Luke

Scriptural Sermons

New Testament: Luke

By Rebecca Clancy August 3, 2022
I attended a funeral recently. It was for my high school math teacher. He was one great guy. Everyone loved him. He taught math at my high school for forty years, and he also coached wrestling. By the time he retired, he had become something of a legend in his own time. The funeral was upbeat, not like so many funerals that are so very sad. He lived a full and long life, and we gathered to celebrate that. But for one man – a classmate of mine who wrestled for him. He was absolutely devastated. I approached him in the parking lot after the funeral and asked if he was okay. He broke down. “That man was everything to me,” he said. “I was O.K. so long as he was in the world.” Then he shared his story. His mother died when he was very young. His father was a physically and emotionally abusive alcoholic. By the time he was in high school, he was far down a bad road. He hadn’t the support to do well at school, so he didn’t. He was very angry, so he was a behavior problem. The only friends he could make were kids like himself, so he hung out with a tough crowd. And he had begun to dabble in drugs. He was pretty much a lost cause at the age of sixteen. Enter my math teacher. He approached him one day out of the blue and told him he could tell by his gait that he was born to wrestle. This could only have been a ruse to intervene. Even I, who knows nothing about wrestling, am suspicious that you can identify one born to wrestle by his gait. At any rate, the ruse worked. He intervened. And he made him into a great wrestler. On top of that, he made him into a great young man. His advice, understanding, and support were unwavering. He helped him to deal with his past in such a way that it didn’t destroy him. He filled his present with new found responsibility, purpose, structure, and discipline. And he paved his way to a future. After graduation he went to college on a wrestling scholarship and eventually became a doctor. “I feel so lost,” he concluded his story. “What am I going to do now?” While he was sharing his story, I could not help but think how hard life can be. We here are generally prosperous and privileged, so we can afford to put up a front. But behind that front life can be hard. Because it’s out there -- loss, abuse, addiction, and a host of other afflictions. It’s enough to make you lose your way. And as I said, we here are generally prosperous and privileged. What if the loss, abuse, and addiction are compounded by poverty or racism? Then it’s all but a foregone conclusion. Your way is lost. Yes, life can be hard. Life takes casualties. Lots of them. It can make us feel helpless and overwhelmed. We want to make things better, but what could we possibly do? The answer is no farther away than my late math teacher. What could we possibly do to make things better? We could reach out, like he did. And what is in view here is not merely a good example, although we must never underestimate the power of a good example and must always strive to be one. But there’s more in view than that. It has to do with the Bible. The Bible may seem like a forbidding book. For one thing it’s thousands of pages long. It makes War and Peace look like a short story. For another thing, it’s unimaginably ancient. The Bible’s story begins 2,000 years before the Common Era. I just read that a sizable portion of millennials don’t know what the Holocaust was. To them that’s ancient history - a mere 75 years back. The Bible is more than 4,000 years back. That’s unimaginably ancient. For yet another thing, it traffics in extremely complicated and sophisticated theology, plumbing in its unfolding the depths of such mysteries as our nature, the predicament that our nature has landed us in, and the means of our redemption. And it does so all the while purging itself of false starts or conclusions. So it may seem forbidding. But at the same time, ironically, the Bible lends itself to succinct summaries. Here’s one: God lives. Here’s another: Good triumphs over evil. And another: Love triumphs over fear. And another: Practice universal justice. And another: Love one another. And here’s one that’s right on point: Reach out. The Bible can be summarized in just two words. Reach out. Think about it. That’s what God did. God reached out. God reached out to Abraham and told him that from him would one day issue a nation, and not just any nation, but a nation that would somehow bless all the nations by bestowing upon them redemption. God reached out to Moses and bequeathed him an ethical law so that God’s people could bear his righteousness. God reached out to David and told him that from his descendants would emerge one who would embody that redemption. And that one in the fullness of time emerged. God reach out to his son. He told him that if he would make a great sacrifice, the greatest sacrifice, it would be the means for all people to reach out to one another. In a real way. A way that advanced God’s own being and cause. And his son made that sacrifice. And in his brief ministry that preceded that sacrifice, he reached out to everyone. And I mean everyone. Lepers. Prostitutes. Beggars. Even a bitter little man perched up in a sycamore tree. So reaching out is not just a good example. It is nothing less the mechanism that God that employs to bestow redemption. Yes, life can be hard. Paul knew this. “We would prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord.” But Paul goes on. “So we must make it our goal to please him, whether we are at home in the body or away from it.” And this means reaching out. “I feel so lost now. What am I going to do?” asked my grieving classmate. I told him that his coach had already showed him what to do. I told him to reach out. Amen.
By Rebecca Clancy August 2, 2022
Jesus was always one to bring the party. All he had to do was show up, and lots of others showed up too -- eager for engagement, eager for excitement, eager for something new. It was little wonder. Here at last was someone who had something to say. Something different. Something provocative. Something truthful. Jesus had a way of uttering truths that had never been uttered before, but at the same time, were strangely recognizable. And it was happening once again. Once again, Jesus had brought the party. He showed up at the house of Mary and Martha, and suddenly the place was filled with men who immediately took their place at his feet. This gesture was an indicator that they were ready and willing disciples. They wanted him to teach them. And so he began to teach. That was Martha’s cue. She sprang into action. After Jesus’ teaching, it would be fellowship hour, and as we all know, fellowship hour is predicated upon food. And in ancient times, you couldn’t rely on your reserves from Costco. Feeding a room full of men was labor intensive. Animals had to be slaughtered and dressed. Bread had to be baked. Water had to hauled. Martha went directly to work, expecting Mary to fall in place behind her. But what did Mary do? She went and sat at Jesus’ feet with the men -- shirking her role, defying expectations, and leaving Martha to shoulder the burden alone. I can imagine Martha’s frustration. I can imagine her passive aggressive attempts to get Mary back in the kitchen. Staring daggers at her from the threshold. Uttering loud sighs as indicators of her strain. Dropping pottery on the floor to startle Mary to awareness. But Mary took no notice. None whatsoever. Martha should have counted to ten. How much strife could be averted if we could all just remember to count to ten, or perhaps twenty. Martha for her part shot like a rocket from outrage to outburst. “I’m doing all the work in here Jesus, while Mary has yet to raise a finger. It’s hardly fair. And have you even noticed? Do you even care?” And there was doubtless more to it than the fact that Martha had to provide all the hospitality on her own. There too was the fact of what Mary was doing. She not day dreaming or singing idly out the window. She was sitting at Jesus’ feet. She was in there with the men. Martha was doubtless chagrined and embarrassed that Mary did not know her place. It certainly did not reflect well on the family. But Jesus did not vindicate Martha. Jesus chastised her, “Martha, Martha,” (and when someone says your name twice, wait for some kind of a correction to follow) “Why are you so distracted and stressed and scattered? Let it go. Mary’s right where she should be.” We’re left to wonder how Martha felt at that point. I bet she wasn’t happy. She simply didn’t get it or she would not have reacted that way in the first place. Now normally this text is interpreted as a caution against busyness. Martha with all her busyness is a prototype that we should avoid. Not that productivity is a bad thing. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop after all. But there’s a certain kind of busyness that’s not good. It’s when we become enmeshed with worldly or personal concerns and address them with obsessive application – application that mixes with pride, competition, insecurity. It becomes a kind of self-perpetuating force. And it causes us to lose all perspective. It causes us to become disoriented. We forget that we’re supposed to be at Jesus’ feet – his disciples, listening to him. And this is a fair enough interpretation, but I think there’s something else here. An elephant in the living room. Mary was right where she should be. She was at Jesus’ feet, his disciple, listening to him. But Mary was, obviously, a woman. Women did not seat themselves at the feet of rabbis. Women were not disciples. All they needed to know was taught to them by their mothers. Women did not sit side by side with men learning. It was unheard of. It was forbidden. And yet Jesus told Martha that Mary was right where she should be. Her place was with the men. Really Jesus? A woman’s place is with the men? Really Jesus? In first century Judaism? Jesus was a revolutionary and a radical, and don’t ever forget it. All down through history and even to this day there has an unspoken and inviolable code. It could be expressed as a variant of a line from the wedding ceremony. What society has divided, let no one unite. And Jesus was saying the polar opposite. A women’s place is with the men. Think about what this means by extension. Women, your place is with the men. Men, your place is with the women. Whites, your place is with blacks. Blacks your place is with whites. The wealthy, your place is with the poor, and the poor, your place is with the wealthy. The powerful, your place is with the powerless. The powerless, your place is with the powerful. The old, your place is with the young. The young, your place is with the old. Jesus was smashing down all dividing walls. His disciples are to be completely and utterly integrated. This is simply too radical, simply too revolutionary. But that’s who Jesus was. This is why he brought the party. It’s because he spoke God’s truth. Disciples are to be completely and utterly integrated, and this in service to humankind that is to be completely and utterly integrated. That all should be one. But this is so radical and revolutionary that it is very seldom approximated. It’s too hard. But is it really? Is it really that hard to forge the way? Is it really that hard to reach out? Is it really that hard to cross the aisle? To be vulnerable? To be risky? To be open? To be accepting? To be understanding? One thing’s for sure. It’s a lot easier than hanging on a cross in faith it could be so. Amen.
By Rebecca Clancy May 16, 2022
I would like to talk to you this morning about Joseph of Arimathea. Doubtless, you just stifled a yawn. Doubtless you just thought to yourself, “Joseph of Arimathea? Really? With all the tribulation in the world today? She’d like to talk to us this morning about Joseph of Arimathea? Who the heck is Joseph of Arimathea, anyway? I barely even heard of him.” But yes, I would like to talk to you this morning about Joseph of Arimathea. He is featured in our gospel lesson, after all. So I will give you a moment to stifle a few more yawns, then I will proceed to talk to you this morning about Joseph of Arimathea. Actually, we don’t know that much about him. We know that it is highly likely that he actually existed. We know this because he appears across all four gospels. When someone or something appears across all four gospels, that makes it fairly indubitable. This is because of John’s gospel. Mathew, Mark, and Luke are pretty much the same gospel. This means they depended on each other. Not John. John is independent of them. A full ninety percent of John is absent from the other three. So if something appears across all four gospels, it’s highly likely it happened. So it’s highly likely that Joseph of Arimathea actually existed. Beyond that, all that is known of him is what is recorded in the short paragraph all four gospels devote to him. They tell us that Joseph of Arimathea was a member of the “Council”. That is to say, he was a member of the SanHedrin. The Romans permitted the Jews to govern themselves, and they did so through the SanHedrin, which was composed of their religious authorities. It was the SanHedrin that found Jesus guilty of blasphemy and condemned him to death. But Joseph of Arimathea, to quote, “didn’t agree with their plan or action.” In other words, he saw through them. He saw through their jealousy. He saw through their resentment. Above all, he saw through their outrage. They, like so many people today, lacked the moral and mental clarity to know when to be outraged. Joseph of Arimathea, for his part, knew when to be outraged. He was outraged by the SanHedrin. He realized they had just lynched an innocent man. Joseph of Arimathea had admired Jesus, but what could he have done on his behalf in the face of the SanHedrin? Nothing. Nothing as yet anyway. As Jesus hung dead on his cross, he approached Pontius PIlate and asked him for his body, Mark's version adds the word “boldly” to his request. He approached Pilate “boldly” and asked for his body. Mark is right to add the word. Because think about it. Pilate sentenced Jesus to death, assumedly, because he judged that Jesus deserved the sentence. In asking for Jesus’ body, Joseph of Arimathea was in essence challenging Pilate’s judgment. It was an act of subversion, really. In other words, he was putting himself at risk. Fortunately, Pilate’s indifference to the whole matter won out. Joseph of Arimathea then proceeded to remove Jesus’ mangled and bloody corpse from his cross. Try to imagine that. This would have involved crow bars, ladders, and lots of sweat. But above all it would have involved a mangled and bloody corpse. We have a native aversion to corpses. It’s hard enough for us to glance at them when they have died of natural causes. That’s why we dress them up with makeup and wigs and make them into mannequins. That’s all we can handle. What Joseph of Arimathea handled was downright sickening. And he didn’t need to do any of it. He didn’t need to do any of it because he was rich. He must have been rich because when he removed Jesus from the cross, he wrapped him in linen. Linen was exorbitantly expensive in those times. So he was rich, and the rich generally are freer to do what they want to do and not constrained to do what they need to do. He didn’t need to do any of it. No one else in the world bothered. Finally, he laid Jesus in his own tomb; again, a rich man’s tomb, hewn from rock. And for his efforts, Joseph of Arimathea set the stage for the resurrection of Jesus Christ. He set the stage for the resurrection of Jesus Christ -- an event, the event, that transfuses worldly tribulation with divine triumph. To say the very least of him, Joseph of Arimathea was a hero. He was one who advanced the good. He was one who defended the truth. He was one who set the example. He was one at the ready to sacrifice. He was one who made the world a better place, Yes, Joseph of Arimathea was a hero, but at the same time, he was an unsung hero. We stifle our yawns at the mention of his name. And here’s the whole point. There should be no unsung heroes, in the past or in the present. That expression should not even exist. Could we be so dull, so indifferent, so blind, so careless, so complacent, so jaded, so selfish, that we do not notice the heroes that we have been bequeathed and that surround us? Because read theologically, and a Christian must read everything theologically, they can only be God’s gift to us. They can only be God’s gift to us because for their contributions they redeem worldly tribulation. So we must be ever alert to them and endow them with the honor they deserve. We must sing their praises at the top of our voices. One of my favorite people, Fred Rogers, who himself was an unsung hero until recently, knew this well. He once said, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’” Amen.
By Rebecca Clancy December 10, 2021
I was at a holiday gathering last week with a group of women friends I made around the time our children were born. My eldest is now in her thirties, so we have been friends for a good long time. Now that our children are grown, we don’t see each other as much as we did when they were young. In those days we saw each other nearly every day. We needed each other’s company and support during the uniquely taxing business of raising young children. And besides, were interesting to no one except each other. Raising young children, the all important questions have to do with the likes of nursing, naps, teething; and, of course, those tiny little developmental milestones that at the time seem so significant. Who else would find all that interesting except another mother of young children? There’s been much water over the damn since then. Most of us, at least those of us who did not adopt a second round of children, are now empty-nesters. Some of us have remained at home. Others of us have retooled and rejoined the work force. One of my friends became a pediatrician. It’s no surprise. She is smart and driven, scientifically minded; and she loves children. When I saw her at the gathering I asked her about the ongoing drama in which she was involved wither receptionist. She hired as her receptionist a woman whose husband had died recently. Having been a wife and mother nearly forty years, she was lonely and aimless and hoped that a job would help her to reconnect to life, would bring her some structure and purpose. She was a very decent person, but did not belong I that position. She talked on and on to patients, and worse, did have a sense of appropriate sense of confidentiality. In this day and age, that can get you into trouble. She drove my friend increasingly up the wall, but big-hearted as he was, she couldn’t bring herself to let her go. “I finally let her go,” my friend said, “And those were, without question, the hardest words I’ve ever had to say in my life. “I have to let you go.” “Those words wouldn’t be hard for me at all,” said another friend, whom I would describe as self-assertive and driven to control all that is in her sphere of influence. Appropriately, she is a crossing guard. “Anyway, it was for her own good,” she said. “Why treat her like she is exempt from reality and responsibility?” That’s no favor to her overall. The hardest words for me to say,” she said, “are ‘I’m sorry.’ I had to apologize to someone last week, and I’ve vowed never again to be in the wrong so I’ll never have to apologize again.” “Good luck with that,” I said. The conversation then shifted to word that are hard to say. What we came up wit was about what you’d expect, - “I love you.” “You hurt my feelings.” And, above all, ‘No.’” As the conversation proceeded, I found myself biting my lip. My friends, have, on more than one occasion, on several occasions in fact, informed me that I have the annoying habit of not offering my own opinion, which would probably be annoying enough, but instead offering the biblical witness’ opinion on the subject. “The biblical witness would label that double minded,” I’d say. Or, I’d say, “The biblical witness would take issue with that sort of apathy.” Or, “The biblical witness forbids this kind of idle chatter.” I can’t think why they find it so annoying. I was itching to offer the biblical witness’ opinion on the hardest words to say, but, as I said, I had been warned that I was annoying. Of course, when people warn us that we are annoying, it doesn’t automatically remove the desire to continue to be annoying. I really wanted to have my say. Suddenly, I thought of a brilliant ploy. Instead of simply offering the biblical witness’ opinion on the subject, I asked a preliminary question. “Are you interested in the biblical witness’ opinion on the subject?" I asked. If they said no, that would certainly not reflect very well on them. They were churchgoers, after all. And if they said yes, I could have my say. I can boast my ploy was brilliant, of occurs, because I am really only in effect boasting on the Lord. I borrowed the ploy form m. If you recall his exchange with the chief priests and elders, they asked Jesus, “By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you this authority.?” Jesus said to them, ‘I will also ask you one question; if you tell me the answer, then I will also tell you by what authority I do these things. Did the baptism of John come from heaven, or was it of human origin? And they argued with one another, ‘If we say from heaven, he will say to us, “Why then did you not believe him?’ But if we say, ‘Of human origin,’ we are afraid do the crowd, for all regard John a prophet.” Thanks to the biblical witness, I had my friends between a rock and a hard place. I finally had my say. According to the biblical witness, the hardest words to say are, “Here I am.” Here I am – the words with which God’s prophets answered God’s call to witness to him. “After these things God tested Abraham. God said to him, “Abraham!” And Abraham said, “Here I am!” Moses was keeping the flock of his father-in-law Jethro; he led his flock beyond the wilderness, can came to Horeb, the mountain of God. Then the angel of the Lord appeared to him in a flame of fire out of a us; he looked, and the bush was blazing, yet it was not consume…God called to him out of the bush, ‘Moses, Moses!’ And Moses said, “Here I am!” “The Lord called, ‘Samuel, Samuel.’ And he said, ‘Here I am!’ “The Isaiah heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? And Isaiah said, “Here I am!” But why should these be the hardest words to say? If you think about it, the answer is not long in coming. It is because witnessing to God is terribly difficult work and generally not welcomed by the world. And the words, “Here I am,"represent a kind of reporting for service, represent a kind of front end commitment to witness to God, come what may. And indeed, it was not easy on the prophets. God called Abraham to leave everything he knew, to go from his country, his kindred, and his father’s house to an unknown land on which would some day exist the nation he would father. And when Abraham at the age of one hundred finally fathered a son, God demanded his sacrifice as a s test that Abraham’s faith was in the God who could do the impossible, and not in Abraham’s own flesh and blood. Abraham passed the test, and God spared his son, but only imagine Abraham’s anguish as he raised that knife to his son’s neck.. Or Moses, a humble man, slow of speech, slow of tongue. God called him to enter the court of the most powerful man in the world and demand the release of his enslaved countrymen; and then to lead them, they who gave no evidence of being God’s people at all, for forty years through the wilderness to the threshold of their Promised Land. Or Samuel, whom God called to preside over the newly found institution of the kingship, an institution that Samuel had renounced and resisted for all he was worth, and then stand by and watch as the king that God had called him to anoint generated into a madman – jealous, paranoid, murderous. Or Isaiah, who was called too to prophesy to kings, kings from whose line God had be this time declared the Messiah would come, but who only encountered faithless kings who refuse to listen to the word of God and led the nation to the brink of destruction. Yes, “Here I am” must have been the hardest words to say. All of this renders nothing less than amazing, nothing less than mind boggling, what we heard in this morning’s gospel lesson. A young woman, little more than a girl really, of no imaginable note – obscure and undistinguished; and probably too, like most of her people, rather poor – was visited by the angel Gabriel who said to her, “’Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end. May said to the angel, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?’ The angel said to her, ‘The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy, he will be called the Son of Man….’ Then Mary said, ‘Here I am.’” And with those words that young woman, with nothing but her faith, added herself to the company of the great prophets of Israel – absent, of course, any pride or arrogance, absent any self-assertion whatever, and absent too any self-abnegation, any evasion or irresponsibility because of her low and unlikely station, and knowing it had not been easy on those who had responded this – with nothing but her faith, she added herself to the company of the great prophets of Israel. And it was not easy on her either. In fact, it may have been harder on her than it was on any of them: to be made pregnant our of wedlock, to give birth in a stable in a distant land, to live in obscurity for nearly thirty years, waiting, wondering what was in store for her son, then as her son finally embarked upon his ministry to hear him say and do things that she didn’t anticipate and couldn’t comprehend, and things that caused him to make very dangerous enemies, then to witness her son, her beloved son, tortured to death on a cross. I’d say that young woman proved herself the equal of the great prophets of Israel. Here I am. Such hard words, and such a hard life that inevitably issued from them. One wonders whether any of them had any regrets about saying them. The biblical witness does not say if they did or not, but I, at least, am certain that they did not. I am certain because that same faith by which they said those hard words – by which they reported for service, by which they made front end commitment to witness to God come what may – makes regret impossible. For faith does not seek ease or comfort; not does it require outcomes. Faith simply holds fast to God’s promises and makes witness to him. It is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Faith need not receive the promises, because it sees them from a distance and greets them. Faith then banishes regret. Friends in Christ, God may not have called us to witness to him in such clear and commanding ways. He may not have spoken to us through a burning bushy, or through his angel Gabriel, but he has just as surely called us to witness to him. He was called us through the waters of baptism by which we have received the Holy Spirit. It is now ours to respond, “Here I am,” But the prophets who have gone before us, and we may consider Mary among them, prove that the hardest words we will ever say are too the greatest words we will ever say and live. Amen.
June 29, 2021
II Samuel 18:9-15, 24, 32-36 Luke 8:1-12
By Rebecca Clancy February 20, 2021
Genesis 1 Colossians 1:15-19 Luke 8:22-25
By Rebecca Clancy October 18, 2020
Since Halloween is coming up, I thought it would be fun to watch the movie classic Frankenstein with the girls -- the 1931 version starring Boris Karloff. I figured that it wouldn’t be too scary for them because of the old, or perhaps better to say, ancient special effects. I figured that the monster would be no more frightening to them than Ming the Merciless was to me when I, at about their age, watched Flash Gordon. The minute Dr. Frankenstein descended to his laboratory; however, they were terror struck and scrambled into my lap. Within minutes they were screaming at the top of their lungs to turn it off. I grabbed for the clicker filled with soothing explanations, but they’d have none of them. That night we all slept together. Not one to admit defeat readily, I decided to try again. I procured, with some difficulty, the 1910 version of the film. I even previewed it before we watched it together. It was a “silent” movie, but for the ridiculously dramatic piano music pounding in the background. The exaggerated gesticulations and facial expressions of the actors were downright laughable, but the bigger joke was the special effects. The monster came to life after various ingredients were added to a bubbling cauldron. First his two skeletal arms emerged. You could see them moving up and down on wires. After some more thundering piano crescendos the monster appeared, fully stewed. He looked like the deranged cousin of Gargamel, who, if you don’t recall, was the antagonist on The Smurfs. I judged that no one of any age could possibly be scared of this version of the film. The girls, however, judged differently. They were even more terrified than before. “Turn it off!” they screamed again. It was then that it dawned on me that my plan backfired because I presumed that the old special effects would make the films less scary for them. The old special effects, as it turned out, made it more scary, more real in a way, because it depicted the realm where, their imaginations had taught them, real monsters dwell. Needless to say, we all slept together again, but this time sleep, as Scripture puts it, “fled from their eyes.” “I am staying up all night,” Avi pronounced. “Why!?” I asked. “Because I am afraid of that monster.” Before I could respond, Gao chimed in. “And I am afraid of earthquakes.” Her orphanage was relatively near the epicenter of China’s earthquake, which occurred shortly before I adopted her. She didn’t experience the earthquake firsthand, but she experienced it through the horror of her caretakers. May then chimed in too. “And I’m afraid something bad will happen to you, Mommy.” I said all the things Mommies say when their children are afraid. Avi then said. “I’m sorry we’re so afraid,” Mommy. “When we’re grownups like you, we won’t be afraid anymore.” When we’re grownups like you, we won’t be afraid anymore. Then was not the time to explain to her that we grownups have our own fears, fears not unlike theirs. We may not be scared of Frankenstein’s monster, or werewolves, or mummies, or vampires, but we are scared of demythologized monsters like serial killers and shooters and terrorists. We too are scared of natural disasters, whether they take the form of earthquakes or tornadoes or hurricanes or tsunamis, or even whether they take the form of disease, which is a kind of natural disaster if you think about it. And too we are scared that something bad will happen to those we love, especially our children. For me this is my greatest fear. I think it’s every parent’s greatest fear. We may put up a better front than they do; we may employ more mature powers of rationalization; we may be slightly less vulnerable; but we grownups share their fears, especially when the danger that elicits them rears its head. And you know, I think we grownups actually do children one better on the fear front. We have one fear that they don’t seem to have, at least not my girls -- but I think it holds true for most children. I guess some fears have to be learned, or they grow with us to maturity. We grownups fear that others who are not like us do not share our basic humanity. If others are or a different race, a different culture, a different religion, a different political party, a different sexual orientation, a different national origin, we fear they do not share our basic humanity. And this fear may be, of all the things we fear, most to be feared. This fear may be, of all the things we fear, the most pernicious and destructive, especially when it is, as it so often it has been, co-opted by demagogues who pose as our leaders. Believe it or not, it is for this reason the book of Ruth was written. It was written to offset the fear that others who are not like us do not share our basic humanity. Ruth, after all, was a Moabite. To put it mildly, the Israelites did not like the Moabites. From the minute the people of Israel took possession of their Promised Land and encountered the Moabites in the vicinity, they did not like them. Why? Because the Israelites had lots of impressions about them, impressions based upon the fact that they didn’t look like them, didn’t talk like them, and didn’t act like them. From what they thought they saw, the Israelites concluded that the Moabites were a dissolute people. They were fast. They were loose. They were low lives. They were the kind of people who couldn’t be trusted. They were the kind of people who were bad influences, who were threats to good and decent and upright society. In short, the Israelites feared that the Moabites did not share their basic humanity. In fact, aside from the book of Ruth, all other depictions of Moabites in Scripture are negative. There’s even a story in the book of Genesis that the founder of the Moabites was born from a drunken and incestuous union between a father and his daughter. The book of Ruth then advanced a bold and controversial, if not to say downright unpopular, thesis. It advanced the thesis that others who are not like us do in fact share our basic humanity. Sometimes in fact they may even serve as role models for us. Sometimes, in fact, we can even learn from them about how to be better people. Consider Ruth herself. Ruth was a Moabite who married into a family of Israelites. It wasn’t by the choice of the family of Israelites. It was by necessity. There was a famine in Israel and this particular family of Israelites was forced to emigrate to Moab or to starve. They were detained there by the famine for so long that the sons came of marrying age. It was either marry a Moabite or not marry at all, and not marrying at all meant the cessation of the family line. So the family held its collective nose while two Moabite women married into the family, one of whom was Ruth the other of whom was named Orpah. In a series of coincidental tragedies, all the men of the family died, leaving just the Moabites Ruth and Orpah and their Israelite mother-in-law, who was named Naomi. After the famine ended, Naomi suggested that each return to their familial home. Orpah did, but Ruth declined. It would have been the easier course, but Ruth knew her mother-in-law needed her. As much as Ruth had lost - a husband, Naomi had lost more - a husband and two sons. Ruth couldn’t leave Naomi all alone with no one to care for her. She may not have been much, but she was better than nothing. She could at least tend to Naomi’s basic needs until she saw her safely placed in her familial home. So Ruth opted to accompany Naomi and go live among a people who looked down upon her because she was a Moabite. When they arrived back in Israel, Ruth provided for them both by gleaning behind some harvesters in a barley field, which was basically an indirect way of begging. The Law of Moses demanded that harvesters leave some of the harvest behind to provide for the poor. When the owner of the field noticed there was a Moabite gleaning on his property, he kept an eye on her. What he discovered was a courageous, selfless, industrious young woman, a woman who so impressed him he eventually took her for his wife. And even after he did, Naomi’s care remained at the forefront of her mind. When she bore a son, it was her greatest joy that she could provide Naomi someone to love again after all the loss she had known. Yes, the book of Ruth was written to advance the bold and controversial thesis that people who are not like us do share our basic humanity, so much so they could well be our kindred. It was written to advance the bold and controversial thesis that they want the same things we do - to be able to provide for themselves, to care and to be cared for, to belong, to be acknowledged and respected for who they are. And it is indeed a bold and controversial thesis precisely because of the fear that seems to be perennial that those who are not like us do not share our basic humanity. Jesus too of course advanced that bold and controversial thesis. You tell by the people he gravitated towards, Jesus too of course advanced that bold and controversial thesis. You can tell by the people he gravitated towards, “others” who were not like the rest - lepers, prostitutes, carriers of contagious diseases, adulteresses, tax collectors, and all those vulnerable, marginalized, and scandalous. But he cast the net even farther. Consider the Centurion. He wasn’t vulnerable, marginalized, or scandalous. He was the commander of a hundred in the Roman army. He was, as he put it, a man “set under authority,” and it was the authority of the oppressor, since the Romans then occupied Israel. But Jesus heeded the Centurion’s appeal, and in doing so learned that the Centurion had a deep love for the Israelites, even built for them a synagogue; and that his appeal to Jesus was out of concern for the welfare of a slave. Jesus advanced the bold and controversial thesis that we need not fear others who are not like us because they do share our basic humanity, but even he was surprised by the Centurion the extent to which this is true – “I tell you not even in Israel have I found such faith.” No one sympathized with our common condition better than Jesus; and it was that sympathy that led him to take up his cross. After the girls finally fell asleep last week, I was wide awake, so I watched my favorite movie, To Kill a Mockingbird . Now that movie is too scary for children to watch, if you recall the near murder of the little girl named Scout. It’s almost too scary for me. In my favorite scene, Atticus defends a black man falsely accused of rape in the Jim Crow South. During the trial, the courtroom is packed, with the black people segregated in the balcony. The black man who was falsely accused of rape is found guilty of course, even though everyone in the courtroom knew he was innocent. As Atticus walks from the courtroom, the black people in the balcony silently rose to their feet to acknowledge the truth that Atticus had attempted to defend -- that others not like him shared his basic humanity. “Stand up,” someone whispered to Scout, who had snuck up to the balcony to watch. “Your father’s passing.” It is one of our crucial jobs as Christians to renounce the fear that others like not us do not share our basic humanity. And if we do not renounce that fear, both within and around us, we may protect ourselves from many fearful things, but we will never help to make a world that is safe for everyone. Amen.
By Rebecca Clancy June 21, 2020
I have been in the wilderness just once. I was hiking in the mountainous desert of the southwest. I was alone. That you may deem foolish, but I hike and run and cycle in large part to be alone. I am a person who requires solitude. And too, I admit, I tend to imagine I’m indestructible. At any rate, I was at least well prepared – properly conditioned, appropriately attired, possessed of compass and canteen. A few hours into the hike, as I was replacing my canteen in my pack, it tumbled down the side of the mountain. I knew I had to retrieve it, that I probably could not make it back without it. It was not a case of – ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” It was 90 degrees, and I was nearly ten miles from the road. So I left the path and climbed down the side of the mountain. I quickly realized it would be nearly impossible to retrieve my canteen. Once off the path the terrain was rough and indistinguishable, so much so that I lost my bearings. I climbed back up well past where the path should have been but couldn’t find it. By this time, my thirst was becoming increasingly urgent, and with increasing urgency I climbed back down to search for my canteen, but of course, to no avail. Finding myself without the strength to climb up again, I had no recourse but to follow the wadi at the bottom of the mountain hoping it would lead somewhere. As it happened, it led out into the dessert. My thirst became desperate and unbearable. My walk became a stagger. Some irrational impulse led me to cry out for help, but I found I no longer had no voice. The terms of the situation were suddenly made clear to me. This would be my last day. I would die of thirst this day in the dessert. It was then I entered the wilderness. The wilderness is less a place of physical torment than of spiritual torment. It is hard to describe to those who have never been there. It is as if all the structures that confer meaning upon existence fall away and without them looms the dread and despair that there is no meaning, only futility. The wilderness is, I suppose, the keen and vivid experience of godlessness in the face of death. Mercifully my time in the wilderness didn’t last long. My thoughts turned, or were led, to Jesus. “He thirsted from his cross,” I thought, and I was given to hope that by sharing in his suffering I would be purged of my sin and he would receive me home. With that thought, I was no longer in the wilderness. I have been in the wilderness just once, but let me tell you, once is enough. I hope never to return there, but I realize it’s not my choice. For one cannot avoid the wilderness by avoiding the dessert. Some people find themselves in the wilderness even despite those structures which confer meaning upon existence, which for most hold it at bay. Friedrich Nietzsche, for instance, was one such individual, though he called the wilderness the abyss. He stared into it, made a feeble stand against it in his philosophy, and then went insane. This is why to consider that Jesus -- having learned from the Spirit at his baptism that his vocation was to die for the sin of humankind -- was thereupon driven by the Spirit into the wilderness, is to make one shudder in revulsion and horror. It was in that place of torture and torment, of intolerable desolation, that Jesus was forced to master all doubt that indeed his death was for the sin of humankind, that his death would be the means by which the sin of humankind would be forgiven and all death the means to reconciliation with God. But why, one wonders, why would the Spirit drive him there? Why would the Spirit add to the burden it had already placed upon him at his baptism? It was in fact because the Spirit sought to help Jesus to honor what it knew would be his intention. The Spirit knew that if Jesus could determine in the wilderness to die for the sin of humankind, he could too make good on that determination. And so the Spirit drove him there, careless even that the wilderness was the stalking ground of the devil. And the devil indeed found him there. After all, he had his interest to protect. He could not allow Jesus to die for the sin of humankind; he could not allow Jesus’ death to be the means by which the sin of humankind would be forgiven and all death the means to reconciliation with God. Death was his greatest weapon against humankind, the means by which he held humankind captive through fear and cynicism. He intended to protect that interest, and the only way to do so was to tempt Jesus from determining to die for the sin of humankind. And the devil knew just what to do, knew to lead into Jesus’ goodness. "If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.” Jesus was half starved; for he had been fasting forty days. Jesus felt t he deep need of all those who hunger. He could, as the devil suggested, use the miraculous power entrusted to him as the Son of God to feed the hungry. His vocation could be to provide concrete relief in the here and now. But he recalled the word of God, “One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.” The devil next took him to the pinnacle of the temple, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down, for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you’ and ‘on their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’” The devil was at him most beguiling, for he quoted to Jesus that same word of God Jesus had turned to for fortification. “Jump,” the devil coaxed. “At God’s own word, he will protect you. Let that be the sign that you are the Son of God. Everyone will believe, and you need not die.” But Jesus knew that the devil himself can cite scripture, so resisted him again, “… it is written, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’” Finally, the devil took him to the top of a mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world, “All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me.” Another lead into Jesus’ goodness. “You can rule the whole world,” the devil bargained, “and be the best ruler the world has ever known, so long as death remains under my control.” But the devil, in these repeated temptations began to reveal himself for who he was, and ironically drove Jesus from the wilderness. “Away with you Satan! For it is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve him only.’” Jesus had triumphed as the Spirit intended. He determined in the wilderness, in the face there even of the devil’s temptations, to die for the sin of humankind and it was a determination he could make good on. And the devil had played into his hands in more ways than one. Jesus would now recognize all temptations from his determination to die for the sin of humankind as precisely the temptation of the devil – Peter’s rebuke to him that he must not die, the crowds at Palm Sunday who acknowledged and hailed him as a political messiah, his own terror at the Garden of Gethsemane, and the jeers at him on his cross, “If you are the Son of God, save yourself.” Yet it is difficult to fathom the depth of the suffering Jesus endured in the wilderness and strength he somehow summoned there. Part of the grace I r eceived from my own time in the wilderness is that I can now better glimpse it. But what kind of man could endure that suffering and summon that strength? Only one kind of man, if you think about it, a man of perfect love as was his -- love for his father, love for humankind. We are bid this first Sunday in Lent to reflect upon Jesus in the wilderness, and as we do so, to reflect too as honestly and openly as we are able about our own lives over against his; to ask ourselves questions like these: Am I mindful of what he endured for me? Do I live a life worthy of him? Am I the person he calls me to be? Do I love all those as he bids me to love? Am I loyal to him? Could I stand before him? And we will know if we have entered the season of Lent if our reflection issues in repentance, which particularly in Lent, but in every season of the Christian year, is the practice and mark of the true Christian. Amen.
By Rebecca Clancy May 20, 2020
Excuses -- It’s not my job. I don’t feel like it. It’s not my problem. I don’t have time. It’s not my fault. We are all familiar with excuses such as these….because we all make them. Everyone does. We hear them spoken as often as we speak them. And it seems a venial enough matter, especially relative to the scandals we hear about day to day. But listen to what people like George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, George Washington Carver, Benjamin Franklin, and Abraham Lincoln, respectively, have to say about excuses: He that is good for making excuses is seldom good for anything else. An excuse is worse than a lie, for an excuse is a lie guarded. Excuses are tools of the incompetent to build a monument to nothing. He who excuses himself accuses himself. There aren’t enough crutches in the world for all the lame excuses. And so, perhaps we should consider whether our lax attitude about excuses is itself an excuse for making them. Perhaps too we should consider excuses more carefully to see why the great minds find them anything but venial. Excuses, if you reflect about it, no matter what form they take, all seem to have one thing in common. They all seem to share one common aim – and that is to evade responsibility. They are in fact rationalizations that we can not or will not make the required effort to accomplish something. Excuses, therefore, allow us to assume just the amount of responsibility we want to assume and no more. They allow us to do just what we want to do and no more. They allow us to be just who we want to be and no more. They allow us to take the easy course. But the easy course, despite its ostensible allure, may not necessarily be the best course. It is the broad road after all, the Bible warns, that leads to destruction. For are we really meant to take the easy course? Has anyone who has made an impact on history taken the easy course? Did Washington or Jefferson or Franklin or Carver or Lincoln? Has anyone you truly look up to taken the easy course? No, the easy course is decidedly not the best course. We aren’t mean for ease; we are meant for undertaking. We are meant to take responsibility. And this holds true for just about everybody. It’s simply life. But for Christians the ante is upped considerably, because for Christians it is not just life that calls us to responsibility; it is God. God calls us to responsibility to him. Consider this morning’s gospel lesson, Jesus’ Parable of the Great Dinner. A host issues invitations to a great dinner. When the oxen and fat calves are slaughtered and prepared; when the table is laid and everything is in readiness, he sends his slave to summon those invited. They all make excuses. For one it the piece of land he has just purchased that is in need of his inspection. For a second it is the five oxen he has just purchased that are in need of his testing. For a third it is a wife he has just acquired who is in need of his who knows what. The point is that they are all are too preoccupied with their own endeavors, so they all send their regrets. They all make excuses God, the parable teaches, has called us to responsibility, responsibility to him. And what excuses are we likely to offer? For some of us it may be our possessions that preoccupy us, and the more possessions the more we are preoccupied by them. For others it may be our livelihoods, for others, our families. And these are all good excuses. They are in fact brilliant excuses for indeed they are all bona fide responsibilities. But they are in the last analysis excuses, for God’s call to responsibility to him comes first. For it you think about it, how are our responsibilities to possessions, livelihoods, and families rightly and truthfully met if we have not first met our responsibility to God? Possessions, for instance, can certainly be positive goods. We are all needful of some basic kit to survive – food, clothing, and shelter. What’s more, it is not too much to allow that we are all entitled to a few extras – objects of beauty or remembrance or adornment or comfort. But what of our tendency to hoarding and excess and greed? What of our tendency to use our possessions to proclaim our self-worth? Only after we’ve answered God’s call to responsibility do we learn the value of simplicity and humility that allows us both to give the glory to God and to share with those in need. And so it is with our livelihoods. Livelihoods too can certainly be positive goods. We are made to work. We are not made to idle or luxuriate. This does nothing more than spoil our characters. But what of our tendency to consider our livelihoods as solely the means to personal gain? What of our tendency to assert our livelihoods as a claim to status? Only after we’ve answered God’s call to responsibility do we learn that our livelihoods are the means by which, according to our interests and gifts, we contribute to the betterment of society and grow his Kingdom. And so it is even with our families. Families can as well certainly be positive goods. We hear again and again that the family is the most basic unit of society, without which society itself is threatened. But what of our tendency to view our families as proud bulwarks over against other families? What of our tendency to subject those closest to us to abuse, neglect, or control? Only after we’ve answered God’s call to responsibility do we learn that that family is the place where we first learn that love that that is meant be shared boundlessly. Yes, God’s call to responsibility to him must come first, and to those who may still be tempted to make excuses, let us return to the parable. When those invited make excuses the host gets angry and orders his slave to go out again and invite those who will not make excuses -- those who are less “important”, those who have less to preoccupy them -- the poor, the crippled, the blind, and the lame. God, the parable teaches, will not accept our excuses. Period. And God is not being harsh. We must not we blame him for it. God is not a God of indulgence, a God who pampers and coddles us in our obduracy. That would be to show us no real kindness. It would be to enable us in our obduracy, and this God will not do. He will merely, the parable teaches, leave us to our excuses and demonstrate through those replace us, those we may deem less worthy and respectable than ourselves, that his purposes will not be undone. Rather, it is we who will be undone. And lest we go from this place with a grim sense of resignation, we must be reminded of one thing. It is as Jesus himself declares, “Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me…and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” When we take his yoke upon us, by his word, we will experience a lightening of our temporal burdens, a lightening of our worldly burdens we’ve ever experienced. We will experience a relief from our temporal burdens we never thought possible. This is because we will experience the life that in him is everlasting. Amen.
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