No More Tears

Text: Isaiah 25:6-9
Other texts: Wisdom of Solomon 3.1-9, Revelation 21.1-6a

How greedy life is. How greedy we are for life.

Life is good. We take pleasure in things. We are pleasure creatures, enjoying a good view as much as a good dinner. A good conversation, a good hug, and good handshake. A good friend. We are made to enjoy life, to enjoy living, to enjoy the company of others, to enjoy the beauties of the earth. It is our blessing that we love and are loved, that we create things and admire them, that we have aspirations and accomplishments, and also that we can overcome adversity and solve problems. We are clever and fun and complicated.

Life is sturdy. We live in a sea of organisms, not all of them friendly, yet we mostly persist. We live among hard and dangerous objects, yet we mostly survive. We are complex and fragile mechanisms, yet we and all of God’s creatures are resilient.

We value our lives. And we value the life in others. We form attachments that are rich and soulful. The wiring of our brains and the flow of hormones and enzymes in us mysteriously but actually connect us with the people around us. We are not alone.

So it is on All Saints day that we remember the dead. Or better to say we mark our memories of them, we bring those memories up and forward, and we refresh our affections for those who have died. And we ponder their missing.

Each of us has a strong and unshakeable sense of identity, of the “I” that I am. We seem to be continuous and coherent persons. And those we love seem so, too. So, no matter what the circumstances, no matter how well we are prepared, no matter how sensible and understandable, even no matter how desirable, the death of another is inexplicable. How could it make sense?

So death must be a corruption. All the ways we die—disease, suicide, accident, system failure—seem an interruption in the order of things. How is it that we who are so marvelously made could be unmade? How it that any creature could be? How can it be that someone who was so present can be lost to us? It is not right for life to end.

Life is good, yet life is also sorrow and suffering. I don’t have to tell you. Bad things happen to us in body, mind, and spirit. Discouragement, pain, and despair always attack and sometimes are overwhelming. It is tiring. Injustices are perpetrated on us. Burdens that are given to us, that are taken up by us, that are forced on us, burdens that accrete over time, or shock us in surprise—the burdens get heavy and heavier.

And then. Then death is more welcome. “Since I lay my burden down, my troubles will be over,” says the song. “For all the saints,” we just sang, “who from their labors rest … we feebly struggle, then in glory shine … soon to faithful servants cometh rest.” We quote the verses for evening prayer—“until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes and the busy world is hushed, the fever of life is over, and our work is done. Then, Lord, in your mercy, grant us a safe lodging, and a holy rest, and peace at the last.”—And we say these same words at a funeral, at the end of life. Peace at the last.

Even as greedy we are for life, we seem not to want to live forever. My grandfather, who at the time was nearing 90, once said, “I always wanted to live to a ripe old age. But I think I’m a little overripe.” The burden we let go is the “I” itself, our identity, our self, which at some point seems to take too much effort to maintain. And then we see that the words on Ash Wednesday, “remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return,” could be a promise, not a threat. A relief. Release. Letting go.

Death is as much a part of us as anything in life. It is in our nature as created beings. It is not that we are wicked or imperfect or flawed, and therefore mortal. It is only the way we are made. It is how things work. And I guess we could look at it with the same amazement as we look at all the common and yet unbelievable things our bodies do: like see or love or dance or think.

But we don’t. Such a view is not sufficient. First, death causes too much sorrow for us on this side. And we don’t know for sure how they are feeling on the other side. Second, it is always too sudden, even when it is not. And third, most of all, we cannot believe that force of our lives, the momentum of existence, does not carry us into an active future where either loose ends are tied up or wounds healed or rewards realized. How can it be that evil deeds done—injustices—go unpunished or good deeds go unrewarded (as they certainly do in our lifetimes). How can it be that we cannot know and enjoy our eternal rest. How can it be that the promise and vitality of our youth is not restored. And how can it be that we are not reunited actively with God our lover and our maker?

The alternate first reading—the lectionary sometimes lists two choices—the alternate reading today is from the Wisdom of Solomon. It starts like this:

“The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and no torment will ever touch them. In the eyes of the foolish they seemed to have died, and their departure was thought to be a disaster, and their going from us to be their destruction; but they are at peace.”

In other words, the good will out. In the end justice prevails. The righteous are rewarded. Evil does not succeed, no matter how things seem. This is God’s working to set things right. God, as always, extracts the good from the evil. It is a kind of story of Lazarus in a cosmic realm. Death is not the period at the end of the sentence.

This is good news. Death is only a moment in life beyond which the living cannot see. It is good news, but it is not good enough. What Isaiah writes is better news. What God promises in Isaiah is not a revival or a renewal or a resuscitation. What Isaiah promises is an end to death altogether.

“God will destroy the shroud that is cast over all peoples, the sheet that is spread over all nations;

God will swallow up death forever. And then God will wipe away the tears from all faces.”

The story of the Bible reinforces our instinct that death has no permanent part in the order of things. The intention of God in the first chapters of Genesis, the first book of the Bible, is realized finally in the last chapters of Revelation, the last book.

In the end, it says in Isaiah, and also in Revelation, which quotes Isaiah, we are given more than comfort for the way things inevitably are. Instead, these prophecies and fantastic accounts predict an end to mourning, an end to tears, an end to crying and pain. The new creation is the one that God hoped for in the old creation. Our intuition about life will be realized and our greed for life fulfilled. We will no more light candles for the dead. We will no longer weep.

Reformation Freedom

Texts: Romans 3:19–28 and John 8:31–36
Preacher: Pastor Seitz

Today we celebrate the Reformation and we remember our denomination’s name-sake, Martin Luther.

The story of Luther is well known among many of us but just to highlight a couple of his accomplishments lets start with the verse attributed with starting the Reformation. It is the last verse from the Second lesson, Romans 3:28 “For we hold that a man is justified by faith apart from works of the law.”

This verse was a complete contradiction of the time. The Catholic church was teaching that salvation (or justification) was only attainable through works. You had to do what the church told you in order to be saved. One reason for this was that the Bible was only available in Latin and the church services we held in Latin. And most people did not know Latin so they relied on what the church leaders told them was necessary for salvation.

One of the first things Luther did as a result of discovering this verse that led to his theological revelation was to decide that it was not enough for him to be able to read the promises laid out for us in scripture. But that everyone should be able to read it for themselves so he translated the Bible from Latin to common German.

Well this is where the theological revelation moved into a social revolution. In Luther’s efforts to reform the Catholic church – he taught that any Christian is as close to God as any priest. And that almost every Christian was closer to God than the Pope whom Luther often referred to as the Devil.

Through the Word of God as revealed through scripture, every Christian could be and should be pursuing their own faith journey with Jesus. That everyone should be a leader in church as followers of Christ.

Now the Gospel text for today, Jesus says, “If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples, and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.”

And the Jews who were listening to him responded to Jesus saying, “We are descendants of Abraham, and have never been in bondage to anyone, how is it that you say, “you will be made free?””

I am only a pastor and not a true Biblical Scholar, but it seems to me that the Jews who respond to Jesus are missing something. What is wrong with this statement? Anyone? Uh, now again just speaking as a common pastor, isn’t there something in the Bible about Moses, the Pharoh, the Egyptians, and an Exodus? Jesus doesn’t like to argue but it seems like he could have just mentioned this in his response.

Now the reason we have this Gospel text attached to our celebration of the Reformation is that Luther showed us freedom in Christ in ways we were not aware of before. Through having scripture in our own language and sermons and services in our own language – we know that, as Luther taught and we still teach today, through Jesus we are free from Sin, Death, and the Devil. We are free to live without guilt, without fear, and without mortal grief. We know through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, that our sins are forgiven, that death has no hold on us, and that the Devil is powerless against us as those who follow Jesus.

We are FREE! Free to live guilt free stress free fear free lives! Hallelujah!

If somebody said to us, you are not free - you are all slaves. Like those responding to Jesus, we could say, we are Americans and the patriots of our country died so that we could have freedom. Slavery was abolished – we have freedom of religion and democracy. We could say that we are the most free people in the world! Not only do we have secular and religious freedom but as followers of Jesus we have freedom from Sin, Death, and the Devil. We could not be more free!

But how many of us feel free?

Speaking as a thirtysomething-year-old: as a representative of my generation and those coming up behind us: we work more hours than any generation before us, have more families where both parents are working full time, we have less vacation, we have more student loans, more credit card debt, less comprehensive health insurance, less job security, higher morgages and more stress than any generation before us. And lets not forget a whole list of other things like the recession, politics, corporate corruption, and war.

Now I hate to mention this in my sermon but I have to because today is Reformation Sunday.

Now speaking as a pastor, I can tell you, in reality – even for someone who dedicates their life and career to walking with Jesus; there are really only two times when I truly feel free.

One is whenever I get to relax with my beautiful wife and our son and none of us is watching the clock because soon one of us has to go. So, for at least a little while many evenings and some days I feel free. Because when I am with my family, and we are relaxing together, I am not worried about income or debt, not car nor house, or any other thing or situation that I am tied to that causes me stress.

The other time I feel free, and this is the Gospel truth, is right here and now. Whenever I get to spend time with my family of Faith and we get to worship and sing and pray together.

And our children are running around together and we stand young and old from all our different backgrounds and journies – and together we gather around the table that Jesus has set for us and we stand and kneel side by side under the cross of Christ together – in this 100 year old building together – whenever I get a chance to be here and share in this community I am not worried about income or debt, not car not house, or any other thing or situation that I am tied to that causes me stress.

In my family at home and at Faith when we come together I feel supported and I remember why I work hard and manage all the stressors in my life. When we come together I feel free and that I am a child of God who is blessed and blessed again. And when we come together we each remember who we are and that we are not alone in our struggles or our stresses.

For it is only when we are alone in our struggles and our stresses that we cannot feel our true freedom. From the very beginning we were made to be in community. When God made the first human, and he had the world and all the animals, he was lonely. So God made a companion for Adam, because as God put it, it is not good for him to be alone.

Now today in the Gospel, Jesus says, “If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples, and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.”

Well thanks to Luther, we have been invited to continue in God’s word for 500 years. And Jesus tells us that those who continue in his Word are not just his followers, but truly his disciples.

Now sometimes we see the disciples in scripture as an insular little band of 12 followers. But I commend to you today that they were more than just followers. Jesus said to each one, follow me, and they followed. But eventually he says, now go and do likewise.

Feed my sheep, be laborers in the field of the Lord, heal the sick, comfort those who mourn, preach the good news, bring good news to the poor and set the captives free!

Jesus teaches us to be servants and more than servants! He teaches us, as his true disciples, to be servant leaders. Eventually the disciples went out and did as Jesus taught them – the very fact the church exists today is evidence of that fact. At some point the disciples did more than answer the call: follow me. They extended the call to those around them and said to others: follow me.

Now on Reformation Sunday celebrate that Luther put the power in our hands so that we could be like priests ourselves, be leaders ourselves, and not wait for other leaders in the church to tell us what to do. And Jesus says “if you continue in my word you are truly my disciples, and the truth will make you free.” And God designed us to be in community so that we are supported in our lives and can feel our freedom.

We also remember on Reformation Sunday that the reformation is not over – not for us, not for the church, and not for this congregation. The next step in our own reformation is to move forward as disciples: as servant leaders and go to those in need – not waiting for others but embracing our Lutheran heritage and our Lord’s teaching and living as servant leaders ourselves. By moving forward and helping those in need and saying to those around us – be they our family at home or our family here or people just standing around and saying to them, Follow Me. We don’t have to go out by ourselves – we should go out as a community to those who feel alone. We are called to serve all those around us who may never feel their freedom because they feel alone in their struggles and stresses.

There are people all around us who need our help. We don’t have to wait for someone else to find a service opportunity and invite us - they may be waiting for us to invite them. Who among us would say no if any one of us said I am going to help someone right now – follow me!

I will close with something useful I heard at the Bishop’s Convocation this week. The keynote speaker said, “It is easier to act our way into a new way of thinking than it is to think our way into a new way of acting.”

So let us go forth as servants of Christ, as Lutherans, and as disciples who are servant leaders – acting in ways that not only help us to feel our own freedom but setting others free by showing them they are not alone in their struggles and that we are all in one community as children of God. Because Jesus says, “So if the Son makes you free, you will be free indeed.” So let us be free indeed!

Money and Abundance

Text: Mark 10:17-31

A man approaches Jesus and tells him in so many words that he would like to live a good and Godly life. A noble goal. Since the man was already righteous, meaning he was following the rules of his faith, he no doubt expected a little mild coaching, or a tip of the day. Instead, Jesus tells the man he has to sell all he owns and give the proceeds to the poor. It is hard to follow Jesus. The man, who comes to Jesus eager and confident, leaves distressed, saddened, and uncertain. The story does not tell us what he does. Only that he leaves, not so much shocked as we heard today, but disheartened, downhearted. Having heard Jesus, whether he kept all he had or sold it all, his choices were discouraging.

Money is powerful. It is not even a real thing, but it demands our attention even so. It is a convention based on trust among people that lets us do things in life that are essential or frivolous. Because it is without meaning itself, it can stand for all that we need, hope for, are afraid of. The fear of being without money is closely tied to the fear of death. No food, no shelter, no health care. Hardly anyone thinks that money is unnecessary. Yet “sell all you have and give to the poor,” Jesus said to the man.

Money seems inescapable. A newsletter sent this past week to leaders of Lutheran churches claimed that its topic was stewardship. Stewardship means taking care of things. It does not necessarily have to do with money. But the newsletter was all about money and how to get it and how to keep it. The lead article was titled “practical help in a fluid economy.” It had little to do with Jesus. It could have appeared in USA Today.

When Jesus talks to the man, Jesus looks him in the eye, it says, face to face. And Jesus loved him. Jesus knows, I’m sure, that what he is about to say will be hard words to hear. He knows that the things we hold onto so tightly hold us in turn. That the thing we grasp so tightly grasp us even harder. Anything that we desire to keep, keeps us. All the things we own, our favorite things, demand attention, and love, and loyalty, and protection from us. How much of our lives are devoted to caring for what we own?

We celebrate the 100th anniversary of this building next week. It has been a place that has protected and nurtured people praising God and being fed by God. It is place whose purpose is to gather people who care for and celebrate each other and others in the community. It is place, as our motto says, of spirit, joy, reverence, and service. At the same time, it is a burden. One that we gladly bear, but one nonetheless. It demands time, money, and energetic thought. It is our responsibility, which requires tending.

The man cannot give up his possessions without much grieving, for he loves them so. They have given him much that is good and fine and safe.

But it is not just what we own that owns us. We are connected to many things by little strings of responsibility and affection and common purpose. The man is disheartened when he hears what Jesus says. But the disciples are more than perplexed, as it says. They are astonished and terrified. For when Peter explains that he and the others have given up everything for Jesus, Jesus speaks to them about leaving their “house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields.” That is, everything that has any hold on them. Not only on their stomachs, but on their hearts. Which means not just things and loves and responsibilities, but also plans and schemes and dreams.

What Jesus promises is freedom. He offers a light-traveling nomadic life that has a spiritual clarity. A kind of life in which a person is transparent, the same inside oneself as outside. Both unencumbered and therefore undisguised. Without guile, as Jesus once said of Nathanael. Without any need to dissemble or to worry about what face is forward. And with this freedom we are able to hear God more clearly and we are able to act for God’s world nimbly and with more courage.

I used to think, and preached, that this passage told us what we should do. That Jesus was telling us what to do. After all, the man says to Jesus, “what must I do?” If we wanted Christian freedom then we had to let things go. And that was that. Just let go of all that you hold dear, and everything will work out fine. So, go ahead. Go on. Let me know how things work out. As if it were easy. As if it were possible.

But now I see in the eyes of Jesus nothing but compassion. As Jesus looks, eye to eye, loving the man, Jesus knows what is happening inside this person. It is no doubt true that all that we grasp onto diminishes us. And that our tight grip harms the world. Jesus’ analysis of the problem is correct. But we can hardly do otherwise. We hold onto what we have for dear life.

The man goes away gloomy. What Jesus asks for is impossible. He says so himself. Mortals cannot do it. So where does that leave those—the man, us—who wish to be disciples of Jesus? Is it OK if we hedge our bets? Do things work out if we cling to our possessions, or is it all or nothing, a binary theology? Can we keep a little? How much is too much? Or is it like exercise: any little thing we can let go of helps? Can the man be a disciple of Jesus—follow me, Jesus says—if he does not do exactly what Jesus tells him to?

With God, all things are possible, Jesus tells his disciples. Do we believe that to be so? Do we believe what Jesus says here? Not believe in Jesus, but believe him. Is God trustworthy? If we give up all we possess—and those things that therefore possess us—will God take care of us? Do we trust God to do that?

Trust is not something that just arrives, like a package in the mail. It is a result of many encounters and experiences. Many tentative proposals, most with favorable responses. Many little experiments. Even for people who are vouched for by another (your best friend tells you: “she’s a great person”), trust is built gradually. Even when you fall head over heels in love with someone, trust comes over time. So it seems it is with us and God. Even if God is vouched for by scripture and teachings and by the testimony of other’s experiences. Even if you fall in love with God. Trust takes take and trials.

One reason we follow Jesus is because the promise he makes of a good and abundant life strikes us as real. And his analysis of the power of money and other possessions, material or otherwise, to interfere with that life strikes us as correct. We know he is right about this.

This does not mean to go hungry or become destitute. (Give to the poor, Jesus says; it is not good to be poor.) Or to sever ties with each other, or to deny our interdependency, or to spurn the love of others, or hesitate to ask for help. But it does mean we do not rely on our stuff for healing, protection, and guidance, or for the good life.

The story of the man ends in uncertainty, as do ours. We do not know how he interpreted the words of Jesus, how he acted, what decisions he made. Do we want to spend the hours of our short lives tending our possession and under their power?

Jesus looks into our lives—and to the heart of the world—with compassion and love. There is a better way.

Once Upon a Time Things Were Bigger

Text: Psalm 8

Once upon a time we were bigger. A lot bigger.

In the time of Moses, in the time of Jesus, even up to the time of Martin Luther, we were bigger. Human beings could walk from one end of the universe to the other. One end being the west coasts of Africa and Britain, the other end being the east coasts of Asia. Humans could cross the universe on foot in less than a year. And did. Luke tells us in the book of Acts that people came to Palestine to hear about Jesus from every place under heaven

Once upon a time we were younger. A lot younger.

In the time of Moses, Jesus, and Luther, we could count back through the generations of humankind to the very beginning of the universe. Your grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather’s … and so forth … was Adam. Lots of generations, but numerable. Possible. Traceable. They are listed in the Bible—if you allow for a little glitch here and a little nip and tuck there— from Adam to Jesus. If you lay all these generations end to end, you get to about 6,000 years for the age of the universe, or about 300 grandparent’s grandparents. Not so many. We could celebrate its anniversary without feeling too foolish.

The world was old, but not that old. The heavens were far, but not that far. The cosmos was big, but not that big. It was all sort of human-sized. Something humans could feel comfortable with. Awe-inspiring, magnificent, but comprehensible. Roomy.

How big, in this universe, could God be? How far away could God be? Not too big, not too far. Big enough to serve you, small enough to know you. Small enough to wander about in the garden of Eden. Small enough to have conversations with Abraham and Moses. Small enough to make a deal, a covenant, with a wandering tribe of nomads and freed slaves. Big enough to fill every space; but space was little. Ageless enough to be of all time; but long ago was not so long ago.

What are mere mortals that you should be mindful of them, human beings that you should care for them? The psalm asks. We share our grandparents’ sense of wonder at this. We seem to be especially blessed by our creator. We are a little confused these days about what it means to have dominion (not domination) over the animals and things of the earth, but we cannot deny that we are the beneficiaries of what seems to be a benevolent and generous giver. Other creatures have given up their lives and their coats for us. We do speak and name things and by language gain control over things. Human beings have prospered so far, and there are many of us. The world has been good to us. Why is that? God of the heavens and the moon and the stars is mindful of us and cares for us, so the psalm says. Why is that? God was powerful, and God was caring. But there was not so much on God’s plate as there is now.

We know now that everything is bigger and older than we can imagine. We can talk about it, but we cannot imagine it. And in the scale of the universe, we are much closer to the smallest thing than the largest thing. And the whole history of human beings is not as long as a click in a symphony. If you were distracted for an instant, in the life and breadth of the universe, you would miss us. We can talk about that too, but we cannot imagine it.

What are mere mortals that you should be mindful of them, human beings that you should care for them? In the face of our tiny-ness, we can agree with the psalm that it is amazing and we can praise God that God should mind and care for us. But now that we know how much there is, it seems sometimes to us that the effort God makes to do so is also unimaginable. God knows all there is to know. It seems too much.

So, in response some people deny that God exists. And some declare that even if God does exist, God is not, cannot be, mindful of us. And some say they it doesn’t matter what they think because it will not affect how they live one way or the other.

Followers of Jesus say that God became human. Became human while remaining God. Immanuel, we say, God with us. Human-sized and short-lived. But I’m not sure that that helps with this particular quandary. Does God become other things in other places in the wide universe? Is there a Jesus-like God for the fish and for the proteins in a cell and for the galaxies. And if not, why do we alone get Jesus?

Abraham Joshua Heschel, a wonderful and faithful thinker, says that the start or the ground of our relationship with God begins with our sense of the ineffable. Indescribable and inexpressible. We stand in awe in the universe—a Psalm 8 sized one or a modern gigantic one—and we are amazed. We marvel at our own existence and the blessing we seem to have. We are filled with wonder and we are filled with thanksgiving. We agree with the pslam. What are mere mortals that we should be blessed? That we should have life at all?

In one sense, in this sense, the nature of God is not really our concern. The size of the universe and the God that creates, fills, and runs it is not germane. The psalm does not ask, What is God that God should be mindful of us? It asks, who are we? I spoke at funeral yesterday and started out saying that I wanted to talk about me. I didn’t mean to say this—it just kind of popped out—and it was a little embarrassing, as it was not about me, as we say. It was about Alma. But what I meant was that it was about my response to her. I couldn’t really say what was going on from her point of view in our relationship. Just my point of view. That she was gracious to me and kind and attentive and make me feel cared for. When we talk about God, we can talk only about ourselves. What are mere mortals that God should be mindful of us?

When the disciples turn away the little children, Jesus gets upset. Do not stop the children, he says. Let them come. To come to God as children does not mean we have to be uncritical and unquestioning or be especially lovable. Children are often critical, skeptical, and hard to take. But children are rightly the center of their own universe. They are grateful and demanding in one package. Everything for them is ineffable.

Of course we will try to understand how God is and works. But how we imagine God changes in the course of our lives as well as in the course of history in the world. We can get all tied up in knots if we try to base our faith on that understanding. What we know for certain is what the children knew when they approached Jesus. God invites us in. And we are blessed.

Look at the Children

Text: Mark 9:30-37

As Jesus starts talking in Mark’s Gospel about being first and last, there is a shift of character. If you listen carefully, you might hear it. If you were reading along you might have seen it. Jesus starts talking about servants but ends up talking about children. Hardly a big deal. But people have made much of this small change and have tried hard to reconcile it. They point out that the one who is the servant of all is even the servant of servants, and therefore the lowliest of all. And they point out that Jesus speaks often about his ministry to the poor and the outcast. And they point out that children, too, were considered the lowliest of all. Children had no stake, no power, and no voice in the culture of the age. In that sense, the servant and the child must be the same.

This sort of works. It fits in the context of the disciples’ chatter, which has been all about who is the greatest. (At least they were embarrassed about it when Jesus caught them.) Jesus tells them: stop it! You are being stupid and you do not get it. Jesus is all about turning things upside down (or upside right, as my son used to say). That is certainly true, but an interpretation like this brings to it things we already know about Jesus and and which influence our reading and hearing. We just assume it applies here. Which it does not.

Jesus tells the disciples two different things. First, he tells them they have to become servants. Second, he tells them that they have to welcome children. He does not say that servants and children are the same thing or stand for the same thing. He does not tell them they have to be like servants or that they have to be like children. But if he is not talking about general purpose lowly people when he talks about welcoming children, then what could he be talking about?

Children are different from adults. That is a pretty modern notion, but even in Jesus’ time children started out as children—not just little adults—and eventually became of age. Children are not different because they are small; there are small adults. Or poor; there are poor adults. Or disenfranchised, or illiterate, or hungry, or poop in their pants, or have lots of energy. Adults are and do all those things, too. What makes children different most of all is that adults are old and children are new. Like Christina, for example.

We see children as innocent, meaning un-poisoned. We know children are not always sweet or kind. But they do not have that air of having been corrupted, as adults usually have. We see children as prone to making errors, but that’s OK because they are just children. We forgive them easily. And we see them as having finite but unlimited potential. Against this we see adults as jaded, blameworthy, and reprehensible. And we see them as having diminished potential. All things are possible for children but for adults fewer and fewer things are possible. Or so it mostly seems. A life renewed in Christ is a life re-opened to possibility.

Jesus says that whoever welcomes a child such as the one who sits in his arms at the moment welcomes Jesus. Or to turn the phrase around a little, one way to welcome Jesus is to welcome such a child.

Jesus doesn’t actually quite say Welcome. It is not like we are welcoming a child into our house for a nice dinner as we might welcome a friend. The word Jesus uses here means Receive. As receiving a gift. Or receiving an assignment or command. Or receiving someone into your care. It is more than welcoming, which can be of the moment and impersonal. When we receive a child we become responsible and engaged with the life of that person. To receive a person as Jesus talks about is to accept that person into our life in some way.

We receive children, or hope we do, generously, compassionately, and forgivingly. We give them the benefit of the doubt and and our hearts favor them. And we receive children, or hope we do, with thanksgiving. Not with thanksgiving for anything special that they accomplish or promise, even, but simply for their being. We are thankful that they exist. And once we have received them, we are thankful that they exist in our lives. And having received them, we feed them and protect them, play with them and teach them.

Children force us to focus on someone besides ourselves. Unlike the disciples, who were much more interested in themselves than in one another or even in Jesus. The disciples act like children. Children do think of themselves most of the time. The disciples in Mark are infantile. When Jesus tells them here a second time that he will be executed and rise again, they mumble and shuffle their feet. They argue over which one of them is better. They quibble and quarrel.

Jesus does not invite them to come to him as a child might. They are already doing that. He tells them that while children think of themselves, the job of a disciple of Jesus is to think of the children. The job of a disciple is to offer hospitality. To receive others as Jesus does. To receive others as we receive a child. To be generous. To be compassionate. To forgive. And to care for.

We are to be gracious hosts, putting those who come to us first, to provide for them first, to make allowances for them, and to put ourselves last. To be servants not as the most lowly but as the most giving and most receptive—welcoming. The gracious host is the one who serves others first and him- or herself last.

The church is by design and intent a place of hospitality. There is good news to be heard in the church, but the first bit of it is that those who show up at the door are welcome. It starts there.

It is often hard to be hospitable. Children are cute; adults, not so cute. But these verses from Mark do not portray some sentimental scene with lovely children in the lap of Jesus. We are not called, at least not here, to be children. We are called to be adults. Not to be welcomed but to welcome.

Followers of Jesus—Christians—are by declaration and by intent people of hospitality. Not because people are so great—though they mostly are—and not because they are so accomplished, but simply because they exist. Like children.

We receive them because Jesus told us to. We receive them because to do so is to receive Jesus. And to receive Jesus is to receive God.

The Self of Jesus

Text: Mark 8:27-38

Oliver Sacks, the observant neurologist, has spent most of his life trying to discover what it means to have a self. What is it about our selves that makes them seem to be continuous? What is it about our selves that makes them seem to be ours, to belong to us? If someone cannot remember anything that happened more than five minutes ago, does that person have one self or many? If someone can only remember what happened long ago, is that long-ago person the same as this present person? If someone who could speak now cannot, is that the same person as before? What if someone goes crazy? What if someone is drugged? What of someone loses part of his or her brain? What if someone, as a person Sacks describes did, mistakes his wife for a hat. What is a person? What is a self? What is our self?

This is not an academic question. Who are we? Are you the same person you were ten years ago? Do you feel the same, think the same, have the same desires and fears? If you are the same person, do you rejoice at that or mourn? And if not: same question. Are you responsible for things you once did? What happens to you when you are married? When you have a child? When you get very sick? Or wounded? When you lose someone you love? Do all these things of our lives belong to us, the same person, throughout? If not, if we are sometimes divorced from our former selves, then what makes us one being?

People sometimes speak of life as a journey. It has been a long road, you might say, looking back. Just starting out, you might say, as if you knew where you were going. There is a path on which you walk, you might say. People in religious circles talk particularly about one’s faith journey. As if it were one continuous thread. Or they talk about faith development. As if faith were like a photograph being gradually revealed, or a like a souffle gradually rising. And as if your self, the center of your being, were not transformed.

Jesus asks his students, his disciples, “who do people say that I am?” Why is this question here in this story? It is not enough to say that Jesus said it and therefore it is here. A Gospel writer makes decisions about what to include and what to leave out. Of all the things Jesus said or was reported as saying, why did Mark include this thing, this strange question? Is it a rhetorical device, a way to set up Peter and his passionate answer: you are the Messiah. Is it there to show that people outside the inner circle were talking about Jesus’ ministry? Is it there to foreshadow Jesus’ inevitable death?

Or rather is it there because Jesus really wanted to know? Is it possible that Jesus was not sure who he was? Or that he had moments when he was not sure? Even though divine—as we profess—as human didn’t Jesus wonder from time to time what he was? Which of us humans knows our selves for sure, or the self we are about to be? Even the most confident and certain of us is uncertain sometimes. Who do people say that I am, I wonder? It would be helpful to know.

This story in Mark is about a turning point in the life of Jesus. Up until now Jesus has been known as a healer, a teacher, and someone who ruffles the feathers of those in authority. Like Elijah, or John the Baptist, or a prophet, as people describe him, according to the disciples. But it is increasingly clear that Jesus is trouble, and Jesus is in trouble. You don’t have to have pre-knowledge to know that he was likely to be caught and tried and punished. Now Jesus stands on the cusp.

In terms of the story of Jesus, there is no logical necessity that he be crucified. (Though maybe the necessity is theological). Perhaps he could continue to teach and heal, and in his old age someday to sit in a rocker on the porch with Peter and tell stories about the good old days. Of course, we might not be here then, in a Christian church, but maybe we would. God is powerful.

I bring this up because I’m convinced that that is what Peter is thinking. What he was thinking when Jesus tells Peter that he, Jesus, is about to go to his death. (It is pretty clear that Peter does not hear the part about rising again.) Don’t do it, Jesus. Stay here with us in our little band of disciples. Peter is Jesus’ friend. Peter does not want to lose his friend. And maybe Jesus does not want it, either. Jesus is tempted by Peter’s remarks. Jesus is tempted to turn his back on the resurrection, to succumb to Peter’s vision of the future. Get behind me, Satan! thinks Jesus. You are thinking of human things, he says. And so Peter is, being human and all. And so, perhaps, is Jesus. Maybe Jesus is talking to himself a little. Who will Jesus be? Will Jesus save his self, the person he has been, or will he lose it, becoming someone different. Not a healer, but Messiah, and therefore certain to go to the cross. You might say he has no choice, but he has the same choice all humans do. That we all do.

We sometimes ignore how intertwined the story of Jesus is with the story of Peter. But the story of Jesus is not the story of a lonely leader and a bunch of clueless followers. Peter is there. Clueless like the rest, maybe more so, but close to Jesus. Peter is more than a sidekick. They say you are Elijah, or John the Baptist, the disciples say. Yes, but what do you say, Peter? If Peter had answered differently, would the world have been different? You are the Messiah, says Peter. And Jesus knows who he must now be. I must go to Jerusalem, he says, and be killed, and rise again.

Our steps towards one’s future are less like a journey than a series of shocking transformations. Peter is changed by Jesus, Jesus changed by Peter. That’s how it works with us, too. It is like a dance, a series of proposals, tentative or bold, a series of responses, timid or passionate. Our partners are often other people, but sometimes events, positive or not—illness, accident, birth, inheritance, addiction—invite us forward or they lean too close. With God, we are in a faith dance, more than a faith journey. Wondering, questioning, accusing sometimes, yelling, loving, thanking. Sometimes taking a rest.

Who are we? We are dance partners with God, and with God’s creation. The person we once were and the person we will be are joined together in the dance. Our selves are defined not by our memories or our abilities or the consistency of our thoughts. We propose to God and respond to God’s steps. Sometimes gracefully, sometimes awkwardly, sometimes foolishly. But on we go. Dancing. We in God’s arms. God in ours.

Justice First

Text: Mark 7:24-37
Other texts: Isaiah 35:4-7a, Psalm 146

Matthew steals this story from the Gospel of Mark. Mark was the first Gospel to be written, and this stealing from him is common. Both Luke and Matthew take Mark as one of their major sources of information. And both then often modify what Mark has to say. As it happens here.

People have had a hard time reconciling the sweet compassion of Jesus with the angry words he uses with the woman. After she asks for healing for her little daughter, Jesus answers that “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” Meaning, everyone assumes, the woman and her suffering daughter. But in the end, of course, Jesus relents.

Matthew adds a line to the story that is not in Mark. In Matthew, after Jesus first rejects the woman’s petition, she cries out, “Lord, help me!” You might therefore think—and maybe this was Matthew’s purpose—you might think that Jesus changed his mind because he was moved with compassion. That would suit us, who imagine Jesus to be always even tempered and helpful. And sometimes Jesus is, even in Mark. In one of the first healing stories in Mark, Jesus was so overwhelmed with compassionate feelings that it says his stomach turned over in sympathy. But that is not what happens here. Here Jesus is turned not by his empathy but by God’s constant requirement for justice.

We have polluted this word “justice” in our times. It has become a synonym for retribution, for payback. Justice has come to mean “get what you deserve.” So when we talk about making sure justice is done we often as not mean “let’s find those guys and make sure they are punished.” But that is not what justice means in the Bible.

In the Bible, justice means “restoration.” Our world gets broken. The world is wounded. God’s design is frustrated. And justice is the world healed. Things set right again. The word justice in the Bible has overtones of joy. You know the essence of justice when you are in exile and can finally come home again. When you are in prison and can be back with your family. When you are hungry and get a good meal. When you are homeless and can finally be in a bed of your own. “My beddy, my beddy,” as my son used to say when he was little and tired and ready for sleep. He had a bed. Justice is the freedom from oppression. A conversion from suffocation to free breathing. From sickness to vibrant energy. From slavery to freedom.

In the world of the Bible, in our world, things are out of balance. The poor suffer while the rich gloat. People go hungry while others are gluttons. People are oppressed while others profit from oppression. Justice is done when those things that are broken are restored.

God is powerful. But our God is strange, favoring the weak and on the side of the poor. A God of the outcasts, God comes to us as Jesus, a poor vagrant who hangs with those who disgust others. God frees the people of Israel from Egypt because they are slaves. God’s identification is with justice. I am that God, God tells the Israelites, that God who brought you out of slavery. That one.

Yet the longing for justice lives in the powerful and the wealthy as well as in the weak and poor. So even the well-off find the songs we heard today from Isaiah and the psalm to be good news (oddly, since on the surface these verses condemn them). Partly that’s because everyone has felt oppressed from time to time. But it goes deeper than self-interest. It is mostly because injustice is evil. And that people feel that. Oppression is not from God. Injustice harms our souls as well as our world. Whether or not we benefit, we know that something is wrong.

When the psalm describes God’s power—the God who made heaven and earth, the seas and all that is in them—it is a God who restores justice. “He gives justice to the oppressed, food to the hungry,” so we recited today. The law of Israel starts with justice. The life and teachings of Jesus embody it.

In the Gospel story we just heard, a mother approaches Jesus while he is trying to get a little break. He is a celebrity by then, and Jesus had a hard time finding some private time for rest. He’d been running all over the countryside. So he’s a little crabby when, like an ancient-day telemarketer ignoring the do-not-call list, she interrupts his dinner. He tells her, in essence, to get lost, take a hike.

She argues with him. But instead of appealing to his compassion for her or her sick daughter, she reminds him of his call to do justice. “Even the dogs do not go hungry,” she says. Poor people were allowed to glean, or collect, the wheat from the fields, to gather a little of the produce there. It is an act of justice: the owners of the fields left some grain un-gathered for the poor. When the woman says to Jesus, Let me collect what you do not eat, Jesus remembers his call to do justice. You speak well, he tells her. It is her argument for justice, not her sad condition, that moves Jesus. Maybe Jesus doesn’t like the woman. It doesn’t matter. It is justice, not compassion, that moves Jesus.

We are called to love our neighbor. But this is a call to action, not a call to sentiment. To have compassion for another’s suffering is not enough. As far as justice is concerned, neither our feelings nor our beliefs are germane. We cannot control our feelings. We cannot force ourselves to love someone. But we can act as if we do. We can be just.

It does not matter whether we are pure of heart or soft-hearted or have a bleeding heart or a heart of stone. It does not matter whether we like our neighbor or despise our neighbor. What is more important: that Jesus liked the woman—or that he healed her daughter? Our motives are not the point. We feed hungry people and we treat the sick not because we are good but because they are, not because we love them but because God does, not because we like to but because we have been told to. We forgive those who sin against us not because we have forgotten those sins, but because we follow Jesus.

It is helpful to be reminded, as we have today by these readings, that social justice and the suffering of the poor is central to Christianity. What got the Pharisees mad—mad enough to kill Jesus—was not his compassion. They could not have cared less. What got them mad was his demand for justice.

Justice is not an optional add-on to religious fervor. For many, whether the church is good or is not is measured by whether it has been just. For many others, doing justice has been the path to knowing God. While finding faith is a gift of the Spirit, doing justice is something we can choose.

We are rightly humbled by knowing that without God we are lost. But that does not mean that we are helpless. Just because we cannot do everything does not mean we can do nothing. Just because we are always accepted by God does not mean that nothing is expected of us. Just because we have limited capacity does not mean we are incapacitated. Being a Christian is hard work, but good work. Our weakness calls for God’s salvation. But God’s justice calls for our strength.

The prophet Isaiah sings a song about the time when there is no more injustice. Listen to his words: Rejoice, blossom, be opened, leap like a deer, sing for joy, break forth,

The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom. It shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing. …. Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then the lame shall leap like a deer, and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy. Waters shall break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert; the burning sand shall become a pool, and the thirsty ground springs of water.

Let us pray that we may stand for the poor, fight for oppressed people, speak for the frightened, be bold on behalf of the timid, be stubborn against the powerful. Demand justice for all people, likeable or not, admirable or not, good or not.

Let us pray that with God’s blessing we may see that justice is done and the broken world restored.