Truth and Consequences (Sermon)

Texts: Acts 5:55-60; John 14:1-14

I have been in a lot of conversations around the theme of forgiveness recently. It’s not just in Bible study, but also in individual exchanges as well. One thing that I’ve noticed in these discussions is that there seems to be a cultural expectation that if a person who has been harmed forgives, then the consequences will go away. 

That is not how forgiveness works. 

 

To forgive because of what has been done to us or to others is important work. It is not fast. It is not easy. It is, however, essential because it affects our relationship with God and our relationship with the work to which we are called. 

 

Forgiveness, because it is on a vertical plane, may not actually alter anything on the horizontal plane. Things between people may remain broken because forgiveness does not eliminate the consequences of harmful actions. Forgiveness is not a magic eraser or strong coat of paint.  

 

We actually see an example of a harmful action that can never be undone in today’s reading from Acts. When we read the story of the stoning of Stephen, particularly with his speech that directly precedes it, we have a sense of awe at his faith and an understanding of the grief of his martyrdom. 

 

We get a tiny mention here of something else, though. There is a description of a young man named Saul, standing with the coats of those who killed Stephen. This is the very end of ch. 7 of Acts and ch. 8 begins with this verse, “And Saul approved of the killing of Stephen.” Remember that when Luke wrote this, there were no chapters and verses. The words about Saul’s approval would have immediately followed the death of Stephen and his words of forgiveness. 

Saul, you may or may not know, goes on to become Paul, the one we sometimes call the Apostle Paul. He has a powerful encounter with Jesus on the road to Damascus, when he (Paul) is on the way to commit more persecutions against Jesus’ followers. Jesus speaks to Saul, blinding him temporarily, until his mind is opened and his heart is softened through the work of the Spirit and the teaching of Ananis and others. 

 

We don’t have a good timeline for Acts, so we don’t have an accurate idea of how close in time the events are between Stephen’s stoning and the road to Damascus event. It’s likely between 2-4 years apart. 

 

After his encounter with Jesus, Paul spends time in Damascus and parts of Arabia. He is learning about what it means to be a follower of the Christ. As best we can tell, he comes back to Jerusalem three years later, so between 5-7 years after Stephen’s death. Acts 9 tells us that the believers in Jerusalem did not trust him and were afraid of him. Barnabas takes up Paul’s cause and tells of Paul’s witness in Damascus. 

 

Even with Barnabas facilitating reconciliation, it is not really possible for Paul to remain in Jerusalem. Part of it is his personality: he’s strong-willed and ends up in a lot of arguments. The other issue is that people still struggle with trusting him. The community is full of people who remember Stephen- their friend and co-worker in the Lord, maybe even their relative. 

 

Eventually, Paul’s friends move him out of the area. A major reason that Paul’s mission becomes to the Gentiles of Asia Minor is not purely because God called him to that. Paul is called to that work because his behavior prevents him from being anywhere else. His watching and approving of the death of Stephen closes the door on his ability to be part of God’s mission anywhere except to people who do not already know him. (And who aren’t yet annoyed with him.) 

 

The believers in Jerusalem can have God’s help in letting go of their anger and grief, but that does not mean that they have the human capacity to welcome Paul back into their company- at table, in worship, through prayer. Their forgiveness means they can commend Paul to God and understand God to work in him and through him, but just not near them. There is too much pain on the horizontal level, within the human relationships, for there to be trust and community. 

This is what I mean when I say that forgiveness, between us and God, does not remove consequences. Human relationships are not Legos. They can’t come apart and then just snap back together. Sometimes things that have been broken can be mended, but sometimes they stay broken. 

 

The harm is too great. The grief is too deep. The wound may scab, but the scar remains. 

 

When we think of Jesus proclaiming that He is the way, the truth, and the life, part of what we are called to consider is how following in His way and living in his truth is meant to guide us into lives of care and compassion. It is his life, death, and resurrection that helps us to comprehend the fullness of God’s grace and mercy. 

 

In living like Jesus, however, we acknowledge that we are still in this life wherein actions have reactions and consequences. We must make every effort not to stand by, watching the coats and approving of harm that is done to anyone. What happened to Stephen was legal, but not moral. That can happen in our own time and the converse as well, illegal actions that are moral. 

 

As people who are called and equipped to live in the way of Jesus, we can help one another with forgiveness - relief and healing in our relationship with God. We can also live the truth of faithful community, acknowledging that sometimes people may not be able to be welcomed back to a space where they caused harm, but perhaps they can be received in God’s name elsewhere.

We cannot treat grace cheaply, allowing it to cover a multitude of sins without acknowledging pain. We can handle grace with generosity. We can support those who have been hurt and recall that our Savior bore his own scars in his resurrected body. 

 

Hope and healing are real. They can happen; they do happen. Reconciliation between people can happen as well, but sometimes on-going relationship is no longer possible. Even so, the grace and love of Jesus remains and the promise of all things being made new in the life of the world to come is still true. For Stephen and Saul, for Barnabas and Paul. And for us and all people. 

 

Amen. 

 

 

Trust the Comma and the Gate

George Burns and Gracie Allen were one of the greatest comedic duos in history. They were inseparable on the radio, on stage, and on television. Their television show was on from 1950–1958. After having some heart trouble, Gracie decided to retire. George attempted the show without her for one year, but it didn’t work without Gracie. She died of a heart attack in 1964. When George went through her papers, he found a note she wrote to him, which included the line, “Never place a period where God has placed a comma.” Never place a period where God has placed a comma. George Burns took this reminder from his beloved that his life on earth wasn’t over yet. He went on to continue acting, directing, and writing until he died at the age of 100 in 1996, always missing Gracie, but continuing to truly live his own life. 

A reminder that came from deep love, even in grief, “Never place a period where God has placed a comma.”

In today’s reading from John, Jesus introduces us to a radical idea that echoes in Gracie’s note. He says, "My sheep hearmy voice." Notice the tense. He doesn't say the sheep heard the voice of God back in the days of the prophets, nor that they will only hear it in the life of the world to come. Jesus speaks in present tense and John preserves that tense. Jesus is speaking, the Creator is speaking, the Spirit is speaking. Right now. 

Often, the story of our faith can feel like something long ago and far away — a collection of periods and finished chapters. The saints, the apostles, the reformers, the mothers and fathers of our faith — they lived ages ago. We sometimes talk as though the "voice of God" is something confined to ancient parchment. 

But Jesus describes a living, breathing relationship, an active communication and calling. Jesus tells us that to be called His followers, his people, sheep of his fold, and lambs of his flock means to still be listening to his voice. To hear His voice today is to recognize that the Divine is still speaking. There is a voice of Love and grace that is louder and more persuasive than all our modern noise, but we must pay attention to how we’re tuned to hear it and listen. 

Jesus warns us about that modern noise, the misdirecting sounds, and loud untruths. He speaks of the thief who comes to "steal and kill and destroy." These thieves don't just try steal our peace; they try to steal our future by lying about God’s punctuation and our identity as valuable and treasured.

A thief is always a master of the premature period. They whisper:

"You've made too many mistakes; your story is over." (Period.)

"This sickness is the end of you." (Period.)

"You’ll never understand the Bible, so you should quit trying." (Period.)

“No one will believe you now, so you might as well keep lying.” (Period.)

“It doesn’t matter if you keep going. No one cares.” (Period.)

These voices try to convince us that the gate is locked, that our purpose has expired, or that God has stopped speaking. They want to trap you in a finished chapter, convincing you that there is no "next" in your walk with the Shepherd. But a voice that tells you God is done with you is never the voice of the Shepherd. You matter. Your presence matters. You are part of God’s beloved creation. And you are defined by God’s love for you, not anything you’ve done. A sentence is never too long for one more comma and a new clause in God’s handwriting. 

Jesus corrects the thief’s grammar by declaring, "I am the gate." In the life of a shepherd, the gate functions as a comma. It is not a wall; it is a point of transition that swings in both directions.

There are seasons when the world is too loud and predators are too close. The shepherd guides us through the valley, by still water, and into the gate to take refuge in the fold. Here, the comma represents a pause—a place of rest, healing, and protection. We find "pasture" for our souls.

But the sheep do not stay in the fold forever. Jesus says they “will come in and go out.” The gate swings outward. This is the comma of service. We are led out into the world to be the hands and feet of the Shepherd, witnessing the protection and provision that only come from love and care and a deep understanding of our continuing story. 

Jesus grants a powerful promise: "I have come that they may have life, and have it abundantly."

Abundant life, a life where we are followed constantly by goodness and mercy, is found in the rhythm of the gate—the "in and out" of a life led by His voice. When we try to place a period on our lives — deciding we are too old to serve, too broken to be used, or too comfortable to change — we miss the abundance.

Gracie Allen knew that even in grief, God wasn’t finished with George. Jesus proclaims that even in our failures or our fears, He isn't finished with us.

Reject and renounce the false periods that come from thieves, that diminish your worth, that make you feel small, that make you question God’s work in your salvation. Listen for the Shepherd’s voice. Look and listen for the signs and words of love. Let Christ draw you into the fold when you need rest, and follow Him out into the world where He leads you to mission. Trust the comma, trust the Gate, and live the life that is truly full.

Amen. 

A Political Gospel (Sermon)

Transfiguration Sunday: Year A: Exodus 24:12-18; Psalm 99; 2 Peter 1:16-21; Matthew 17:1-9

I know, and you know, that people do not like sermons they perceive to be "political." Many come to church hoping for a break from the endless news cycle and its doom, gloom, and overwhelming encroachment on peace of mind. Desperate for good news, they implore the pastor: "Stay away from politics... just preach the gospel."

But what is that gospel, exactly? Does it mean hearing the story of Jesus on the mountain today as a mere special effects show, with no assessment of why the Law and the Prophets—represented by Moses and Elijah—stand there with him?

We know that when people say "the sermon was too political," they often mean "I heard something that made me uncomfortable." The reality of biblical preaching is a focus on people and the situations that affect them. We cannot avoid how the written word of God has life and breath and shapes the world.

Consider our reading from Exodus 24. In that text, Moses isn't just taking a hike; he is entering a cloud of glory that looks like a "devouring fire" to the people below. He is there to receive the Law—the very blueprint for how a liberated people should treat one another, how they should handle property, and how they should protect the vulnerable. The very cloud that is the "glory of the Lord" is delivering the "justice of the Lord"—affecting not only the freed Israelites but also anyone else who lives with or near them.

Psalm 99 reiterates the theme. The psalmist declares that our God is holy, yes, but also specifically praises a ruler who "loves justice" and has "established equity." To praise the holiness of the Divine while ignoring the Divine demand for equity is to read only half the page.

When people ask for an "apolitical" gospel, they are often asking for a safe, spiritualized myth. But in 2 Peter 1, the apostle is adamant: "We did not follow cleverly devised myths." He is talking about the Transfiguration. He’s saying, "I was there. I heard the voice from the Majestic Glory." Peter insists on the reliability of this message. Why? Because the early Christians were living in an Empire that claimed the Emperor was the "Son of God." For Peter to stand up and say, "No, I saw the real King on a mountain, and his name is Jesus," was the most politically subversive thing he could do. It was a declaration that the current power structures were not ultimate.

In Matthew 17, we see Jesus transfigured—his face shining like the sun. But look at who is with him: Moses, who stood up to Pharaoh, and Elijah, who stood up to King Ahab and Queen Jezebel. They are not talking about "spiritual" abstractions. In the broader context of the Transfiguration story, they are discussing his "exodus"—his departure which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem.

The original Exodus story featured a despotic ruler, a hardened heart, and a struggle for freedom. By standing with Moses and Elijah, Jesus is signaling that his mission is a similar type of exodus. He is focused on the freedom that comes from being in relationship with the God of released captives. To appreciate the fullness of the Incarnation, we must recognize that Jesus pursued justice throughout his life. The truth that makes us free is political because it affects people. We cannot ignore it.

If we are to pretend there are no politics in scripture, we must ignore the cloud that overshadows Peter, James, and John. We must ignore the fact that Peter’s first instinct was to build "dwellings"—to institutionalize the moment, to stay safe on the mountain.

But the voice from the cloud interrupts him: "Listen to him!"

Listening to Jesus means following him down the mountain. It means following him into the valleys where people are sick, where children are afraid, and where the "powers that be" are crushing those without the power or platform to be heard. To strip the Transfiguration of its political implication, we must water down the command to "Listen to him" into a mere suggestion for private meditation.

Here we stand on Transfiguration Sunday, about to enter Lent. We are on a mountain peak with Jesus, and while we can see the empty cross from here, we are compelled by the Holy Spirit to proceed into a season of reflection and repentance.

In the Christmas carol O Little Town of Bethlehem, we sing about the will of God becoming flesh and resting in a manger. We sing: "The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight"—"thee" being both the town and the infant Jesus.

Those hopes and fears are not just "spiritual" anxieties; they are the concrete fears of people living under occupation, the hopes of those who hunger for justice. They were the realities for the people of the first Exodus, the Temple congregation singing the psalm, the crowds who followed Jesus, and the people who received the epistle from Peter in hope.

Our faith cannot be untangled from the political realities of our day, nor from our prayer that God’s "will be done on earth as in heaven." Each time we say those words, we are asking God for the courage to be part of accomplishing that will.

Let it be our hearts and minds which are transfigured today. Let it be our spirits which shed the fear of "being political" in favor of the courage to be biblical. Let it be our lives, transformed by the grace which has met all our hopes and fears, that compel others to seek a Divine will of love and justice—in the mundane and in the political.

Amen.

 

Chairs and Foolishness (Sermon)

Famously, pastors are trained to preach with the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other. Even if we do not directly refer to the latter, the Spirit reminds us of what is happening in the world around us. The call to discipleship always has a context- a time, a place, and fruits of the Spirit that are needed in action. 

When the Civil War in the United States broke out, the Episcopal churches in the seceded states of the South formed the Protestant Episcopal Church in the Confederate States of America. While some historians argue that the split was pragmatic since it would be hard to govern a church across two warring nations, the reality is that the splinter denomination did support the institution of chattel slavery. They tolerated the perverted teaching of “Christian slavery”- claiming care and concern for the enslaved people who were legally, socially, and spiritually considered property. 

In 1862, the Episcopal General Convention met in New York City. The war was raging and the states and institutions of the Union were under immense pressure. The leadership of the Northern church made a radical decision to continue with their convention with an eye toward unity in Christ, even knowing that their Southern siblings had broken faith with that unity. 

During the roll call of the states, the Secretary of the Convention called out the names of the Southern dioceses (Alabama, Florida, Georgia, etc.) just as he did for the Northern ones. On the floor of the convention, empty chairs were placed for the Southern bishops and deputies. By refusing to remove the chairs, the Northern church was signaling that the South was not "gone" or "excommunicated"—they were simply "absent." The leadership of the 1862 convention held a radical, stubborn hope:: "We are not two churches; we are one church with some members who are currently unable to attend."

The real drama occurred in October 1865, just months after the war ended. The General Convention met in Philadelphia. The atmosphere in the country was toxic and vengeful, yet the Episcopal leadership sent word to the Southern bishops that their "seats were waiting." No one was sure what would happen. No one was entirely sure what should happen. 

Here is what did happen on the first day as recounted in a sermon by the Reverend Morgan Dix, delivered just weeks later: 

When the Convention assembled in St. Luke's Church, for the opening service, one of the southern Bishops was there. He came alone, and took a seat among the congregation: he looked like a stranger. That was a sight which his brethren in the Apostolic Episcopate could not bear. They saw him; they became uneasy. At last they sent a dignified messenger to tell him that he must come to them. Then he hesitated no longer; he arose, and just as he was, with no vestment or robe of office, passed up to the chancel and went to his brethren. I was told that there was not a dry eye in that august company at that moment. Men felt that GOD was giving answer to the question whether this Church could be one again. (https://anglicanhistory.org/usa/mdix/convention1865.html)

People remembered the passionate singing of hymns during that convention, giving God the glory. Did the moment of reunion and welcome fix everything? No, there remained historical pain, work to be done, changes to make, but the hope of unity kept the chairs out, kept the names on the rolls, kept the prayers going, kept the invitations ready to be sent. That moment of restoration could never have happened if at least one side had not remained attuned to the Spirit’s urging- even during the bleakest hours. 

In today’s reading from 1 Corinthians, Paul writes to a church that is obsessed with "branding." They are divided into fan clubs. "I belong to Paul," says one group. "I belong to Apollos," says another. "I belong to Cephas (Peter)." And then there’s the ultra-spiritual group that says, "I belong to Christ," which is always code for "I’m better than all of you."

Paul does not write a soft prayer for peace. He asks a pointed question: "Has Christ been divided?"

The Greek word Paul uses for "divisions" is schismata. It’s where we get our word schism. It literally means a tear or a rip in a garment. Paul looks at the church and sees people tearing the fabric apart because they want to claim the larger or better piece. This fractured faithlessness is not only harming the body of Christ, it is fundamentally damaging the witness of that body to a world that needs a message of liberation, wholeness, and hope. 

For Paul, the message of the cross is foolishness because its message seems useless to a world that needs to know who is on top, who has the most power, who has the best stuff. And if those are your priorities, says Paul to the divided Corinthians, then you might as well be dying. On the other hand, he writes, if we trust the message of the cross, we are saved by its power. That power is the outstretched arms of Christ, a message of forgiveness, a message of the not being forsaken. 

When Jesus invited people to follow him, he called fishermen and people who were mending nets, people who were single and lived with their parents, people who were married, a tax collector employed by the Roman occupation, and at least one zealot who wanted to overthrow the Roman occupation. He was followed by people with questions, women with money, and at least one boy with a hefty lunch.

Each of these people followed the Spirit’s urging, whether they recognized it as such or whether they knew it as curiosity or a desire to follow a crowd or just a need for something different. The choice to follow meant setting aside what was known and familiar for this new thing. It is easy for us to assume we would have done the same, but would you have left the family business or your good paying government job or the comforts of your home to follow an itinerant teacher and healer? 

In a world filled with the music of Rome, Rome’s power, idols to Rome’s gods, would you sing the song of Jesus? Would you embrace the foolishness of the cross? Would you set out the chairs and issue invitations to people who had cut themselves off from fellowship and unity and who rejected the full humanity of others? 

Things are going to get worse before they get better. 

For those of us who considered ourselves “being saved”, for those of us who call ourselves followers of Jesus, for those of us who want to continue to have hope...

We have to figure out how to keep some chairs out for those we disagree with.

We must be prepared to welcome those who wish to pursue unity, togetherness, and work in community for the sake of others.

We have to be ready to leave our nets—our safety, our tribe, our certainty—to follow a wandering teacher into a future we can't control. 

That is the discipleship, the baptism, the faithfulness that heals. And it is possible. 

Unity is not a feeling; it is an empty chair maintained in the middle of a war. It is the foolish, stubborn refusal to let the fabric stay torn. Isaiah says the people walked in darkness, but Matthew says they sat in darkness. By Matthew’s time, the sense of oppression, political and spiritual, made it almost impossible to move. 

It can feel that way, but in lives shaped by Christ’s cross, movement is always possible. Even in the sitting, there is a way forward.

I have a song to sing in the night, and so do you. I have a little light to shine, and so do you. I have chairs to set out. And so do you. Amen. 

 

 

There Is No "I" in Baptism

When we read the story of Jesus standing in the Jordan River, we often focus on the divine "I." We hear that voice from the heavens breaking through the clouds like a thunderclap: "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased." It is a moment of profound, individual identity. It’s the ultimate "I see you."

And if we aren’t careful, we stop there. Baptism becomes our personal insurance, a moment between "me and my God," rather than the instant that changes and shapes our whole life. The water of the Jordan was what was known as “living water,” meaning it moved as opposed to being stagnant or still. It flows. It connects the mountaintop to the sea.

We are called to use fresh water, lots of it, and to pour it generously when we baptize to recall this living and moving water. The act and the call of baptism is never just about an "I"; it is the radical, difficult, and beautiful transition into a "we."

In our liturgies, we tend to use both singular and plural possessives interchangeably. In the creed, we say, “I believe in,” but we say it together and we mean it together. Even if we pray the Lord’s Prayer alone, we speak, “Our Father,” because we are praying in concert with all people, across time and space, who use those words to call upon the Divine.

We sing, “This is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior all the day long,” when we know that we share the story of the mercy of God and the saving hope of Jesus with an uncountable number of people in the world today and throughout history. We sing, “Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty, early in the morning our song shall rise to thee,” even when we sing alone.

Since we use the words and the concepts interchangeably, maybe it is not that important to emphasize that our baptisms make us a “we.” After all, it seems to be a thing we understand. Understanding only becomes evident, though, when we are living as baptized people, as the body of Christ, in the mission field of the world.

In the gospels, Jesus doesn’t just show up to the river alone for a private ceremony. He is standing in the mud with the tax collectors, the soldiers, the seekers, and the skeptics. Even when John, recognizing who Jesus is, would have refused, Jesus insists—the act of righteousness, or making things right, means he is where the people are and he does what the people do.

To be baptized "into Christ" is to be baptized into his body. And a body doesn’t function as a collection of isolated organs competing for resources. A body is the ultimate "we." When the hand is cold, the heart pumps harder. When the feet are tired, the rest of the frame leans in. Even when a limb is amputated, the rest of the body remembers, even as it compensates for what is lost.

The shift from "I" to "we" is where justice begins. In a world that screams at us to "get yours," to "protect your own," and to view our success as a solo achievement, what we believe and teach about baptism is counter-cultural. The worst parts of history have happened when people divided into “us versus them.” Horrors happen when people, including and especially Christian people, have lost any sense of “we” with our neighbors who are also children of God.

If we are one body in Christ, then a "justice issue" isn't something that happens "over there" to "those people." It is a wound on our own skin; it is a wound to the body of Christ. In living as a "we," the question is no longer "How does this affect me?" The question becomes, "How does this affect us? The most vulnerable among us? The aching among us? The fearful and pushed aside among us?"

Baptismal justice says: I cannot be "well" if you are thirsty. Baptismal justice says: The God who claims me as a child also claims you. Baptismal justice says: The water that touched my forehead is the same water that quenches thirst, brings health, shapes communities, and is needed by all.

It is true that right after being baptized, the Spirit sent Jesus into the wilderness. Even there, though, he wasn’t alone. There were wild animals, angels, the Spirit, and the tempter. Even in our silent time, there is no "I"—there remains a “we” with the God who does not abandon us.

Our baptismal vows call us to a life that imitates Christ. We promise, in response to God’s grace, both to the individual acts of studying scripture and prayer, together with the communal acts of being at the Table together and supporting one another. We commit, again in response to God’s grace, to the mission work of being the body of Christ, pursuing divine justice and peace in the world.

Our baptisms are critical, memorable moments demonstrating how we belong to God. Part of the reason we also teach that baptism is a public act, not a private one, is because God has made us to belong to each other. We are the body of Christ. We are the ones called and equipped by God. We are the "we" that God is using to mend the world.

The waters of baptism do not dry up. They remain living water. They soak in and yet remain a flood that presses us forward, beyond any constraining banks we might try to construct. There is no “I” in baptism. Well, I guess technically there is, but you know exactly what I mean.

We are washed together. We are fed together. We are sent together. Not for some “them” or against some “they,” but for the fullness of the “we” that is God’s whole beloved creation. This is the day that the Lord has made. This is the way that the Lord has made. These are the Lord’s waters in which we wade. Let us rejoice and be glad in it and go forth to live in response to the grace we have received.

Amen.

Give Us Oil For Our Lamps

Pentecost 24, Year A

Matthew 25:1-13

Today’s gospel makes me think about Hanukkah. You might be wondering, “Why Hanukkah? That’s not our holiday as Christians. What does that have to do with anything?"

You’re right. Hanukkah isn’t our holiday. It’s specifically not our holiday, but the holiday honors the work of the same God we worship. Thus, it’s worth considering for a moment. 

 

The Festival of Lights, or Hanukkah, commemorates a miracle of God’s providence. I’m going to give you an unbelievably abbreviated story of the holiday. Alexander the Great spread, via his militaries, a Greek influence and Greek rule over most of the Mediterranean, until he died in 323 BCE. 

 

After his death, Judea (the area of our concern) was ruled by the Ptolemies- Greek-influenced rules from Egypt until 200. At that point, a Syrian king defeated the Egyptian rule and Judea became part of the Syrian empire. (Still with me?) This went okay for about 25 years until the Syrian ruler- Antiochus IV Epiphanes got into a dispute with the leadership of the Temple in Jerusalem. Long story less long, because of internal political divisions in Jerusalem and the pressures on the distant Syrian rules, Antiochus IV went into Judea, wreaked havoc, killed many people, and desecrated the Temple. In doing so, the Temple was out of commission for worship and daily sacrifice for more than 3 years. This means the Jewish people in the area were cut off from their worship rites and consolations for that amount of time. 

 

(If you’re tempted to dismiss that as inconsequential, I invite you to remember how you felt when we were unable to worship in the sanctuary for some amount of time in 2020.) 

 

Under Antiochus IV’s rule, Judaism was outlawed and a large statue of Zeus was erected in the Temple. This was too much for many of the Jewish people in the community and so a large-scale revolt began in 167 BCE. A man named Matthias, along with his five sons, led the revolt. It was his youngest son, Judah Maccabee (aka Judah the Hammer), who completed the effort in 164 BCE and drove the Syrian leaders out of Jerusalem and Judea. 

 

With that victory, the Temple needed to be cleansed and rededicated so that worship could be again. This not only required the physical clean-up but also the ceremonial aspects of recommitting the space to the service and worship of God. Part of that rededication was the required lighting of certain lamps for 8 days. Within the temple, they only found one day’s worth of pure and still consecrated olive oil- in its original jug, sealed with the wax and mark of the High Priest. 

 

They needed a whole week to press and clarify more olive oil, but they decided to at least light what they had as a demonstration of their intention. The miracle of Hanukkah is that the oil lasted 8 days- long enough for them to obtain and consecrate additional oil so that the people’s work in the Temple could begin again and continue. The provision of the oil for longer than expected during this time of rededication was perceived to be a blessing of God’s providence and favor. Commemoration of the miracle during the rededication became a minor festival in Judaism from that time forward, observed in homes with the lighting of candles 8 days in a row at a given time in the Jewish calendar. 

 

If you’re still with me, thank you. If you left off, come back… I’m about to make my connections! 

 

We know by way of notes from rabbinical schools around the time of Jesus’ birth that Hanukkah was being observed. This means that Jesus knew the story of Hanukkah and so did his disciples. It means all his Jewish followers knew the story. It means Mark, Luke, John, and Matthew knew the story. 

 

Which brings me to my question about today’s gospel: if we say that the gospel of Matthew was written between, say, 73-83 AD/CE, how did people go from believing God would provide enough oil in an emergency to believing it was a personal failure not to have enough? 

 

In slightly over 200 years, we go from believing God provided for the community and sustained their needs, to panicking that if we, personally, were not prepared- then it was all over and we were shut out. The Hanukkah story is not our story, but it is a story about our God. 

 

How does a God of provision, mercy, and hope become the bridegroom who locks out the people who didn’t cover their own behinds by having extra oil? 

 

It happens through the loss of hope. By the time Matthew is writing, at least 40 years after Jesus’s ministry and resurrection, two or three generations of believers have come and gone. People who earnestly believed in Christ’s imminent return started to think the stories might have been exaggerated. Children who had heard the stories from their parents and inherited their hope, buried their parents and grandparents without seeing the fulfillment of the promises. 

 

As hope wanes, complacency sets in. People look to other sources for strength and survival. When hope fades, so does care for the community. After all, why should I be bothered to care about you and your needs, when I’ve got my own and your problems have nothing to do with mine? 

 

It is worth noting that in today’s parable, all the waiting bridesmaids fell asleep. Not just the foolish ones, they all (wise and foolish together) became exhausted with the waiting and dozed off. When they were awakened by the shout, the lamps were out, having burned out while they slept. Some of the women had brought extra supplies and relit their lamps. Some didn’t have extra supplies and they panicked, “We’re not ready!” Their friends sent them running to the oil dealers and while they went, the bridegroom came. 

 

Here's the problem with that: maybe you can’t share oil, but you can share light. 

 

Maybe you can’t share oil, but you can share light.

 

People who remembered the miracle of Hanukkah and God’s provision, it seems to me, would have been likely to say, “Let’s walk together. It might not be quite as bright, but we have enough lamps to welcome the groom.” 

 

Instead, there was panic, hoarding of resources, loss of hope, and then the hyperbolic end to the parable where some people were left in the dark. Left in the dark by the one we allegorize to be the same one who made one day of oil last for 8 days. 

 

I cannot rescue this parable from its terrifying conclusion, but I can give it context. This parable is coming right in a chapter of warning before the story of Christ’s passion. It’s coming right behind many warnings about being prepared for the struggle that will come to believers in the world- mainly to Jewish and Gentile followers of Christ in a territory occupied by Rome. 

 

It is a story about keeping faith and keeping the faith. The early hearers of this story knew they were called into discipleship community- a way of sharing hope together, lest any fall away in despair because Jesus tarried. 

 

We are called into the same type of life- living together, sharing light, waiting in the same dark, refusing to hoard power or resources, and trusting in God’s provision. That trust is not a blind refusal to do anything for ourselves, but an active way of watching for divine provision and sharing it with others. 

 

The Hanukkah story is not our story, but it is a story about our God. 

 

Our hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness. That blood, that righteousness, that redemptive love is of the same substance and being as the provision of oil for the Temple lamps, as the keeping of promises to Abram and Sarah, as to forgiveness to David for his sins, as the annunciation to Mary of Nazareth and the inspiration for her canticle of turning. 

 

When we say that God is the same- yesterday, today, and forever- then it means we have hope, confidence in things unseen, that God provided, provides, and will provide. This provision may occasionally be evidenced by individual blessings, but the overarching story of God is blessing and supply for the community. In this way, hope is shared. Light is shared. Mercy is shared. 

 

God grants all we need. God pours forth more than enough. Our cups runneth over. Surely the goodness and mercy that follows us all our days stirs up enough hope that we could share with our neighbor- in word and deed, in church and in the world- so that everyone has enough light to walk together to meet the future. 

 

The Hanukkah story is not our story, but it is a story about our God. 

 

A God who provides. More than enough. For everyone. 

 

Amen. 

Is the Cost Worth the Cure? (Side Effects of Spiritual Health)

This is a sermon outline and not a direct manuscript, but still useful for reflection (I hope). 

Most of us have listened to or seen commercials for medications that address varieties of ailments. Most of these medications indicate that life will clearly be improved with the use of the medication, but the list of side effect that are rushed through at the end can be overwhelming. Without listing them, they often sound so unappealing that I have great sympathy for the person for whom the side effects are worth the risk in the hopes of restored well-being or at least functioning. 

While I am not a doctor (and I don't even play  one on television), I do feel equipped to do some spiritual diagnosing. This is not to be done at home and must be done in concert with the Holy Spirit. Within our readings today, I recognize the symptoms of restlessness of heart, among other things. The question in each scenario is not whether the medicine (cure) will work, but if the side effects are worth it. 

The diagnosis of restlessness of heart comes from the following quotation:

“[Y]ou have made us and drawn us to yourself, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.” – St. Augustine, Confessions

Reading: Exodus 17:1-7 - in which the Israelites cry out for water and Moses intercedes on their behalf to the Lord. 

Symptoms: overwhelm at life circumstances (sudden freedom, witnessing of plagues, leaving known situations for unknown future= trauma, trauma response); concern for the welfare of their children and animals; exhaustion, hunger, and thirst – literal and metaphysical

Diagnosis: dehydration and restlessness of  heart 

Cure: relationship with God (via trust in God’s providence) 

Healthy state: a promised land and a new beginning- out of enslavement and in relationship with the Creator

Side effects: growth in patience and self control; increased expectation of continued trust and faithful response; eating and drinking the same thing all the time (manna, water, quail); new and unexpected experiences; annoyance with the difference between God’s time and their time; terrifying encounters with the presence and power of the Lord

Is it worth it? 

Psalm 78:4 We will recount to generations to come the praiseworthy deeds and the power of the Lord, and the wonderful works God has done. 

 

Gospel: Matthew 21:23-32 - in which Jesus' authority is questioned and he tells a parable about the people who say yes, but do nothing and people who say no, but do what is asked. The diagnosis applies to the people in Jesus' own day and to Matthew's audience.

Symptoms: distress at the scene in the temple (disruption of an economic system); questions about God and God’s expectations; worry about “getting it right”; significant economic stratification (large space between haves and have nots); religious complacency; reduced hope and expectation in holy provision; liturgy about God’s promise keeping has become rote and unenthusiastic

Diagnosis: oppression (Roman) and restlessness of heart 

Cure: relationship with God (via trust in God’s presence and awareness) 

Healthy state: renewed spiritual health; integrated faith community across social and economic strata; evangelism via deeds (doing of God’s will) 

Side effects: potential persecution from neighbors and/or from occupying forces; changes in worship life- style and perhaps substance; new people in worshipping community (perhaps in your pew); increased internal drive to respond to God’s work; inability to tolerate injustice and inequity; collaboration with unexpected partners to the end of working out God’s will; awareness that saying one thing, but doing another will cause internal distress

Is it worth it? 

 

Psalm 78:4 We will recount to generations to come the praiseworthy deeds and the power of the Lord, and the wonderful works God has done. 

 

Reading: Philippians 2:1-13 - Paul has come, taught, and left. The Philippians are wondering what to do next as faithful people. Passage includes the famous "Christ hymn". 

Symptoms: longing for the past to return (Paul, come back!); hesitation in faithful action; drawing in to focus on individual needs and missing out on community faith and strength; disunity 

Diagnosis: distraction and restlessness of heart 

Cure: relationship with God (via faithful action in community with other believers) 

Healthy state: having the same mind that was in Christ Jesus 

Side effects: fear and trembling; hymn earworms that last until the next worship service; community work with people you wouldn’t otherwise choose to be with; tender knees or other body parts from hours of prayer; increased sense of humility in the light of Divine power; a spirit of service that could be taken advantage of; no room for selfish ambition or conceit; a desire for Christian accord leading to openness, compromise, and forgiveness (with everyone).

Is it worth it? 

 

Psalm 78:4 We will recount to generations to come the praiseworthy deeds and the power of the Lord, and the wonderful works God has done. 

 

In our own time:

 

Symptoms: social and political upheaval; many demands on our time, finances, and energy; lack of trust in institutions; reduced expectation in the bodily return of Christ (and thus reduced trust in other divine promises); too much awareness of all the bad news in the world; longer lives mean living longer with loss or grief; increased recognition of disruption in creation; pain of historical actions rising to the surface (no longer able to be ignored); idols don’t look like idols, but like everyday items that seem essential

 

Diagnosis: acedia and restlessness of heart

 

One of the ancient desert fathers, the ascetic monk Evagrius Pontikus (345–399), observed an “inertia of the heart” termed 'Acedia' as a cause of spiritual dryness, with symptoms of spiritual/emotional fatigue, tired or even bored negligence, and thus reduced attention in prayer. Acedia refers to a lack of motivation or enthusiasm for one's religious or spiritual duties, often associated with a sense of desolation and a struggle to maintain one's faith or commitment.

 

Cure: relationship with God (via understanding of God’s continuity of character throughout time- merciful, trustworthy, loving, and present). 

Healthy state: willingness to rest and resist busyness; increased alertness to the presence and work of God; greater ability to participate in faith community; larger tolerance for when the pastor talks about the mystery of God instead of expecting concrete answers for everything; improved prayer life (even if untraditional); proliferation of the fruits of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, gentleness, faithfulness, and self-control. 

Side effects: dissatisfaction with church as a mere social event; increased awareness of injustice in history and in the present; more tensions that must be held instead of resolved; spiritual heartburn; longing for deeper conversations, prayer, sermons, and bible study; marked desire for meditative silence; cognizance of one’s own lack of control over most things 

Is it worth it? 

 

Will we recount to generations to come the praiseworthy deeds and the power of the Lord, and the wonderful works God has done? 

 

Amazing Grace, In History and Now (Sermon, Lent 4)

On New Year’s Day 1773, in Olney, England, the pastor of St. Peter and St. Paul Parish led a prayer meeting to mark the new year. As was expected of clergy at the time, this pastor wrote hymns and verses for his congregation to help communicate the faith, lift their spirits, and continue the tradition of the church to praise God in song. Most of the songs and chants in his day had no set tune but would fit any number of tunes with a common meter or rhythm. 

For this New Year’s Day, the parish pastor had written a set of verses he called “Faith’s Review and Expectation”. He felt that the occasion called for remembering all God had done and how God had delivered each person to the present. Reflection on the past and understanding the hand of God at work built the necessary trust in the Divine for the future. The pastor, one John Newton, began his hymn with a quotation from 1 Chronicles 17:16, Then King David went in and sat before the Lord, and he said: “Who am I, Lord God, and what is my family, that you have brought me this far?

Newton’s use of singular pronouns and declaration of himself as a wretch in his new song was not unusual and, in fact, was part of what made him a relatable and popular parish priest. He often told stories about himself, and what he was like before his conversion to Christianity. He assured those who listened that he couldn’t begin to exaggerate the extent to which he swore, gambled, and drank. 

The extent of his sins, however, wasn’t limited to bad language and poor habits. His reflections on his pre-Christian life included regret for participating in the triangle trade, wherein finished goods were shipped from Europe to Africa and exchanged for enslaved people, who were then traded in the Americas for coffee and sugar. 

In 1788, 34 years after he had retired from the slave trade, Newton broke a long silence on the subject with the publication of a forceful pamphlet Thoughts Upon the Slave Trade, in which he described the horrific conditions of the slave ships, which he knew firsthand. He apologized for "a confession, which ... comes too late ... It will always be a subject of humiliating reflection to me, that I was once an active instrument in a business at which my heart now shudders." 

Newton’s conversion to Christianity took place on a merchant ship in 1748. He was caught, with others, in a terrible storm off the coast of Ireland. While manning the bilge pump to rid the ship of extra water for hours, he off-handedly spoke about the need for the Lord’s mercy if they were to survive. It was from this day forward that he began to read his Bible and study other Christian literature. 

Newton always marked that day as significant to his life of faith, but he didn’t believe that his true or complete conversion happened until later. He captained 3 separate voyages with enslaved persons as cargo in 1750, 1752, and 1753. He had a stroke in 1754 that kept him from captaining any more voyages, but he continued to invest in slaving operations for another four years. He wrote that he couldn’t consider himself a believer in the full sense of the word until a considerable time after his 1748 experience in the storm. 

For Newton, one couldn’t be fully a Christian without a full and recognizable practice of Christian living, discipline, and devotion. It was this attitude, not the song for which we know him, that made him a popular parish priest. In fact, after serving for 15 years in Olney, he was moved to a London parish where he served for almost 30 years. In that position, he was consulted by many social and political reformers, including those who sought to remove England from the slave trade. 

In England, Newton’s reputation is as an abolitionist, as well as a thoughtful advisor to important historical figures. In the United States, however, he became known more through his song, “Amazing Grace, How Sweet the Sound”, which was very popular in the religious Great Awakenings of the early 19th century. Amazing Grace, along with other songs in common meter, struck the right note between praise and personal piety, which was the sweet spot for the spiritual revivals. 

In the American South, singing preachers used the shape note tradition to teach music for congregational and social singing. Amazing Grace was a popular song and was matched with the now familiar tune “New Britain” in 1847 by William Walker in the songbook Southern Harmony. No one is certain of the origin of this tune, but it is particularly interesting because it makes use of the pentatonic scale- played on the black keys of the piano. Almost all songs we think of as African American or Black spirituals used the 5-note pentatonic scale, which goes way back in human history in use across the world and across world religions. 

In 1852, Harriet Beecher Stowe included a scene in which Tom, from Uncle Tom’s Cabin, sings verses of Amazing Grace during a time of deep crisis. As the daughter of a well-known preacher, Stowe likely went to many revivals and had heard and sung the hymn many times. Familiar with its power to strengthen faith’s hope and trust, she also included Tom singing the verse, “When we’ve been there ten thousand years.” This wasn’t in Newton’s original verses, but was a verse cribbed from the hymn “Jerusalem, My Happy Home”. Revival singing of hymns often mixed and matched verses, by Stowe’s inclusion of this verse in her very popular book linked it permanently with the hymn’s other lines. 

I could easily go on about the history of this hymn, since we’re not even to the American Civil War yet. (The hymn was included in hymnals for soldiers on both sides), but I want to give you more than a history lesson on a Sunday morning. 

While Amazing Grace may have started as a simple chanted verse for a small English congregation to mark a new year, its words and tune are now inextricably linked with abolition, with civil rights, with freedom, with community effort, with grief, and still with faithful hope in God’s provision and deliverance. 

Here's the thing I can’t stop thinking about: one of the people who consistently sought advice and guidance from John Newton was William Wilberforce. William Wilberforce entered British Parliament at the age of 21 in 1780. He was a man of great conscience and considered leaving Parliament to become a clergyman. John Newton encouraged him to serve God where he was, with the influence he had. Every year from 1789 until 1806, William Wilberforce entered a bill into Parliament to abolish the slave trade. The bill was finally passed in 1807. 

How many times was Wilberforce jeered at by his fellow parliamentarians? How often was his bill called “woke” or whatever word they used for “woke” at the time? How many lectures did he endure about the idea that businesses and the economy depended on the trading of human beings? How many times did people point out the verses wherein the Bible seems to "support" slavery or racial inequity? How many times did Wilberforce listen to people say “what about” while mentioning things they had no intention of changing? And now, they are just footnotes in his biographies, because he is the one worth remembering. 

Wilberforce fought on for what he believed in his heart was right, what he had been encouraged to do by a man who had spent some time on the wrong side of that argument and more time regretting what he had done regarding the slave trade. 

And here we are, in a time that is just as contentious as any other in history, celebrating the 250th anniversary of a song that speaks to the sweetness of God’s grace, the ongoing provision of Christ’s care, and the everlasting revelation of the Holy Spirit. If we are to sing this song with any integrity, we cannot simply admire its words and tune, but we must accept the power of its history and we must yield to what it may yet be compelling us to do today, for the sake of the One who has done so much for us. 

In one of his letters of guidance, John Newton wrote, “We often fail to see our present circumstances in the right perspective.” Let us seek, with the Spirit’s help, that right perspective that we may understand the work to which we have been called, the grace we have been given, and the love poured out for us and for all people, by the One who made and kept promises to David and who still finds the lost and causes the blind to see. 

Amen.