This week our Wednesday evening sessions at church resume. They had been preempted by confirmation classes. But now the bishop has come and gone, and life at church has returned to normal (whatever that means). So this Wednesday we will celebrate Michaelmas with a Eucharist and potluck and discussion. I’ve been so focused on confirmation that I haven’t had much time to plan the discussion, so we will have a few weeks of what went well last year: a close look at the Gospel lesson for the upcoming Sunday.
Fortunately, a Gospel study requires the same preparation as a sermon: translating the passage from Greek, checking context and textual variants and Greek commentary, letting everything rumble around in my head, and writing a blog. If I have time, I may check other commentaries or do some word studies. I’ve also returned to our local clergy study group, only to be reminded that their focus does not often seem to be mine. (Have I ever mentioned that one of them has a habit of inserting comments about Republicans into the lessons when she reads them out loud?)
So how does one approach “We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done”? One clerical colleague suggested that this be paired with the parable where the master returns from the wedding banquet, finds his slaves alert and waiting, and has them sit down so that he can serve them (Luke 12:35 ff). It’s a reversal using a classic preaching move – if you don’t like the passage you’re given, find a related one you like better. To be fair, the good news does involve all of the Gospel, not just the weekly reading. Yet I’d rather sit and struggle with what I’m given.
And what I’m given is a passage about duty. Today, “duty” always seems associated with military service, as in “duty to my country.” It’s a word my parents’ generation knew well in other contexts. Duties were expectations of behavior, moral obligations arising from one’s position in life. There were civic duties, such as voting in elections and serving on boards when asked. There was the moral obligation to attend church and help the needy. There was an expectation of civility in public discourse. All of these “duties” have either vanished or ceased to be obligatory. And thus to preach on duty is to be an anachronism.
But the Gospel passage is not so much about duty as about attitude. It’s about what we expect as a result of what we’ve done. Will we be like the Pharisee who stood next to the tax collector, reminding God of his virtuous life and clearly expecting a better reward than the miserable man nearby? When we do good, do we have a claim on God for what we did? Or should we be giving thanks to God for the grace that enabled us to do good? As one commentator put it, “The disciples are not to seek thanks, but to give thanks.”
“Worthless” in this context is hyperbole. It’s a reminder that there is nothing we can do to earn God’s grace, just as there is no reward for accepting that grace other than being able to sing God’s praises. We are, of course, not worthless at all. We are of incomparable worth as children of God. That worth is freely given, however, and in no way makes us “worthy” of reward.
I expect that Wednesday evening will go well. After taking the summer off, the group that shows up will be glad to see one another again in that intimate context. The food will be good, as usual. And so will the Gospel nourishment. Perhaps that’s the best thing about studying Scripture, no matter what the passage: the focus is not on us, but on God, and God’s relationship with us. Thanks be to God!
Pentecost 19: Luke 17:5-10 is the Gospel. The commentator is I. Howard Marshall, The Gospel of Luke, in the New International Greek Testament Commentary series.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Confirmation
The bishop will be making his visitation to Christ Church this Sunday. We will be presenting nine young people to be confirmed and two adults to be received into the Episcopal Church.
It’s a relatively large group, in part because my predecessor did not have a high regard for confirmation. I understand the theological basis for that point of view – baptism is the sacrament that gives us full membership in the Christian church, and nothing is needed to “complete” that process once one has reached a certain age. The restored emphasis on baptism in the 1979 prayer book has necessarily meant a diminishment in the importance of confirmation.
Nevertheless, most of the youth who will be confirmed were baptized when they were infants. They have not had the opportunity to make a mature public profession of their faith, individually, before a bishop. They are now excited and eager to do so. And witnessing that level of commitment will strengthen the faith of the whole community. For me, that it is more important than any abstract theological reasoning.
I remember my own confirmation quite vividly. I was confirmed by my father after three years of classes for which he wrote the texts. During the service, as he reached me in the line of confirmands, his voice broke. (I later learned that he had been unable to speak while confirming one of my older siblings.) In the Lutheran Church, confirmation meant a lot. That’s why it took me so long to agree to let an Episcopal bishop lay his hands on my head. As far as I was concerned, once was good enough.
So I understand what it will mean to the two adults who are to be received into the Episcopal Church on Sunday. It means moving into a new stage in faith. It is not a repudiation of the past, for the past is what brought us to faith in the first place. Rather, it represents a renewed willingness to stand up and witness to Jesus Christ in this place at this time.
No doubt our bishop will follow his usual custom of asking those present to come forward for the laying on of hands in reaffirmation of their faith. I haven’t prepared anyone especially for that – it’s one aspect of the preparation process that I’d like to change next time – yet I’m hoping some will rise to the challenge. After all, if we cannot witness to our faith among one another, how will we ever be able to proclaim to anyone by word and example the good news of God in Christ?
It’s a relatively large group, in part because my predecessor did not have a high regard for confirmation. I understand the theological basis for that point of view – baptism is the sacrament that gives us full membership in the Christian church, and nothing is needed to “complete” that process once one has reached a certain age. The restored emphasis on baptism in the 1979 prayer book has necessarily meant a diminishment in the importance of confirmation.
Nevertheless, most of the youth who will be confirmed were baptized when they were infants. They have not had the opportunity to make a mature public profession of their faith, individually, before a bishop. They are now excited and eager to do so. And witnessing that level of commitment will strengthen the faith of the whole community. For me, that it is more important than any abstract theological reasoning.
I remember my own confirmation quite vividly. I was confirmed by my father after three years of classes for which he wrote the texts. During the service, as he reached me in the line of confirmands, his voice broke. (I later learned that he had been unable to speak while confirming one of my older siblings.) In the Lutheran Church, confirmation meant a lot. That’s why it took me so long to agree to let an Episcopal bishop lay his hands on my head. As far as I was concerned, once was good enough.
So I understand what it will mean to the two adults who are to be received into the Episcopal Church on Sunday. It means moving into a new stage in faith. It is not a repudiation of the past, for the past is what brought us to faith in the first place. Rather, it represents a renewed willingness to stand up and witness to Jesus Christ in this place at this time.
No doubt our bishop will follow his usual custom of asking those present to come forward for the laying on of hands in reaffirmation of their faith. I haven’t prepared anyone especially for that – it’s one aspect of the preparation process that I’d like to change next time – yet I’m hoping some will rise to the challenge. After all, if we cannot witness to our faith among one another, how will we ever be able to proclaim to anyone by word and example the good news of God in Christ?
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Indifference
I went to the local lectionary study group for the first time in a number of weeks. A Methodist lay pastor at our community picnic encouraged me to help balance the large group of Lutherans who attend. As it turned out, my schedule allowed me to go this week, so I did and was welcomed back.
It took us a while to get around to the Gospel reading. It’s not a pretty one, and no seemed inclined to preach on it. Jesus tells the large crowd following him that in order to be his disciple, one has to hate father, mother, spouse, children, brothers, sisters, even life itself. Count the cost first, he says, and if you aren’t prepared to give up all your possessions, forget it. I told the group that I am always troubled by this passage. If it is taken seriously, why would anyone want to become a Christian?
Our discussion included the usual interpretations: Jesus is speaking in hyperbole and not literally; “hate” in Greek doesn’t have the same strong emotional connotations as it does for us; we aren’t really expected to give up everything. I couldn’t dismiss it quite so easily, however, because I’m steeped in the ancient monks of Egypt. They did give up everything and even refused to see family members who visited them in the desert. (There were a few cases where brothers became monks, but they didn’t treat one another any differently than non-relatives.) These monks understood “hate” as abandonment, which is part of the meaning Luke appears to intend.
The Greek word for hate does have a sense of disfavor, disregard, be indifferent to – a kind of renunciation. And the word for possessions reflects what we have at our disposal. Put together, they mean that we are to consider everything with a sense of indifference, of detachment. That’s especially hard with human relationships. Neither my wife nor my son (nor my parish, for that matter) would be happy with me if I were indifferent to them. But another way of expressing the same idea is that we must prefer nothing to Jesus Christ. To take up the cross is to put Christ before any human attachment, before even life itself. And that, at least, makes sense to me, even if I’m not very successful at it.
Having possessions makes it easier to put something in the place of God. In the confirmation classes I’m now leading, we created a cultural creed to parallel the Apostles’ Creed – what our culture tells us to believe. In the U.S., where the economy is so dependent on consumers, we are told to buy more possessions, not give them all up. And if a friend or mate doesn’t make us happy, we’re supposed to find someone else.
It’s a culture focused on self. That creates its own indifference to others, but surely not in the way that Jesus meant. Jesus tells us to give up even our attachment to ourselves, so that in emptying ourselves of everything we can be filled by God. And maybe that’s the reason to become a Christian. To be a true follower of Christ is costly, but to be filled by God is ultimately more fulfilling than any thing or any person can be.
Pentecost 15: Jeremiah 18:1-11; Psalm 139:1-5, 13-17; Philemon 1-21; Luke 14:25-33.
It took us a while to get around to the Gospel reading. It’s not a pretty one, and no seemed inclined to preach on it. Jesus tells the large crowd following him that in order to be his disciple, one has to hate father, mother, spouse, children, brothers, sisters, even life itself. Count the cost first, he says, and if you aren’t prepared to give up all your possessions, forget it. I told the group that I am always troubled by this passage. If it is taken seriously, why would anyone want to become a Christian?
Our discussion included the usual interpretations: Jesus is speaking in hyperbole and not literally; “hate” in Greek doesn’t have the same strong emotional connotations as it does for us; we aren’t really expected to give up everything. I couldn’t dismiss it quite so easily, however, because I’m steeped in the ancient monks of Egypt. They did give up everything and even refused to see family members who visited them in the desert. (There were a few cases where brothers became monks, but they didn’t treat one another any differently than non-relatives.) These monks understood “hate” as abandonment, which is part of the meaning Luke appears to intend.
The Greek word for hate does have a sense of disfavor, disregard, be indifferent to – a kind of renunciation. And the word for possessions reflects what we have at our disposal. Put together, they mean that we are to consider everything with a sense of indifference, of detachment. That’s especially hard with human relationships. Neither my wife nor my son (nor my parish, for that matter) would be happy with me if I were indifferent to them. But another way of expressing the same idea is that we must prefer nothing to Jesus Christ. To take up the cross is to put Christ before any human attachment, before even life itself. And that, at least, makes sense to me, even if I’m not very successful at it.
Having possessions makes it easier to put something in the place of God. In the confirmation classes I’m now leading, we created a cultural creed to parallel the Apostles’ Creed – what our culture tells us to believe. In the U.S., where the economy is so dependent on consumers, we are told to buy more possessions, not give them all up. And if a friend or mate doesn’t make us happy, we’re supposed to find someone else.
It’s a culture focused on self. That creates its own indifference to others, but surely not in the way that Jesus meant. Jesus tells us to give up even our attachment to ourselves, so that in emptying ourselves of everything we can be filled by God. And maybe that’s the reason to become a Christian. To be a true follower of Christ is costly, but to be filled by God is ultimately more fulfilling than any thing or any person can be.
Pentecost 15: Jeremiah 18:1-11; Psalm 139:1-5, 13-17; Philemon 1-21; Luke 14:25-33.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Community Picnic
This Sunday Christ Church will provide a free picnic to the surrounding community in the public park across the street from the church. It has been on the calendar for several months, but most of the planning has taken place within the last few weeks. The goal is to develop community within the church as well provide outreach to the people who live around us.
It also fits in particularly well with this Sunday’s readings. “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers,” the letter to the Hebrews states, “for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.” I doubt that we will have three men wander by and tell one of our octogenarian couples that they will have a child (as happened to Abraham and Sarah, the couple the writer had in mind). But one never knows who will show up. At this point the outreach team is concerned that either no one will show up, or hundreds will show up. How to entertain angels is not high on the list of worries.
After attending a Sabbath meal given by a Pharisee, Jesus gives this caution: “Do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors…But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you.” I can’t say that Christ Church has deliberately sought out all those whom Jesus lists, but we have certainly put the word out around town. The idea is to welcome all who come, whoever they are. In addition to food, there will be live music and face painting and games. It will indeed be a Sabbath banquet.
So what happens if someone at the picnic decides to come to church the next Sunday? That will be a true test of hospitality. I hope they will be as warmly greeted as if they were being given a plate of hot food. It’s true that we don’t paint faces during the service and wander around listening to a musician in the warm sunshine. We do have a pretty traditional service. But that first impression – will it be a smile? A “glad you’re here” look? Will each person passing through the church door be welcomed as a possible angel, or as St. Benedict put it, as Christ himself? I hope so. In fact, if we got in the habit of welcoming everyone as Christ himself, including the people we know, we might actually become the church God wants us to be.
Pentecost 14: Jeremiah 2:4-13; Psalm 81:1,10-16; Hebrews 13:1-8,15-16; Luke 14:1,7-14.
It also fits in particularly well with this Sunday’s readings. “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers,” the letter to the Hebrews states, “for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.” I doubt that we will have three men wander by and tell one of our octogenarian couples that they will have a child (as happened to Abraham and Sarah, the couple the writer had in mind). But one never knows who will show up. At this point the outreach team is concerned that either no one will show up, or hundreds will show up. How to entertain angels is not high on the list of worries.
After attending a Sabbath meal given by a Pharisee, Jesus gives this caution: “Do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors…But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you.” I can’t say that Christ Church has deliberately sought out all those whom Jesus lists, but we have certainly put the word out around town. The idea is to welcome all who come, whoever they are. In addition to food, there will be live music and face painting and games. It will indeed be a Sabbath banquet.
So what happens if someone at the picnic decides to come to church the next Sunday? That will be a true test of hospitality. I hope they will be as warmly greeted as if they were being given a plate of hot food. It’s true that we don’t paint faces during the service and wander around listening to a musician in the warm sunshine. We do have a pretty traditional service. But that first impression – will it be a smile? A “glad you’re here” look? Will each person passing through the church door be welcomed as a possible angel, or as St. Benedict put it, as Christ himself? I hope so. In fact, if we got in the habit of welcoming everyone as Christ himself, including the people we know, we might actually become the church God wants us to be.
Pentecost 14: Jeremiah 2:4-13; Psalm 81:1,10-16; Hebrews 13:1-8,15-16; Luke 14:1,7-14.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Only a Boy
My oldest sister turned seventy-one this week. She’s now the oldest sibling, although she didn’t start life that way; our oldest brother died six years ago. He was fourteen when I was born, the youngest of six children. It doesn’t take much math to figure out that I’m in my late fifties. But I’m still the youngest.
I’m also the only one in my family, and one of the few within my many cousins, to be an ordained minister. In a way that’s odd, because there were so many ministers among our ancestors – “a family of Levites,” a friend once said. It also seems odd to me that the youngest, rather than the oldest, is a cleric; on the other hand, the oldest was a gifted musician, using the graces God had given to him.
Maybe being youngest is why I resonate with Jeremiah’s call. It’s a bit frightening, in a way. God tells Jeremiah that he knew him even before he was in the womb, and consecrated him before he was born. God had him in mind all the time! All of the childhood peccadilloes and tantrums and arguments with his parents – God was watching. And still God chose him to be a prophet to the nations.
Taken aback, Jeremiah protests. “Ah, Lord God,” he says, “I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” The Hebrew word for “boy” is the standard one, although the lexicon indicates that there is a special stress on youthfulness here. Jeremiah may not have literally been a boy, but he was certainly young at the time. To convince him that this will work, the Lord touches his tongue and his mouth, putting his words there. (Unlike Isaiah, Jeremiah doesn’t have to deal with hot coals on the lips.) And from then on, Jeremiah prophesies.
When I was younger, I had a different calling from God, to teach the woods. But even then I suspected that someday I would be doing what I am doing now. I told my dad so, and got his imprimatur. I’m glad I did, because he died long before I was ordained. During those years as a botanist, God prepared me for this life in ways that I am only beginning to understand.
My oldest brother prepared me too, especially as he was dying. One of our last conversations, arranged to gather information for his obituary, became an almost sacramental confession of what had happened in his life. And by asking me to preach at his funeral, he gave me the courage to preach to anyone, anywhere, any time.
Only a boy. I’m hardly that now, but to my siblings I’ll always be the youngest, the last one. That’s okay. Yet it means that I’ll always be waiting for that touch on the mouth, the reassurance that what I do and say comes from God, that this work is God’s idea, not mine. Truthfully, that need is not a matter of age or place in a family. It’s a need that we all have, a need to know that God is really leading us, guiding us, loving us – a need for God with us, Emmanuel. That is the grace of Jesus Christ. May that grace and the love of God always be with us, in the fellowship of the Holy Spirit.
Pentecost 15: Jeremiah 1:4-10.
I’m also the only one in my family, and one of the few within my many cousins, to be an ordained minister. In a way that’s odd, because there were so many ministers among our ancestors – “a family of Levites,” a friend once said. It also seems odd to me that the youngest, rather than the oldest, is a cleric; on the other hand, the oldest was a gifted musician, using the graces God had given to him.
Maybe being youngest is why I resonate with Jeremiah’s call. It’s a bit frightening, in a way. God tells Jeremiah that he knew him even before he was in the womb, and consecrated him before he was born. God had him in mind all the time! All of the childhood peccadilloes and tantrums and arguments with his parents – God was watching. And still God chose him to be a prophet to the nations.
Taken aback, Jeremiah protests. “Ah, Lord God,” he says, “I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” The Hebrew word for “boy” is the standard one, although the lexicon indicates that there is a special stress on youthfulness here. Jeremiah may not have literally been a boy, but he was certainly young at the time. To convince him that this will work, the Lord touches his tongue and his mouth, putting his words there. (Unlike Isaiah, Jeremiah doesn’t have to deal with hot coals on the lips.) And from then on, Jeremiah prophesies.
When I was younger, I had a different calling from God, to teach the woods. But even then I suspected that someday I would be doing what I am doing now. I told my dad so, and got his imprimatur. I’m glad I did, because he died long before I was ordained. During those years as a botanist, God prepared me for this life in ways that I am only beginning to understand.
My oldest brother prepared me too, especially as he was dying. One of our last conversations, arranged to gather information for his obituary, became an almost sacramental confession of what had happened in his life. And by asking me to preach at his funeral, he gave me the courage to preach to anyone, anywhere, any time.
Only a boy. I’m hardly that now, but to my siblings I’ll always be the youngest, the last one. That’s okay. Yet it means that I’ll always be waiting for that touch on the mouth, the reassurance that what I do and say comes from God, that this work is God’s idea, not mine. Truthfully, that need is not a matter of age or place in a family. It’s a need that we all have, a need to know that God is really leading us, guiding us, loving us – a need for God with us, Emmanuel. That is the grace of Jesus Christ. May that grace and the love of God always be with us, in the fellowship of the Holy Spirit.
Pentecost 15: Jeremiah 1:4-10.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
So Great a Cloud of Witnesses
There are some Sundays when it’s hard to find good news in the lectionary readings. This Sunday is one of them. The parable of the vineyard in Isaiah starts out as a love-song between God and the people of Israel. The vineyard is lovingly built and tended, but fails to yield the expected choice fruit. When only wild grapes emerge, judgment is given: the vineyard will be torn down and turned into a wasteland. That condemnation must have been chilling to the people who heard it – God was no longer going to love them, and they would be destroyed.
The letter to the Hebrews isn’t much better. Yes, the heroes of the faith are held up for admiration, but when I hear what happened to them (being sawn in two and going about in the skins of sheep and goats are my favorites), I start looking for a place to hide. And Jesus seems almost to be drooling with anticipation as he talks about bringing fire and division to the earth, pitting members of families against one another. As one of my seminary professors used to say, “What’s that about?”
Well, for one thing, it means that true Christianity isn’t a happy clappy religion. Religious entertainment and a prosperity gospel and the “law of attraction” are nowhere in these readings. To truly be a Christian is hard work, and almost certainly will create conflict. That’s a difficult message to preach in a consumer culture, where people go to church to feel good and are ready to move on if they aren’t satisfied. Others avoid organized religion entirely because they already see too much conflict in the church.
Why is discipleship so hard? For one thing, it’s easy to mistake the form of religion for its content. That’s what the Israelites did; they followed all the rules for sacrifice and keeping kosher and observing the prescribed feasts. But they conveniently overlooked the fact that justice was part of the plan. They thought they could cheat the poor and ignore the needy and God would smell incense and not notice. They were wrong, and they didn’t like the prophets who told them so.
Jesus saw even more clearly where following him would lead. Given the opposition he created with the religious authorities, he knew that his death was certain and didn’t expect much better for his disciples. Everywhere Christianity is persecuted, Christian/non-Christian conflict still occurs. As those fleeing organized religion perceive, some of the more militant forms of Christianity create conflict even among fellow Christians.
So where is the good news in all of this? It’s found in that great cloud of witnesses surrounding us, those who have come before. They, too, sinned; they faltered, they suffered as we do. Yet they persevered. They saw the promises, and believed. They threw off the weight that held them down, and the sin that clings so closely. Of course we should cast those aside if we are to run! And run with perseverance, we are told. Run toward the goal of Jesus Christ, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith. And the best part about this race is that even now Jesus is coming toward us from the future. As the cloud of witnesses cheers us on, we will not have as far to go. With that kind of promise, who wouldn’t keep running?
The letter to the Hebrews isn’t much better. Yes, the heroes of the faith are held up for admiration, but when I hear what happened to them (being sawn in two and going about in the skins of sheep and goats are my favorites), I start looking for a place to hide. And Jesus seems almost to be drooling with anticipation as he talks about bringing fire and division to the earth, pitting members of families against one another. As one of my seminary professors used to say, “What’s that about?”
Well, for one thing, it means that true Christianity isn’t a happy clappy religion. Religious entertainment and a prosperity gospel and the “law of attraction” are nowhere in these readings. To truly be a Christian is hard work, and almost certainly will create conflict. That’s a difficult message to preach in a consumer culture, where people go to church to feel good and are ready to move on if they aren’t satisfied. Others avoid organized religion entirely because they already see too much conflict in the church.
Why is discipleship so hard? For one thing, it’s easy to mistake the form of religion for its content. That’s what the Israelites did; they followed all the rules for sacrifice and keeping kosher and observing the prescribed feasts. But they conveniently overlooked the fact that justice was part of the plan. They thought they could cheat the poor and ignore the needy and God would smell incense and not notice. They were wrong, and they didn’t like the prophets who told them so.
Jesus saw even more clearly where following him would lead. Given the opposition he created with the religious authorities, he knew that his death was certain and didn’t expect much better for his disciples. Everywhere Christianity is persecuted, Christian/non-Christian conflict still occurs. As those fleeing organized religion perceive, some of the more militant forms of Christianity create conflict even among fellow Christians.
So where is the good news in all of this? It’s found in that great cloud of witnesses surrounding us, those who have come before. They, too, sinned; they faltered, they suffered as we do. Yet they persevered. They saw the promises, and believed. They threw off the weight that held them down, and the sin that clings so closely. Of course we should cast those aside if we are to run! And run with perseverance, we are told. Run toward the goal of Jesus Christ, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith. And the best part about this race is that even now Jesus is coming toward us from the future. As the cloud of witnesses cheers us on, we will not have as far to go. With that kind of promise, who wouldn’t keep running?
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Pulpit Swap
This Sunday R and I will swap pulpits: we will be at each others’ churches. We did it once before when I was at St. Peter’s, but this is the first time for my home parish of Christ Church. It’s a fun perk of being a clergy couple with parishes open to trying something new.
As I read through the lessons and considered the three services at R’s Trinity parish, I remembered something an uncle once told me. He had been the pastor for many years near Harvard Square at a big Lutheran church, which also had three Sunday services. He said he felt that each service had a different congregation, so he preached three different sermons each week. He told me this long after he retired, lamenting the fact that he had finally reached the point where he had to reuse a sermon!
I don’t have my uncle’s massive intellect, nor will I be speaking to congregants who are faculty at the Harvard Divinity School. Yet the idea of three somewhat different sermons intrigues me. “You also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour” will resonate with the older group at the earliest service I’ll do, because they know that their hour is not that far away. The contemporary service crowd needs to hear that “faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” amid the uncertainties of their world and their hopes for their children. And those at the late morning Choral Eucharist may need Isaiah’s reminder that exquisitely executed liturgy is not, after all, what puts one right with God.
Isaiah particularly intrigues me. After the opening verse establishing his identity and credentials, there is a long condemnation of Israel for its continued rebellion from God. That in itself is not unusual, but when God says “come now, let us argue it out,” one suddenly realizes that God is more interested in dialogue than harangue. Indeed, the next verses indicate that God is always willing to forgive us – as long as we are obedient rather than rebellious. Psalm 50 sets this same theme in the context of a heavenly courtroom, reminding us that there are consequences for rebellion.
That’s why the reassurance of the letter to the Hebrews is so important. The consequences of following or not following God are not always apparent. If we are to step out in faith, we need the assurance that God will follow through on what God has promised. Thus the letter’s eleventh chapter gives a long list of those who have “died in faith without having received the promises, but from a distance they saw and greeted them.”
Jesus provides additional encouragement in Luke’s Gospel. “It is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom,” he says. So live as though you are already in the kingdom. Let your checkbook tell you what your priorities are (“where your treasure is, there your heart will be also”). Or as Isaiah writes, “Cease to do evil, learn to do good, seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow.” The Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour, and you’d best be ready.
And so the message for the day is the same for all: Live in faith and hope that Christ will come again, to make all things new – but in the meantime there’s work to be done. One message, yet each person will hear it somewhat differently. Thus it may well be that my part of this pulpit swap will need three different approaches, three different sermons. If so, not only will I experience R’s usual Sunday, but my uncle’s whole preaching life.
Pentecost 11: Isaiah 1:1,10-20; Psalm 50:1-8,23-24; Hebrews 11:1-3,8-16; Luke 12:32-40.
As I read through the lessons and considered the three services at R’s Trinity parish, I remembered something an uncle once told me. He had been the pastor for many years near Harvard Square at a big Lutheran church, which also had three Sunday services. He said he felt that each service had a different congregation, so he preached three different sermons each week. He told me this long after he retired, lamenting the fact that he had finally reached the point where he had to reuse a sermon!
I don’t have my uncle’s massive intellect, nor will I be speaking to congregants who are faculty at the Harvard Divinity School. Yet the idea of three somewhat different sermons intrigues me. “You also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour” will resonate with the older group at the earliest service I’ll do, because they know that their hour is not that far away. The contemporary service crowd needs to hear that “faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” amid the uncertainties of their world and their hopes for their children. And those at the late morning Choral Eucharist may need Isaiah’s reminder that exquisitely executed liturgy is not, after all, what puts one right with God.
Isaiah particularly intrigues me. After the opening verse establishing his identity and credentials, there is a long condemnation of Israel for its continued rebellion from God. That in itself is not unusual, but when God says “come now, let us argue it out,” one suddenly realizes that God is more interested in dialogue than harangue. Indeed, the next verses indicate that God is always willing to forgive us – as long as we are obedient rather than rebellious. Psalm 50 sets this same theme in the context of a heavenly courtroom, reminding us that there are consequences for rebellion.
That’s why the reassurance of the letter to the Hebrews is so important. The consequences of following or not following God are not always apparent. If we are to step out in faith, we need the assurance that God will follow through on what God has promised. Thus the letter’s eleventh chapter gives a long list of those who have “died in faith without having received the promises, but from a distance they saw and greeted them.”
Jesus provides additional encouragement in Luke’s Gospel. “It is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom,” he says. So live as though you are already in the kingdom. Let your checkbook tell you what your priorities are (“where your treasure is, there your heart will be also”). Or as Isaiah writes, “Cease to do evil, learn to do good, seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow.” The Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour, and you’d best be ready.
And so the message for the day is the same for all: Live in faith and hope that Christ will come again, to make all things new – but in the meantime there’s work to be done. One message, yet each person will hear it somewhat differently. Thus it may well be that my part of this pulpit swap will need three different approaches, three different sermons. If so, not only will I experience R’s usual Sunday, but my uncle’s whole preaching life.
Pentecost 11: Isaiah 1:1,10-20; Psalm 50:1-8,23-24; Hebrews 11:1-3,8-16; Luke 12:32-40.
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