The Tenth Sunday After Pentecost Hosea 11: 1 – 11
Sunday, August 1, 2010 Colossians 3: 1 – 11
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 12: 13 – 21
When Israel was a child, I loved him, and out of Egypt I called my son.
Hosea 11: 1
“When Israel was a child, I loved him, and out of Egypt I called my son,” God says in our Old Testament reading from the prophet Hosea this morning. “I led them with cords of human kindness, with bands of love. I was to them like those who lift infants to their cheeks. I bent down to them and fed them.” Eight centuries before Christ, the prophet Hosea movingly speaks of the love of God for Israel and God’s anguish and grief, as God mourns: “My people are bent on turning away from me.” In words that are poignant, intimate and deeply personal, Hosea reveals God’s suffering as he watches his beloved Israel walk away.
Five hundred years before Hosea wrote these words, the people Israel were slaves in Egypt, making bricks for Pharoah’s building projects. And God saw their misery and heard their cries and rescued them, parting the Red Sea and leading them through the Sinai desert to the land of Canaan, the Promised Land, a land flowing with milk and honey. When God parted the Red Sea, God transformed a poor band of slaves into the people Israel, God’s chosen people, a people who were no longer to bow down before any other god, for the Lord their God was a jealous God who said: “You shall have no other Gods before me.” Freed from the oppression of Pharaoh, Israel was called to be a community of justice and compassion, especially to the stranger and to the poor, because they had once been slaves in Egypt. Israel was called to be an “alternative community,” in the words of biblical scholar Walter Brueggemann, replacing the politics of Pharoah with the politics of justice and mercy, to reflect in their common life the ways of God, the God who had heard their cries and rescued them from oppression.
But once the people Israel were settled in the land of Canaan, perhaps inevitably, the people wanted a king. For two hundred years, Israel had existed as a rather loose confederation of twelve tribes, and now, these twelve tribes wanted someone to lead them, to unify them and to make of them a nation, like the other nations. And beginning with Saul and then David and finally Solomon, Israel enjoyed a united kingdom. But after Solomon, the united kingdom fell apart, becoming two kingdoms, each with its king. Neither kingdom lasted for long - in the eighth century, the northern kingdom of Israel fell to the Assyrians and in the sixth century, the southern kingdom of Judah fell to the Babylonians. The desire for a king seems to have been the undoing of the people of God.
And the beginning of prophets like Hosea. With the rise of the monarchy, prophets sprang up. Prophets had a rather disagreeable way of reminding the people Israel of their covenant with God, a covenant in which they promised to love God above all else and their neighbors as themselves, which meant, then, as it does now, extending the justice and compassion we want for ourselves, to the least, to the stranger, to the outsider. Prophets were, in some ways, the conscience of Israel, challenging Israel, not to be like the nations, but rather to be a light for the nations.
And so the prophet Nathan challenged King David, accusing him of murder after David killed the husband of the woman he wanted to marry, Bathsheba. Later, Elijah the prophet, told King Ahab and his wife Jezebel to stop chasing after pagan gods, and nearly lost his life because of it. The prophets were bent on keeping the monarchy on edge and the monarchy was generally not wholly enthusiastic with these prophetic intrusions.
Hosea is writing on the eve of the Assyrian conquest of the northern kingdom. Israel’s defeat and subsequent deportation followed years of instability as kings came and went. Internally, Israel was falling apart. And as the Assyrians became more threatening, Israel vainly sought safety in political alliances with other nations, such as Egypt. But in 722 B.C., Israel fell and the ruling class was exiled to Assyria.
For Hosea, Israel’s defeat was not a political tragedy but a theological tragedy rooted in Israel’s unfaithfulness. Hosea likens the relationship between God and Israel to that between a husband and an adulteress wife. Last week in our reading Hosea, Israel is called a whore who God divorces, giving Israel up to Israel’s other lovers. And today, we hear of God’s grief and continuing love for Israel in spite of Israel’s unfaithfulness. “How can I hand you over, O Israel?” God cries. “My heart recoils within me; my compassion grows warm and tender.” With anger and grief and tender compassion, the heavens are shaken by Israel’s unfaithfulness.
Prophets, like Hosea, call our attention to what is wrong with any nation, any organization, any system or political structure. Prophets make us aware of the limits of all human attempts to create the kingdom of God on earth. No nation, because all nations are humanly constructed, is perfectly just nor immune from self-interest, privileging some at the expense of others. Prophets disturb our complacency that everything is alright, when indeed, everything may be alright for us but not for others. Prophets dare us to listen to the cries of the oppressed as God listened to the cries of those slaves in Egypt. Prophets were and continue to be, unwelcome voices which is why we hear Jesus say in the gospels: “Prophets are not without honor except in their own country and in their own house.” Most of us do not like to think of ourselves as “whores” who have walked away from God but rather as kind, generous and faithful.
You and I cannot live without some sort of structure; our common life depends upon some degree of order. In the absence of any body politic, the politics of chaos take over. But every structure, every system needs the challenge of the prophetic voice, to be disturbed, to reflect upon the ways in which our organizations – our politics - exclude and oppress.
But the task of the prophet is not simply to criticize, as Brueggemann notes. The task of the prophet includes holding out the hope that God will do a new thing. Moses did not only condemn Pharoah; Moses invited those slaves to hope for a new future, a future not determined by Pharoah, but determined by God. Hosea last week called Israel a whore, condemning Israel for lusting after other gods; this week Hosea writes that God is still in love with Israel and wants to take Israel back. God held out hope for Israel in spite of Israel’s unfaithfulness.
You and I may not always know what to do to correct the injustices of our structures, national, local or ecclesiastical. But not knowing what to do is not an invitation to ignore the cries of the oppressed. Not knowing what to do is usually the prerequisite confession that we need to make to allow God to do what we cannot.
When I was in seminary, a professor shared a story about a parish and its vestry with which he was familiar. He said whenever that particular vestry came together to make decisions about the life of the parish someone always asked: “How will this affect the poor?” That story has haunted my imagination ever since. What would happen if we asked that question at our vestry meetings? And what might happen if we asked that question not just at vestry meetings but at boards of directors meetings or around our own kitchen tables? In what way are the poor and the marginalized affected by our plans and projects, the way we make and spend our money and the causes we support?
“How will this affect the poor?” is a prophetic question and a deeply disturbing one at that. The question our culture wants us to ask is: “What’s in it for me? How will this proposal or that program or this legislation affect me or my family or my special interest group?” Leave the concerns of the poor to social service agencies and to our charitable (and tax deductible) contributions. Charity begins at home.
Charity does not begin at home; charity begins with God who heard the cries of his people and brought them out of slavery in Egypt. And charity ends with God, who, in God’s mercy does not leave us to suffer the wages of sin and death, but opens for us the possibility of new life in Christ. May we be as merciful to others as God has been to all of us.
Sunday, August 1, 2010 Colossians 3: 1 – 11
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 12: 13 – 21
When Israel was a child, I loved him, and out of Egypt I called my son.
Hosea 11: 1
“When Israel was a child, I loved him, and out of Egypt I called my son,” God says in our Old Testament reading from the prophet Hosea this morning. “I led them with cords of human kindness, with bands of love. I was to them like those who lift infants to their cheeks. I bent down to them and fed them.” Eight centuries before Christ, the prophet Hosea movingly speaks of the love of God for Israel and God’s anguish and grief, as God mourns: “My people are bent on turning away from me.” In words that are poignant, intimate and deeply personal, Hosea reveals God’s suffering as he watches his beloved Israel walk away.
Five hundred years before Hosea wrote these words, the people Israel were slaves in Egypt, making bricks for Pharoah’s building projects. And God saw their misery and heard their cries and rescued them, parting the Red Sea and leading them through the Sinai desert to the land of Canaan, the Promised Land, a land flowing with milk and honey. When God parted the Red Sea, God transformed a poor band of slaves into the people Israel, God’s chosen people, a people who were no longer to bow down before any other god, for the Lord their God was a jealous God who said: “You shall have no other Gods before me.” Freed from the oppression of Pharaoh, Israel was called to be a community of justice and compassion, especially to the stranger and to the poor, because they had once been slaves in Egypt. Israel was called to be an “alternative community,” in the words of biblical scholar Walter Brueggemann, replacing the politics of Pharoah with the politics of justice and mercy, to reflect in their common life the ways of God, the God who had heard their cries and rescued them from oppression.
But once the people Israel were settled in the land of Canaan, perhaps inevitably, the people wanted a king. For two hundred years, Israel had existed as a rather loose confederation of twelve tribes, and now, these twelve tribes wanted someone to lead them, to unify them and to make of them a nation, like the other nations. And beginning with Saul and then David and finally Solomon, Israel enjoyed a united kingdom. But after Solomon, the united kingdom fell apart, becoming two kingdoms, each with its king. Neither kingdom lasted for long - in the eighth century, the northern kingdom of Israel fell to the Assyrians and in the sixth century, the southern kingdom of Judah fell to the Babylonians. The desire for a king seems to have been the undoing of the people of God.
And the beginning of prophets like Hosea. With the rise of the monarchy, prophets sprang up. Prophets had a rather disagreeable way of reminding the people Israel of their covenant with God, a covenant in which they promised to love God above all else and their neighbors as themselves, which meant, then, as it does now, extending the justice and compassion we want for ourselves, to the least, to the stranger, to the outsider. Prophets were, in some ways, the conscience of Israel, challenging Israel, not to be like the nations, but rather to be a light for the nations.
And so the prophet Nathan challenged King David, accusing him of murder after David killed the husband of the woman he wanted to marry, Bathsheba. Later, Elijah the prophet, told King Ahab and his wife Jezebel to stop chasing after pagan gods, and nearly lost his life because of it. The prophets were bent on keeping the monarchy on edge and the monarchy was generally not wholly enthusiastic with these prophetic intrusions.
Hosea is writing on the eve of the Assyrian conquest of the northern kingdom. Israel’s defeat and subsequent deportation followed years of instability as kings came and went. Internally, Israel was falling apart. And as the Assyrians became more threatening, Israel vainly sought safety in political alliances with other nations, such as Egypt. But in 722 B.C., Israel fell and the ruling class was exiled to Assyria.
For Hosea, Israel’s defeat was not a political tragedy but a theological tragedy rooted in Israel’s unfaithfulness. Hosea likens the relationship between God and Israel to that between a husband and an adulteress wife. Last week in our reading Hosea, Israel is called a whore who God divorces, giving Israel up to Israel’s other lovers. And today, we hear of God’s grief and continuing love for Israel in spite of Israel’s unfaithfulness. “How can I hand you over, O Israel?” God cries. “My heart recoils within me; my compassion grows warm and tender.” With anger and grief and tender compassion, the heavens are shaken by Israel’s unfaithfulness.
Prophets, like Hosea, call our attention to what is wrong with any nation, any organization, any system or political structure. Prophets make us aware of the limits of all human attempts to create the kingdom of God on earth. No nation, because all nations are humanly constructed, is perfectly just nor immune from self-interest, privileging some at the expense of others. Prophets disturb our complacency that everything is alright, when indeed, everything may be alright for us but not for others. Prophets dare us to listen to the cries of the oppressed as God listened to the cries of those slaves in Egypt. Prophets were and continue to be, unwelcome voices which is why we hear Jesus say in the gospels: “Prophets are not without honor except in their own country and in their own house.” Most of us do not like to think of ourselves as “whores” who have walked away from God but rather as kind, generous and faithful.
You and I cannot live without some sort of structure; our common life depends upon some degree of order. In the absence of any body politic, the politics of chaos take over. But every structure, every system needs the challenge of the prophetic voice, to be disturbed, to reflect upon the ways in which our organizations – our politics - exclude and oppress.
But the task of the prophet is not simply to criticize, as Brueggemann notes. The task of the prophet includes holding out the hope that God will do a new thing. Moses did not only condemn Pharoah; Moses invited those slaves to hope for a new future, a future not determined by Pharoah, but determined by God. Hosea last week called Israel a whore, condemning Israel for lusting after other gods; this week Hosea writes that God is still in love with Israel and wants to take Israel back. God held out hope for Israel in spite of Israel’s unfaithfulness.
You and I may not always know what to do to correct the injustices of our structures, national, local or ecclesiastical. But not knowing what to do is not an invitation to ignore the cries of the oppressed. Not knowing what to do is usually the prerequisite confession that we need to make to allow God to do what we cannot.
When I was in seminary, a professor shared a story about a parish and its vestry with which he was familiar. He said whenever that particular vestry came together to make decisions about the life of the parish someone always asked: “How will this affect the poor?” That story has haunted my imagination ever since. What would happen if we asked that question at our vestry meetings? And what might happen if we asked that question not just at vestry meetings but at boards of directors meetings or around our own kitchen tables? In what way are the poor and the marginalized affected by our plans and projects, the way we make and spend our money and the causes we support?
“How will this affect the poor?” is a prophetic question and a deeply disturbing one at that. The question our culture wants us to ask is: “What’s in it for me? How will this proposal or that program or this legislation affect me or my family or my special interest group?” Leave the concerns of the poor to social service agencies and to our charitable (and tax deductible) contributions. Charity begins at home.
Charity does not begin at home; charity begins with God who heard the cries of his people and brought them out of slavery in Egypt. And charity ends with God, who, in God’s mercy does not leave us to suffer the wages of sin and death, but opens for us the possibility of new life in Christ. May we be as merciful to others as God has been to all of us.
The Twelfth Sunday After Pentecost Isaiah 5: 1 – 7
Sunday, August 15, 2010 Hebrews 11; 29 – 12: 2
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 12: 49 – 56
“Do you think I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, rather division!”
Luke 12: 51
Jesus does not sound warm and loving this morning in our reading from the gospel of Luke. “I came to bring fire to the earth,” Jesus says. And this fire which Jesus brings will divide families as fathers are set against sons and mothers are sent against daughters. “Do you think I have come to bring peace to the earth?” Jesus announces. “No, I tell you, but rather division!” What happened to the good shepherd who leads us into green pastures?
Our reading comes as Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem for the final showdown between the powers of this world and the power of God. Jesus is on his way to be crucified, to be killed at the hands of a world that believed he was a trouble maker and a rabble rouser, a disturber of the peace. They were right - Jesus did disturb the peace, the peace of a world satisfied with its own righteousness.
And with good reason. Jesus lived and died under the shadow of the Roman Empire. The glory of the Roman Empire was rooted in the pax Romana, the peace of Rome. The maintenance of peace allowed Rome to build roads, trade to flourish, and Roman culture to spread throughout the known world. You and I are heirs of many of the achievements of the Roman Empire, from aqueducts to philosophy. Peace was essential to the creation of a culture that gave birth to Western civilization. To this day, we enjoy the glory that was Rome. The Roman Empire simply could not afford not to be at peace.
And then a man came along, announcing the advent of the kingdom of God, confronting the righteousness of the world with the righteousness of God. Into a world that trusted in its own goodness, Jesus came, disturbing the peace, saying: “No one is good but God alone.” Jesus lived and died in a world that believed that some human beings really can be “good,” a belief that inevitably divides us into “good” people and “bad” people, righteous people and unrighteous people. Into this world, Jesus came, preferring the company of the not so good people, saying: “I have come to call not the righteous but sinners to repentance.”
The not so good people in Jesus’ time as in ours are all those who are not at peace, who are struggling or hurting or suffering. Those folk are the real disturbers of the peace. The Roman Empire was wonderful until and unless someone came and stirred things up. And Jesus did. And Jesus got crucified. The Roman Empire had no room for a man like Jesus.
The peace which God seeks is a peace which is something akin to having an absurdly large dinner table with a place for everyone in the midst of a world that always seems to have only “limited seating.” In our world, someone is always “in” and someone is always “out.”
I spent a lot of time in the parking deck at MCV this week and as I wound my way through that massive eight story structure, I saw a lot of very big cars taking up more than their fair share of limited space, some straddling two spaces, I suppose in an attempt by the drivers to keep their cars from being scratched by their neighbors as doors were opened. Space was tight, but I was aggravated as I went round and round that some folk seemed more concerned about the finish on their car than the reality that folks seeking a space were seeking a space because someone they cared about was in the hospital.
Jesus re-ordered priorities as he moved around first century Palestine. Jesus had this rather obnoxious way of pointing out the least and the lost and saying: “Well, what are you going to do about this man who is lame or this woman who is hemorrhaging or this child who is invisible?” Everyone had a place at Jesus’ table, but like the MCV parking deck, oftentimes there was no room to park. What Jesus saw and what we cannot even begin to imagine is a table (or a parking deck) with room for everyone.
Making room for one more is what we are about today. Today we are about to baptize Judson Leach. Judson is about to join the communion of saints which stretches all the way back to Saint Peter and Saint Paul and includes such luminaries as Saint Augustine and Aquinas and Saint Asaph and Mother Theresa. In our century, Judson is about to share a table with Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Martin Luther King. And, of course all us. Today we all need to make room for one more chair at the table.
Having Judson at the table is going to change things. His Mom and his Dad probably already know that. But as Jordan grows and begins to get a voice, Judson’s voice will need to be heard. Who knows what Judson might say! Judson may disturb our peace. We may not like what Judson has to stay. Judson may not say what we want him to say. Judson may not always be easy to listen to. Judson may, and probably will, disturb our peace. Making a place for Judson at the table may not always be easy.
Today, all of us, pledge that no matter what, Judson will always have a place at the table. We make this affirmation in the name of the church knowing Judson will not be a part of this parish in this town. But Judson, as of this day, will always be a member of the church. Judson will, as we all do, encounter many powers that will seek to claim his allegiance. Those powers may be family telling him who or what he ought to be or the powers of success telling him he really should do this or that.
I hope Judson follows his heart. I hope and pray this day that Judson will have the courage to say at the end of the day: “You know this is really what I love.” I hope and pray this day that Judson will have the courage to say at the end of the day: “You know, this is not working for me,” and honor his right to walk away from people and things that are not giving him life. And I hope and pray that Judson will find the courage to say “I’m sorry; I screwed up” and be able start again. I hope at the end of the day Judson finds a community that will take seriously the promises this community has made on his behalf this day and support him as he lives into their claims.
Judson, like all of us, will come to know the peace of God, not by avoiding conflict and confrontation, but rather by remembering that he as are all of us, dearly beloved creatures of God with particular gifts and roles within God’s world. No one is without a place at God’s table. Finding his place in this world, like finding a parking space in a parking deck, may call him to disturb the peace from time to time, to confront the status quo and to challenge systems that privilege some at the expense of others. God willing, Judson will find his place and come to know that real peace will only come to pass when we realize there is room for everyone at God’s table.
Sunday, August 15, 2010 Hebrews 11; 29 – 12: 2
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 12: 49 – 56
“Do you think I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, rather division!”
Luke 12: 51
Jesus does not sound warm and loving this morning in our reading from the gospel of Luke. “I came to bring fire to the earth,” Jesus says. And this fire which Jesus brings will divide families as fathers are set against sons and mothers are sent against daughters. “Do you think I have come to bring peace to the earth?” Jesus announces. “No, I tell you, but rather division!” What happened to the good shepherd who leads us into green pastures?
Our reading comes as Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem for the final showdown between the powers of this world and the power of God. Jesus is on his way to be crucified, to be killed at the hands of a world that believed he was a trouble maker and a rabble rouser, a disturber of the peace. They were right - Jesus did disturb the peace, the peace of a world satisfied with its own righteousness.
And with good reason. Jesus lived and died under the shadow of the Roman Empire. The glory of the Roman Empire was rooted in the pax Romana, the peace of Rome. The maintenance of peace allowed Rome to build roads, trade to flourish, and Roman culture to spread throughout the known world. You and I are heirs of many of the achievements of the Roman Empire, from aqueducts to philosophy. Peace was essential to the creation of a culture that gave birth to Western civilization. To this day, we enjoy the glory that was Rome. The Roman Empire simply could not afford not to be at peace.
And then a man came along, announcing the advent of the kingdom of God, confronting the righteousness of the world with the righteousness of God. Into a world that trusted in its own goodness, Jesus came, disturbing the peace, saying: “No one is good but God alone.” Jesus lived and died in a world that believed that some human beings really can be “good,” a belief that inevitably divides us into “good” people and “bad” people, righteous people and unrighteous people. Into this world, Jesus came, preferring the company of the not so good people, saying: “I have come to call not the righteous but sinners to repentance.”
The not so good people in Jesus’ time as in ours are all those who are not at peace, who are struggling or hurting or suffering. Those folk are the real disturbers of the peace. The Roman Empire was wonderful until and unless someone came and stirred things up. And Jesus did. And Jesus got crucified. The Roman Empire had no room for a man like Jesus.
The peace which God seeks is a peace which is something akin to having an absurdly large dinner table with a place for everyone in the midst of a world that always seems to have only “limited seating.” In our world, someone is always “in” and someone is always “out.”
I spent a lot of time in the parking deck at MCV this week and as I wound my way through that massive eight story structure, I saw a lot of very big cars taking up more than their fair share of limited space, some straddling two spaces, I suppose in an attempt by the drivers to keep their cars from being scratched by their neighbors as doors were opened. Space was tight, but I was aggravated as I went round and round that some folk seemed more concerned about the finish on their car than the reality that folks seeking a space were seeking a space because someone they cared about was in the hospital.
Jesus re-ordered priorities as he moved around first century Palestine. Jesus had this rather obnoxious way of pointing out the least and the lost and saying: “Well, what are you going to do about this man who is lame or this woman who is hemorrhaging or this child who is invisible?” Everyone had a place at Jesus’ table, but like the MCV parking deck, oftentimes there was no room to park. What Jesus saw and what we cannot even begin to imagine is a table (or a parking deck) with room for everyone.
Making room for one more is what we are about today. Today we are about to baptize Judson Leach. Judson is about to join the communion of saints which stretches all the way back to Saint Peter and Saint Paul and includes such luminaries as Saint Augustine and Aquinas and Saint Asaph and Mother Theresa. In our century, Judson is about to share a table with Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Martin Luther King. And, of course all us. Today we all need to make room for one more chair at the table.
Having Judson at the table is going to change things. His Mom and his Dad probably already know that. But as Jordan grows and begins to get a voice, Judson’s voice will need to be heard. Who knows what Judson might say! Judson may disturb our peace. We may not like what Judson has to stay. Judson may not say what we want him to say. Judson may not always be easy to listen to. Judson may, and probably will, disturb our peace. Making a place for Judson at the table may not always be easy.
Today, all of us, pledge that no matter what, Judson will always have a place at the table. We make this affirmation in the name of the church knowing Judson will not be a part of this parish in this town. But Judson, as of this day, will always be a member of the church. Judson will, as we all do, encounter many powers that will seek to claim his allegiance. Those powers may be family telling him who or what he ought to be or the powers of success telling him he really should do this or that.
I hope Judson follows his heart. I hope and pray this day that Judson will have the courage to say at the end of the day: “You know this is really what I love.” I hope and pray this day that Judson will have the courage to say at the end of the day: “You know, this is not working for me,” and honor his right to walk away from people and things that are not giving him life. And I hope and pray that Judson will find the courage to say “I’m sorry; I screwed up” and be able start again. I hope at the end of the day Judson finds a community that will take seriously the promises this community has made on his behalf this day and support him as he lives into their claims.
Judson, like all of us, will come to know the peace of God, not by avoiding conflict and confrontation, but rather by remembering that he as are all of us, dearly beloved creatures of God with particular gifts and roles within God’s world. No one is without a place at God’s table. Finding his place in this world, like finding a parking space in a parking deck, may call him to disturb the peace from time to time, to confront the status quo and to challenge systems that privilege some at the expense of others. God willing, Judson will find his place and come to know that real peace will only come to pass when we realize there is room for everyone at God’s table.
The Thirteenth Sunday After Pentecost Jeremiah 1: 4 – 10
Sunday, August 22, 2010 Hebrews 12: 18 – 29
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 13: 10 – 17
And ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham whom Satan bound for eighteen long years, be set free from bondage on the Sabbath day?
Luke 13: 16
Every Friday, a table is set in many Jewish homes, dressed with the family’s best linens and set with their finest silver and china. On the table are two loaves of twisted bread, a glass of wine and two candles. Just before sunset, the woman of the house lights the candles, and then, covering her eyes, prays: Blessed are you, Lord, our God, sovereign of the universe, Who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to light the lights of Shabbat. With the lighting of the candles on Friday night, faithful Jews remember and celebrate the Sabbath, God’s gift and promise of rest.
From sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday, faithful Jews will refrain from work, worship in the Synagogue and enjoy the goodness of God’s creation. The Sabbath is the one holy day commanded by God in the Ten Commandments when God tells Israel: “Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy.” Six days Israel could work, but on the seventh, Israel was to rest, as God rested on the seventh day of creation.
On the seventh day of creation, after God created the light and the dark, the seas and the dry land, fruits and flowers, animals of all kinds and finally humankind, God rested. God rested, not from the exhaustion or fatigue of hard labor, but more like a painter who, after finishing a work of art, steps back to admire his handiwork. Like an artist who has laid down his brush for the last time, God rested in the perfection of God’s work.
And so God called God’s people to set aside the seventh day of the week, to celebrate the glory of God, to remember what God has done and look forward to the completion of God’s purposes for us and for all of creation. Six days we can labor, but on the seventh we are called to remember and to celebrate. For the Jews, the Sabbath is “a taste of the world to come,” in the words of one commentator, a day of re-creation in anticipation of the time when God will come again and make all things new. In the words of the rabbis, “As Israel has kept the Sabbath, the Sabbath has kept Israel alive.”
Keeping the Sabbath means coming to rest, letting go of all those many tasks that demand our attention the other six days of the week. You and I have grown up in a culture that recognizes Sunday as a day when most people are “off,” schools and banks are closed, and mail is not delivered. But in the ancient world, one day looked pretty much like every other day and when the Jews refused to work on the Sabbath, many perceived them to be lazy. To the pagans, this Jewish practice made no sense.
And the pagans were not the only ones who were troubled by this practice. Within Judaism, the command to do no work on the Sabbath raised up the issue of what exactly constituted “work.” Laying brick, as the Jews had done for Pharoah was clearly work. But what about preparing meals, giving your animals water or caring for a sick family member? The Jews wanted to honor the commandment to keep the Sabbath holy, but how to interpret the commandment was not always clear.
Some things must get done and to this day, prohibitions against work on the Jewish Sabbath respect and acknowledge concerns for health and safety. Meal preparation is understood as “work” and must be done before the beginning of the Sabbath, but leading one’s ox and donkey to water on the Sabbath, as Jesus acknowledges in our text, although work, is allowed during the Sabbath rest. Insofar as Jews are able, faithful Jews are to leave aside the tasks of daily life in order to rest in God alone.
And so, we meet Jesus this morning in our reading from Luke, healing a crippled woman on the Sabbath. And Jesus is met with an indignant Jewish religious leader who accuses Jesus of “working” on the Sabbath. And before we condemn too quickly this “leader of the synagogue” let us remember that we, too, would be indignant if the company who recently installed our new heating and air conditioning system insisted upon doing the work on Sunday morning. We, like the Jews then and now, would frown upon such a disturbance on a day set aside for worship. So the leader of the synagogue takes the crowd to task saying: “There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those days and be cured, and not on the sabbath day.”
But for Jesus, the Sabbath is a day of liberation, a day when we are freed from the cares and anxieties of this world as we remember and celebrate God’s faithful presence among us and God’s dream that God’s very good creation will, one day, be very good once more. Sabbath is a gift to us from God who wants us to trust and rest in God’s love. The healing of this crippled woman is a sign of God’s promised rest and renewal for all of creation. This woman who has been unable to stand up straight for eighteen years, bent over by affliction, is now given, without even asking, the dignity of being able to hold her head up. Her re-creation is the gift of the Sabbath, not just for her but for all of us.
The idea of a Sabbath rest was and continues to be, odd. We are a people whose identity is usually grounded in what we do, how much we can accomplish, and how much we can produce. The important part of our lives is our work, what we can do, whether or not we are compensated. Just “being” seems fruitless, pointless and a waste of time. Not working makes us feel useless, like we are doing nothing.
We live between work and “vacations,” a respite from the rat race, ultimately “retiring” as if any of us can ever really retire from life. Sabbath time is not a vacation, but a time in which God can re-create us to keep on keeping on. Jesus heals this crippled woman to set her free to return to her community praising God, making her a witness to the good news that God can and will free God’s creation from all that binds them. This crippled woman is not given a vacation but a new life.
Following the resurrection, the observance of the seventh day, Saturday, took a back seat to Sunday, the first day of the week and the day of resurrection. Most Christians now hallow Sunday rather than Saturday as our day of Sabbath rest. Unfortunately, preparing for Sunday’s worship does not always make Sunday a day of “rest,” not for sure the kind of rest Jews intended by all their prohibitions against work on the Sabbath. Making “church” happen is no small task and Sunday mornings for many of us can be as tasking and challenging as any other day in the week. Of course, we all have Sunday afternoon.
Taking a nap on Sunday afternoon would be very much in keeping with the Jewish understanding of Sabbath. So too, would be asking those in your family who they think God is and looks like and acts like. Sunday afternoons would be a good time to wonder about why you went to church, if you did, in the morning. Sunday afternoons are probably not a good time to begin stressing out about Monday morning. Sabbath time is God’s time and we need to hallow that time, to protect that time from all the many diversions and distractions that will invariably foist themselves upon us. Do nothing this afternoon. If God had the confidence to rest after creating six days, surely we can rest in the assurance that nothing we say or do is so critical we cannot lay it all aside. Take a nap, eat leftovers, enjoy those you love, turn the T.V. off and do not go shopping. I think our newest generation calls this “hanging out.” Hang out with God this afternoon and enjoy a bit of Sabbath time.
The Fourteenth Sunday After Pentecost Jeremiah 2: 4 – 13
Sunday, August 29, 2010 Hebrews 13: 1 – 8, 15 – 16
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 14: 1, 7 – 14
“For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”
Luke 14: 11
The Good Housekeeping Cookbook first published in 1942, offers the following advice for seating guests at a dinner party: As family and guests come into the dining room, it is the hostesses’ responsibility to tell each one where he or she is to sit. Usually the host sits at one end and the hostess at other. To host’s immediate right sits lady guest of honor and, to his left, next lady to whom special honor is due. To hostess’ immediate right sits gentleman guest of honor, with next male guest of importance to her left. Remaining places are filled by guests and family as suggested by hostess. (It is well for hostess to have her seating arrangement planned before dinner.)
Knowing your place at the table was and continues to be, an important part of our social landscape. The seating of guests especially at weddings and state dinners is a carefully orchestrated affair, insuring that “honored guests” like the bride and the groom or a head of state are not eating with just anybody but with their wedding party or the President and First Lady. Sitting down at the head table at a wedding when you are not a member of the wedding part is beyond the pale; sit down next to the President of the United States at a state dinner and you are likely to be arrested. Not knowing your place at the table can cause a good deal of embarrassment or worse.
This morning Jesus tells a parable about a wedding feast to folks gathered together for dinner on the Sabbath. In the parable one of the guests assumes a place of honor only to be embarrassed when someone more honorable arrives and he is asked to give up his place. “For all who exalt themselves will be humbled,” Jesus concludes, “and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” Knowing your place at the table is important.
Our evangelist Luke is writing his gospel and it’s sequel, the book of Acts, somewhere around 80 to 90 A.D. to a community of both Jews and gentiles. Two, maybe three, generations have passed since Jesus’ ministry and by now the church is no longer a Jewish sect but a distinctive community struggling to forge a common life. And we know from the book of Acts that being a community of both Jews and gentiles was not an easy affair. Once strangers to one another, in Christ Jews and gentiles were called to be friends.
The challenge for this new community was created by Jesus who was often taken to task for not observing the table etiquette of Judaism. Jesus would eat with tax collectors and prostitutes, defiling himself in the eyes of observant Jews. Sharing a common table with those who were ritually unclean rendered you unclean as well - call it guilt by association.
So as this new community that included both Jews and gentiles came together to share a common table in the Eucharist, issues quickly surfaced about what was and was not appropriate for a community that was neither Jewish nor gentile but Christian. Was the mark of circumcision necessary for gentiles as well as for Jews? Must Jews continue to refrain from eating certain foods? The mission to the gentiles confronted this new community with questions that never needed to be asked as long as they all were Jews. So long as they all were Jews, everyone knew their place at the table.
The parable Jesus shares about avoiding embarrassment by not presuming upon a place of honor at the table is not good etiquette but a picture of the church, that community called together by God and in which Jesus holds the only place of honor.
Sharing a common table with those whom God has brought together is no less of a struggle for us than it was for the early church. All have a place at God’s table and with each stranger that comes among us, we will need to take stock of our presumptions.
Several weeks ago, we determined to offer a free community supper every other Wednesday night. The goal was to meet our neighbors, rich and poor, like and unlike us, to simply offer hospitality because hospitality is one of the many gifts of this parish. We have had two suppers and a third scheduled this coming week. Folk have come to these suppers who are not parishioners, enjoying a simple meal and a bit of fellowship. And folk are discovering our pavilion and our “backyard,” finding our space to be an attractive possibility in which to host their events. What we are discovering is that, up until now, we have had no need to clarify our expectations about the use of that area. At the last vestry meeting, the vestry decided the time had come to develop some guidelines for the use of the pavilion.
Becoming clear about who we are and what our expectations are is a good thing and the result of offering hospitality, of welcoming the stranger. The grace of having strangers in our midst, is that strangers invite us to reflect upon who we are and wrestle with what’s important to us. Without strangers to disturb us, we can become complacent, presuming everyone else sees things the way we do.
Jesus calls us to be humble this morning, and being humble is nothing more than “understanding my place in the universe,” in the words of Joan Chittister, a Benedictine sister. Humility is not meekly deferring to others but rather recognizing that there are others in this world besides us. As Chittister notes, humility has often been construed as something akin to being a doormat, a passive aquiesence to the authority of others which fails to acknowledge our own authority and our own voice. Alternatively, when we “exalt” ourselves we seek to be God, to bend this world and others to meet our needs and our desires. “It is arrogance to the utmost,” she writes, “to insist that other people shape their lives to make mine comfortable. It is arrogance unabashed to think that God must do the same.”
Strangers will make our lives uncomfortable, disturbing us to reflect upon what is important us, our priorities, our resources, limits and our needs. Humility welcomes such self-reflection as a means of coming to know ourselves as God knows us. Humility calls us to see ourselves and others honestly, complicated creatures whose hearts do not always “will one thing.” Humility calls us again and again to remember that God calls us together and gives each one of us a place at God’s table. Not claiming your place at the table suggests God sent you an invitation by mistake. Presuming that God sent out only one invitation is pride.
Sunday, August 29, 2010 Hebrews 13: 1 – 8, 15 – 16
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 14: 1, 7 – 14
“For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”
Luke 14: 11
The Good Housekeeping Cookbook first published in 1942, offers the following advice for seating guests at a dinner party: As family and guests come into the dining room, it is the hostesses’ responsibility to tell each one where he or she is to sit. Usually the host sits at one end and the hostess at other. To host’s immediate right sits lady guest of honor and, to his left, next lady to whom special honor is due. To hostess’ immediate right sits gentleman guest of honor, with next male guest of importance to her left. Remaining places are filled by guests and family as suggested by hostess. (It is well for hostess to have her seating arrangement planned before dinner.)
Knowing your place at the table was and continues to be, an important part of our social landscape. The seating of guests especially at weddings and state dinners is a carefully orchestrated affair, insuring that “honored guests” like the bride and the groom or a head of state are not eating with just anybody but with their wedding party or the President and First Lady. Sitting down at the head table at a wedding when you are not a member of the wedding part is beyond the pale; sit down next to the President of the United States at a state dinner and you are likely to be arrested. Not knowing your place at the table can cause a good deal of embarrassment or worse.
This morning Jesus tells a parable about a wedding feast to folks gathered together for dinner on the Sabbath. In the parable one of the guests assumes a place of honor only to be embarrassed when someone more honorable arrives and he is asked to give up his place. “For all who exalt themselves will be humbled,” Jesus concludes, “and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” Knowing your place at the table is important.
Our evangelist Luke is writing his gospel and it’s sequel, the book of Acts, somewhere around 80 to 90 A.D. to a community of both Jews and gentiles. Two, maybe three, generations have passed since Jesus’ ministry and by now the church is no longer a Jewish sect but a distinctive community struggling to forge a common life. And we know from the book of Acts that being a community of both Jews and gentiles was not an easy affair. Once strangers to one another, in Christ Jews and gentiles were called to be friends.
The challenge for this new community was created by Jesus who was often taken to task for not observing the table etiquette of Judaism. Jesus would eat with tax collectors and prostitutes, defiling himself in the eyes of observant Jews. Sharing a common table with those who were ritually unclean rendered you unclean as well - call it guilt by association.
So as this new community that included both Jews and gentiles came together to share a common table in the Eucharist, issues quickly surfaced about what was and was not appropriate for a community that was neither Jewish nor gentile but Christian. Was the mark of circumcision necessary for gentiles as well as for Jews? Must Jews continue to refrain from eating certain foods? The mission to the gentiles confronted this new community with questions that never needed to be asked as long as they all were Jews. So long as they all were Jews, everyone knew their place at the table.
The parable Jesus shares about avoiding embarrassment by not presuming upon a place of honor at the table is not good etiquette but a picture of the church, that community called together by God and in which Jesus holds the only place of honor.
Sharing a common table with those whom God has brought together is no less of a struggle for us than it was for the early church. All have a place at God’s table and with each stranger that comes among us, we will need to take stock of our presumptions.
Several weeks ago, we determined to offer a free community supper every other Wednesday night. The goal was to meet our neighbors, rich and poor, like and unlike us, to simply offer hospitality because hospitality is one of the many gifts of this parish. We have had two suppers and a third scheduled this coming week. Folk have come to these suppers who are not parishioners, enjoying a simple meal and a bit of fellowship. And folk are discovering our pavilion and our “backyard,” finding our space to be an attractive possibility in which to host their events. What we are discovering is that, up until now, we have had no need to clarify our expectations about the use of that area. At the last vestry meeting, the vestry decided the time had come to develop some guidelines for the use of the pavilion.
Becoming clear about who we are and what our expectations are is a good thing and the result of offering hospitality, of welcoming the stranger. The grace of having strangers in our midst, is that strangers invite us to reflect upon who we are and wrestle with what’s important to us. Without strangers to disturb us, we can become complacent, presuming everyone else sees things the way we do.
Jesus calls us to be humble this morning, and being humble is nothing more than “understanding my place in the universe,” in the words of Joan Chittister, a Benedictine sister. Humility is not meekly deferring to others but rather recognizing that there are others in this world besides us. As Chittister notes, humility has often been construed as something akin to being a doormat, a passive aquiesence to the authority of others which fails to acknowledge our own authority and our own voice. Alternatively, when we “exalt” ourselves we seek to be God, to bend this world and others to meet our needs and our desires. “It is arrogance to the utmost,” she writes, “to insist that other people shape their lives to make mine comfortable. It is arrogance unabashed to think that God must do the same.”
Strangers will make our lives uncomfortable, disturbing us to reflect upon what is important us, our priorities, our resources, limits and our needs. Humility welcomes such self-reflection as a means of coming to know ourselves as God knows us. Humility calls us to see ourselves and others honestly, complicated creatures whose hearts do not always “will one thing.” Humility calls us again and again to remember that God calls us together and gives each one of us a place at God’s table. Not claiming your place at the table suggests God sent you an invitation by mistake. Presuming that God sent out only one invitation is pride.