in Jesus Christ, is actually revealed. The veils which hide an aloof, distant, and unknowable God are withdrawn, and in the midst of a world of flesh and blood, dirt and water, God acts.” If you have seen me, Jesus says, you have seen God.

To grow in Christ is to allow us to move toward being as transparent to God as Jesus is. So that others can see God in us more and more clearly. This is not something we need to wait to do until the distant future. It is something Jesus prays for, for his disciples, for us. This is the work that the church does, through sacrament and practice and prayer.

In the Gospel of John, the present and the future are a little mixed up. Or rather, they are not so different as we usually make them out to be. Life now is not preparation for another life later. There is another life that Jesus brings, but it can start now, in the present. In that case, we might think about what “many rooms” means for us in the present.

When someone like Krister Stendahl encourages the inclusion of women in ordained ministry or works for ecumenical and interfaith respect and mutual admiration—maybe he sees and shows us rooms that we cannot see. After all, God’s house is very big. Bigger than we know. The church and other faiths have a long tradition of thinking they know all the rooms in Jesus’ father’s house and who is assigned to which. But though there are rooms for us, the house is God’s, not ours. God decides who gets a key. And I suspect he has lots of those keys.

I’m sure that as soon as the disciples heard Jesus’ talk about that house, the were not comforted as Jesus has hoped. I’m sure they began to worry about it. Just like we do. Are there enough rooms? Is there one for me? What are they like? And that they worried about the future, just like we do. Jesus knows they—we—worry about just how things are going to be. He tries to set their minds at ease: do not let your hearts be troubled over this. Jesus doesn’t have to encourage us to fret about the future—we do that naturally. He does, it seems, have to caution us not to forget the present.

Jesus teaches us to walk humbly and confidently through our lives, being free to reveal the God in us. Jesus does not tell us about the house with many rooms so that we can move heaven and earth to get there as fast as we can. He tells us about the house so that we can know that as we travel the way, the house is ready and waiting.

Don't Let That Screen Door Slam Behind You

Text: Luke 17:11-19

What is a gate? If you are in prison, a gate means one thing. If you are in a castle, it means something altogether different.

If you are in prison, the gate keeps you in. It is a place you do not want to be, but you cannot get out. If you are in a castle, the gate keeps the other people out. It is a place you do want to be, and you do not want anybody from the outside getting in. You think the gate keeps you safe if you are outside the prison and the people on the other side cannot get to you. You think the gate keeps you safe if you are inside the castle and the people on the other side cannot get to you. Closed gates both hold us captive and keep us safe. Open gates both free us and frighten us.

I am the gate, explains Jesus. Which gate is he?

The Gospel verses we just heard have confused scholars for centuries. They can’t decide whether the passage is a parable or an allegory. Both parables and allegories are a kind of figurative speech. They tell us things through stories. In an allegory, the players in the story stand for other things, often God and Jesus and Pharisees and us. In a parable, they don’t. In this passage, for example, are the bandits supposed to be the Pharisees, or do they simply represent the idea of a threatening evil? It is not always easy to tell. The consensus opinion about this particular story is that it is two stories. The first one is a parable and the second an allegory.

The trouble is, the Gospel writer has mashed them together so that one follows the other. When we hear the first story about the sheep and the bandits and the shepherd and the gate and all, it is pretty hard not to wonder: who stands for what? And when Jesus starts to explain it, we think “ah hah! things do stand for other things.” Jesus says so. But what he says is not what we expect, or at least not what I expected. The shepherd calls his sheep by name, and they know him and follow him, the story says. So we are all thinking. Right, Jesus is the shepherd. He loves us and cares for us, not like those nasty bandits. He knows us and we follow him. And if we were to read some verses further on in John, we’d hear Jesus say, “I am the good shepherd.” So, we would be right.

Except, in reading this passage, we are not. Not right. Jesus does not say what we expect to hear. Jesus does not say he is the shepherd. Jesus is not the shepherd. He is the gate. “I am the gate for the sheep,” Jesus says. Which is kind of a different thing.

Walls, with or without gates in them, define two different spaces. Inside and outside. My side and your side. Or like the wall in Palestine, the powerful side and powerless side. There is a difference between the two sides for a reason. Walls that separate two things that are the same tend to fall down. So all around New England are stone walls that are in disrepair because they don’t separate things usefully. Walls require maintaining. It takes too much energy to maintain the stone walls that serve no purpose. Except they are beautiful, so they are more like decoration. It takes a lot of energy to maintain the wall between Israel and Palestine, but people spend that energy because somebody cares a lot about it. Someday, one hopes, that wall, too, won’t be worth the energy. Prison walls and castle walls stand as long as people feel there is a need to keep people separate.

For the sheep and the shepherd, there is a difference between paddock and pasture. The sheepfold keeps the sheep in and safe. So that’s good. But it is kind of crowded and a little stinky, and the food is just hay, so that’s less good. The pasture is open and free, and smells great, and the food is green grass. If you’ve ever seen sheep eat grass, you know the sheep think that’s very good. But the pasture can be a dangerous place. There are not wolves in the sheepfold. There might be wolves in the pasture.

One reason the 23rd Psalm moves us is that it so clearly portrays a place of peace and safety. But the green pastures that the Lord makes for us are not in and of themselves safe. It is only safe because the Lord keeps it that way. The sheep can only lie down in green pastures if they know they are safe. A friend was talking the other day about the fields of Iona, a small island off the coast of Scotland. The island is home to an ancient and famous abbey. It is also home to a lot of sheep. The fields of Iona are full of sheep. Nothing threatens the sheep. There are no wolves on Iona. Iona is the perfect safe pasture. The fields there are the perfect green pastures of the 23rd Psalm. But for even the sheep on Iona, there is time to go back to the sheepfold.

All creatures, including us, balance safety and risk. In the sheepfold, behind walls, things are safe but limited. Outside the walls, things are free but risky. In our lives we move back and forth. Responsible or adventurous. Frugal or extravagant. Somber or silly. Mature or childish. Cautious or passionate. Prudent or impulsive. Found or lost. Obedient or rebellious. Faithful or skeptical. You can make your own list based on your own life.

Our lives are not a constant progression to better and better, whatever that means. We don’t start out one way and smoothly become something else. We go back and forth, in and out, taking risks and being frightened of those risks. Sometimes the sheepfold feels like the right spot. Other times we cannot wait to get out of there. Sometimes the pasture seems pretty perfect. Then something scary comes up, and we think how nice a safe sheepfold would be.

And through this all, all these changes and changes back, there stands Jesus. Jesus at the gate. Jesus seeing us work out of lives in experience. Jesus making a way for us to get through the walls that might otherwise block us. Jesus understanding that we are of two minds—at least two—about almost everything.

A gatekeeper is someone who polices the gate. The admission committee at a college is a gatekeeper. The hiring committee. The Department of Motor Vehicles. The guard at the checkpoint. The gatekeeper is the decider of who gets to pass and who does not. The gatekeeper has to power to keep people in and keep people out.

Jesus in this story by his own assertion is not the gatekeeper and he is not the shepherd. He is not the decider or the boss or the owner. I am the gate, Jesus said. I am the gate, and the sheep get to go in and out, Jesus says. When Jesus is the gate, we are not trapped. When Jesus is the gate, we are not captive. At the same time, when Jesus is the gate we are not thrown unprotected into danger. Jesus the gate keeps the wolves out there, not in here.

There are many names for Jesus in the Gospel of John. Messiah, Lamb of God, Son of God, Rabbi. He calls himself the Bread of Life, the Resurrection, the Light of the World, the Truth. These are, some of them, strange titles. But they are all ways to describe and think about Jesus. They tell us different things about Jesus, about the way Jesus works in the world. And one of those things he does is be an opening in the middle of the walls that surround us.

I am the gate, says Jesus. One of many things that I am. I come to free you from your prisons and let you walk in freedom. And I am the gate, says Jesus. I come to gather you in and keep you safe from harm. I am the gate. I invite you to go out and to come back in, as often as you must. Safe and free.