The Fifth Sunday After the Epiphany
Isaiah 58: 1 – 12
Sunday, February 6, 2011 I Corinthians 2: 1 – 16
The Rev. Bambi Willis Matthew 5: 13 – 20
“You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled underfoot.”
Matthew 5: 13
Last Sunday we heard the Beatitudes from the gospel of Matthew. “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” Jesus said, and those who mourn, the meek, those who hunger for righteousness, the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers and the persecuted. Last Sunday we listened as Jesus blessed all those who long for a world made new, a world in which no one weeps, no one is exploited, no one acts unjustly and no one is persecuted. Last Sunday, Jesus blessed all those who long for God’s kingdom to come because through Jesus God has come, come to usher in God’s reign of life and love.
And now this morning, in the verses that come immediately after the Beatitudes, Jesus tells the disciples they are “the salt of the earth” and “the light of the world.” Into a world filled with folk who only see darkness, Jesus tells us we are light. Into a world that looks like it will never change, Jesus tells us we are salt, the way an impersonal and often dehumanizing world becomes personal and human. Last Sunday I shared with the kids during the children’s sermon a collage of faces, lots of faces, some smiling, some not, faces of old men and old women, of young girls growing up in refugee camps and teenage boys struggling to figure out what to do with lives and tired circus clowns and a woman at a religious festival in Peru who is blocked from getting close to the symbols of her faith in order to keep the peace. In the midst of this mélange of hope and despair, Jesus tells us we are light and salt.
“You are salt” and “you are light,” Jesus says. Our evangelist Matthew is writing to a community somewhere around 90 A.D., less than a generation after the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple by the Romans in 70 A.D. The Temple was the heart and soul of the Jewish faith, the very locus of God’s presence with God’s people. When the Temple was destroyed, Judaism was shaken and Jews were no longer able to live out their faith as they always had by worshipping in the Temple.
And to make matters worse, a sect was growing within Judaism, a sect who claimed that Jesus was the long awaited Messiah of God. This sect was growing, attracting gentile converts, folk who had no knowledge of the Jewish way of life. We can only imagine the tensions as Jews sought to figure out who they were in the aftermath of the destruction of the Temple and as Christians sought to figure out who they were in the wake of the Resurrection.
Eventually the tension became too much to bear and Jews and Christians went their separate ways. But we can see the tension in our text this morning as Jesus tells the disciples they are to be both light and salt and more righteous than the scribes and the Pharisees. By the time Matthew writes his gospel the Pharisees were the acknowledged interpreters of the Mosaic law, determining what constituted righteousness or right living according to the Law. For our evangelist Matthew, the authority to interpret the meaning of the Law belongs to Jesus, not the Pharisees. The Law, given by God to Moses, enshrined in the Ten Commandments and then interpreted to cover all kinds of circumstances, was not being superseded by Jesus, but rather fulfilled in him. For Matthew’s community, the Law was not the issue; at issue for Matthew’s community was the proper interpreter of the law. Jesus, for Matthew, not the Pharisees, was the proper interpreter, was the teacher of the Law.
As the new Christian communities struggled to forge a common life between Jews and gentiles, accusations were often leveled against them that this new sect followed no law, were libertines in the extreme and acknowledged no authority whatsoever. Matthew responds to these accusations by saying the Law stands.
The Church, from time to time, has sometimes proclaimed, like Outback Steakhouse, the message: “No rules; just right!” The Church from this perspective is always welcoming, always accepting, and Jesus is always warm and fuzzy. Live and let live is the presumed wisdom of the day. That we might be called upon to challenge the way things are in the name of the way things ought to be, has often made the Church uncomfortable. Rather than acknowledging that we are “the salt of the earth” and “the life of the world,” the church has often hesitated to become involved in the world for fear of “offending someone.” Unfortunately we follow a man who so offended the religious authorities of his day he got himself killed.
As the Sermon on the Mount unfolds, Jesus will say some preposterous things. Jesus will say, next Sunday in our reading: You have it heard you shall not murder, “but I say to you if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment.” You have heard that you are not to swear falsely, “but I say to you do not swear at all.” “You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also.” “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemies.’ But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”
The Sermon on the Mount counsels an “ethic of perfection” and remains a challenge to all of us who seek to be the people God calls us to be. We cannot simply dismiss these exhortations as irrelevant. For our evangelist Matthew, the church is a school, a place we come into as we are, but then are shaped and formed into the people God would have us be. Our common life is meant to transform us, to change us from a collection of self-interested individuals into a community set into the midst of a dark and impersonal world to be “light” and “salt.”
We live in a world that is always wondering: “What’s in it for me?” Every advertisement on T.V., every telemarketer, every appeal that comes to us is predicated on the notion that we will look after ourselves first. No one else is going to take care of us, the thinking goes, so we would be wise to insure our safety and our well-being. We may be “enlightened” but we have not gotten very far away from the sense that our lives in this world are at risk and we need to protect them as best as we are able. We live and move and have our being in a world that does not always care about us and we know that in our bones and we are afraid.
Jesus was born into the same kind of world. But Jesus lived differently in this world, not consumed by the fear that he alone had to take care of himself; Jesus believed and went to his death knowing that his Father in heaven loved him and would make all things right. Trusting in God’s love, Jesus challenged the status quo, dared to break bread with tax collectors and prostitutes, and called his people Israel to be what God wanted them to be – the salt of the earth and the light of the world.
Are we, as we live out our common life, always going to be right and do the right thing? Heavens, no. Are we as we live out our common life to give up on living rightly in this world? Heavens no! We are going to have to get our hands dirty. We are going to have to risk trying new things and making mistakes and yup, forgiving one another, not once but seventy-times seven. The Sermon on the Mount does not tell us what to do at all times and in all places. The Sermon on the Mount however, does suggest that we are called to learn and to grow, and not simply look to the Church to make us feel good. Whoever we are, we are to live not for our sakes but for the sake of the world. That should give us all pause.
Sunday, February 6, 2011 I Corinthians 2: 1 – 16
The Rev. Bambi Willis Matthew 5: 13 – 20
“You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled underfoot.”
Matthew 5: 13
Last Sunday we heard the Beatitudes from the gospel of Matthew. “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” Jesus said, and those who mourn, the meek, those who hunger for righteousness, the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers and the persecuted. Last Sunday we listened as Jesus blessed all those who long for a world made new, a world in which no one weeps, no one is exploited, no one acts unjustly and no one is persecuted. Last Sunday, Jesus blessed all those who long for God’s kingdom to come because through Jesus God has come, come to usher in God’s reign of life and love.
And now this morning, in the verses that come immediately after the Beatitudes, Jesus tells the disciples they are “the salt of the earth” and “the light of the world.” Into a world filled with folk who only see darkness, Jesus tells us we are light. Into a world that looks like it will never change, Jesus tells us we are salt, the way an impersonal and often dehumanizing world becomes personal and human. Last Sunday I shared with the kids during the children’s sermon a collage of faces, lots of faces, some smiling, some not, faces of old men and old women, of young girls growing up in refugee camps and teenage boys struggling to figure out what to do with lives and tired circus clowns and a woman at a religious festival in Peru who is blocked from getting close to the symbols of her faith in order to keep the peace. In the midst of this mélange of hope and despair, Jesus tells us we are light and salt.
“You are salt” and “you are light,” Jesus says. Our evangelist Matthew is writing to a community somewhere around 90 A.D., less than a generation after the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple by the Romans in 70 A.D. The Temple was the heart and soul of the Jewish faith, the very locus of God’s presence with God’s people. When the Temple was destroyed, Judaism was shaken and Jews were no longer able to live out their faith as they always had by worshipping in the Temple.
And to make matters worse, a sect was growing within Judaism, a sect who claimed that Jesus was the long awaited Messiah of God. This sect was growing, attracting gentile converts, folk who had no knowledge of the Jewish way of life. We can only imagine the tensions as Jews sought to figure out who they were in the aftermath of the destruction of the Temple and as Christians sought to figure out who they were in the wake of the Resurrection.
Eventually the tension became too much to bear and Jews and Christians went their separate ways. But we can see the tension in our text this morning as Jesus tells the disciples they are to be both light and salt and more righteous than the scribes and the Pharisees. By the time Matthew writes his gospel the Pharisees were the acknowledged interpreters of the Mosaic law, determining what constituted righteousness or right living according to the Law. For our evangelist Matthew, the authority to interpret the meaning of the Law belongs to Jesus, not the Pharisees. The Law, given by God to Moses, enshrined in the Ten Commandments and then interpreted to cover all kinds of circumstances, was not being superseded by Jesus, but rather fulfilled in him. For Matthew’s community, the Law was not the issue; at issue for Matthew’s community was the proper interpreter of the law. Jesus, for Matthew, not the Pharisees, was the proper interpreter, was the teacher of the Law.
As the new Christian communities struggled to forge a common life between Jews and gentiles, accusations were often leveled against them that this new sect followed no law, were libertines in the extreme and acknowledged no authority whatsoever. Matthew responds to these accusations by saying the Law stands.
The Church, from time to time, has sometimes proclaimed, like Outback Steakhouse, the message: “No rules; just right!” The Church from this perspective is always welcoming, always accepting, and Jesus is always warm and fuzzy. Live and let live is the presumed wisdom of the day. That we might be called upon to challenge the way things are in the name of the way things ought to be, has often made the Church uncomfortable. Rather than acknowledging that we are “the salt of the earth” and “the life of the world,” the church has often hesitated to become involved in the world for fear of “offending someone.” Unfortunately we follow a man who so offended the religious authorities of his day he got himself killed.
As the Sermon on the Mount unfolds, Jesus will say some preposterous things. Jesus will say, next Sunday in our reading: You have it heard you shall not murder, “but I say to you if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment.” You have heard that you are not to swear falsely, “but I say to you do not swear at all.” “You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also.” “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemies.’ But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”
The Sermon on the Mount counsels an “ethic of perfection” and remains a challenge to all of us who seek to be the people God calls us to be. We cannot simply dismiss these exhortations as irrelevant. For our evangelist Matthew, the church is a school, a place we come into as we are, but then are shaped and formed into the people God would have us be. Our common life is meant to transform us, to change us from a collection of self-interested individuals into a community set into the midst of a dark and impersonal world to be “light” and “salt.”
We live in a world that is always wondering: “What’s in it for me?” Every advertisement on T.V., every telemarketer, every appeal that comes to us is predicated on the notion that we will look after ourselves first. No one else is going to take care of us, the thinking goes, so we would be wise to insure our safety and our well-being. We may be “enlightened” but we have not gotten very far away from the sense that our lives in this world are at risk and we need to protect them as best as we are able. We live and move and have our being in a world that does not always care about us and we know that in our bones and we are afraid.
Jesus was born into the same kind of world. But Jesus lived differently in this world, not consumed by the fear that he alone had to take care of himself; Jesus believed and went to his death knowing that his Father in heaven loved him and would make all things right. Trusting in God’s love, Jesus challenged the status quo, dared to break bread with tax collectors and prostitutes, and called his people Israel to be what God wanted them to be – the salt of the earth and the light of the world.
Are we, as we live out our common life, always going to be right and do the right thing? Heavens, no. Are we as we live out our common life to give up on living rightly in this world? Heavens no! We are going to have to get our hands dirty. We are going to have to risk trying new things and making mistakes and yup, forgiving one another, not once but seventy-times seven. The Sermon on the Mount does not tell us what to do at all times and in all places. The Sermon on the Mount however, does suggest that we are called to learn and to grow, and not simply look to the Church to make us feel good. Whoever we are, we are to live not for our sakes but for the sake of the world. That should give us all pause.
The Seventh Sunday After Epiphany
Leviticus 19: 1 – 2, 9 – 18
Sunday, February 20, 2011 I Corinthians 3: 10 – 11, 16 – 23
The Rev. Bambi Willis Matthew 5: 38 – 48
‘You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’
Matthew 5: 38
“For evil give good.” That was the counsel of a professor of pastoral theology at Virginia Seminary many years ago in a class focused on the practice of reconciliation. The professor had been a parish priest for many years and was often asked by others for his advice as his parishioners struggled to respond to the hurts and pain inflicted upon them by others. As he shared his years of experience with his students, his advice was simple: For evil give good.
In our reading from the gospel of Matthew this morning, Jesus bids us to consider the lex talionis or the law of retaliation, more commonly remembered as “an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.” This law, enshrined not only in the Old Testament but also in the codes of conduct of peoples other than the Hebrews, sought to limit the retribution a wronged party could exact from the perpetrator. If an eye had been lost, only an eye could be taken, no more. If someone steals five dollars from you, five dollars is all you can ask in return. Anything more exceeds the bounds of justice.
But Jesus counters this ancient practice, saying: “But I say to you, Do not resist an evil doer. But if anyone hits you on your right cheek, turn the other also.” Retribution, for Jesus, has no place in the kingdom of God. Retribution is simply returning one evil for another. In the face of evil, we are to give good.
Theologian Richard Hays writes that “the church has often been baffled” by this text. Turn the other cheek, Jesus tells us, give to everyone who begs from you and pray for those who persecute you. Conventional wisdom knows that if we do indeed, turn the other cheek, we will get hit again; if we give to everyone who begs from us, we will be left with nothing; and praying for our persecutors will not necessarily make them stop persecuting us. The purpose of the lex talionis is to keep the bullies of the world from exploiting the meek and the weak of the world. Casting aside the lex talionis only opens the door for rampant injustice.
So “Interpreters,” Hays continues, “have generally sought to find ways to explain away the apparent literal force of the mandates” which Jesus pronounces in the Sermon on the Mount. For some, not resisting an evil doer is an “impossible ideal” which if put into practice would simply unleash unspeakable violence. Such was the thinking of theologians writing at a time when Nazi Germany was determined to eliminate the Jewish people from the face of the earth during World War II. “Turning the other cheek” was little more than an open invitation for the Nazis to murder more Jews. Later during the Cold War, theologian Reinhold Niebuhr would advocate for a Christian realism, a realism that acknowledges that the world in which we live is not the kingdom of God and which requires us to resist evil.
For others, Jesus’ mandate not to resist an evil doer is a selective mandate, applicable only to a specially called group of Christians, like monks, who are called to live out their lives in a way that is different from the ordinary Christian. Not all Christians are called to take vows of poverty or pacifism. We honor those who do take such vows, but do not believe we are all so called.
Saint Augustine, writing in the fourth century, interpreted our text to mean that we are not to defend ourselves against an aggressor but we can and should seek to defend an innocent third party. And it was Saint Augustine who gave to the church the theory of the “just war,” providing guidelines to help us determine when and how war was justifiable.
For others, like our Mennonite brothers and sisters, Jesus’ mandate not to resist the evil doer is a call not to take up arms for any reason. John Howard Yoder is perhaps the best contemporary incarnation of this call to pacifism. Yoder, who died in 1997, was professor of theology at Notre Dame and advocated throughout his life a radical pacifism. Yoder deeply influenced Stanley Hauerwas, who now teaches at Duke Divinity School and who writes;
I have on my office door a sign from the Mennonite Central Committee that shows two anguished people embracing one another. Below the picture is a slogan that says, “A modest proposal for peace: let the Christians of the world resolve not to kill one another.” I have people knock on my door all the time and say, “That makes me so mad.” I say, “Really? Why?” They say, “Well, Christians shouldn’t kill anyone.” And I say, “They call it a modest proposal. You’ve got to begin somewhere.”
Richard Hays is correct; this text has baffled the church and continues to do so. The greatest of theological minds are deeply divided over how to interpret this text. If we take Jesus’ commands literally, evil would seem to gain the upper hand; if we do not take Jesus’ commands literally, we would seem to be at risk for failing to take Jesus and what Jesus says seriously.
Recently we have all watched a mostly non violent revolution take place in Egypt. What we saw is what we all long for – a people expressing their desire to be heard without violence. Tanks did not roll in Tahrir Square as they did in Tiamen Square in China in 1989. What happened in Egypt these last weeks is what we would like to have happen all the time – that people might be free to oppose the policies of their governments without recourse to violence.
But now violence has exploded in Bahrain as the government seeks to halt demonstrations with force. No one knows now what might happen in that small country halfway around the world. But our gospel reading this morning haunts us profoundly as we struggle to live in a world shadowed by evil, forever tasked to figure out how to respond.
Jesus reminds us this morning that we are responsible; we can choose the way we respond to evil, we can choose how we respond to the slaps and hurts others inflict upon us. We are not victims. We can return evil for evil or we can return good for evil. Jesus’ commands are not admonitions to become doormats. Returning good for evil sometimes means simply walking away from situations in which remaining will only tempt the perpetrator to more evil. Seeking the good may mean not allowing the perpetrator to do more evil.
Discerning what “good” looks like in any particular situation takes time, patience and prayer. Unfortunately, when we are wronged, we seem almost instinctively to react, consciously or unconsciously sensing a threat to our existence. We may not literally strike back but what comes to mind is usually not “for evil give good.” When we are wronged, what comes to mind is more along the lines of “don’t get mad, get even.” Getting even, at a minimum, gives us the satisfaction of leveling the playing field, a way of saying to those who wish us harm: “Hey wait a minute. I, like you, am a human being and you cannot do that to me!” But getting even is mostly about our desire to preserve our dignity and our pride and our refusal to believe that we all are limited and finite creatures who really can and often are, wounded by others. Getting even may level the playing field but rarely does anything to contribute to the goodness of which we are all capable and to which Jesus calls us toward.
“Lead us not into temptation,” we pray every Sunday in the Lord’s Prayer, “but deliver us from evil.” Evil tempts us, tempts us into believing that we can, by our own power overcome evil. We cannot and over and over again in the New Testament evil is understood to be a power which only God can overcome. Evil seeks our destruction, or in the words of the baptismal liturgy which we heard last Sunday, “corrupts and destroys the creatures of God.” Jesus knew far better than any of us the power of evil. Evil is what nailed Jesus to the cross. But Jesus also knew that evil was at most a penultimate power, no match for the power of God, the power of self-giving love. We cannot rid the world of evil but we can choose how we respond.
Sunday, February 20, 2011 I Corinthians 3: 10 – 11, 16 – 23
The Rev. Bambi Willis Matthew 5: 38 – 48
‘You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’
Matthew 5: 38
“For evil give good.” That was the counsel of a professor of pastoral theology at Virginia Seminary many years ago in a class focused on the practice of reconciliation. The professor had been a parish priest for many years and was often asked by others for his advice as his parishioners struggled to respond to the hurts and pain inflicted upon them by others. As he shared his years of experience with his students, his advice was simple: For evil give good.
In our reading from the gospel of Matthew this morning, Jesus bids us to consider the lex talionis or the law of retaliation, more commonly remembered as “an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.” This law, enshrined not only in the Old Testament but also in the codes of conduct of peoples other than the Hebrews, sought to limit the retribution a wronged party could exact from the perpetrator. If an eye had been lost, only an eye could be taken, no more. If someone steals five dollars from you, five dollars is all you can ask in return. Anything more exceeds the bounds of justice.
But Jesus counters this ancient practice, saying: “But I say to you, Do not resist an evil doer. But if anyone hits you on your right cheek, turn the other also.” Retribution, for Jesus, has no place in the kingdom of God. Retribution is simply returning one evil for another. In the face of evil, we are to give good.
Theologian Richard Hays writes that “the church has often been baffled” by this text. Turn the other cheek, Jesus tells us, give to everyone who begs from you and pray for those who persecute you. Conventional wisdom knows that if we do indeed, turn the other cheek, we will get hit again; if we give to everyone who begs from us, we will be left with nothing; and praying for our persecutors will not necessarily make them stop persecuting us. The purpose of the lex talionis is to keep the bullies of the world from exploiting the meek and the weak of the world. Casting aside the lex talionis only opens the door for rampant injustice.
So “Interpreters,” Hays continues, “have generally sought to find ways to explain away the apparent literal force of the mandates” which Jesus pronounces in the Sermon on the Mount. For some, not resisting an evil doer is an “impossible ideal” which if put into practice would simply unleash unspeakable violence. Such was the thinking of theologians writing at a time when Nazi Germany was determined to eliminate the Jewish people from the face of the earth during World War II. “Turning the other cheek” was little more than an open invitation for the Nazis to murder more Jews. Later during the Cold War, theologian Reinhold Niebuhr would advocate for a Christian realism, a realism that acknowledges that the world in which we live is not the kingdom of God and which requires us to resist evil.
For others, Jesus’ mandate not to resist an evil doer is a selective mandate, applicable only to a specially called group of Christians, like monks, who are called to live out their lives in a way that is different from the ordinary Christian. Not all Christians are called to take vows of poverty or pacifism. We honor those who do take such vows, but do not believe we are all so called.
Saint Augustine, writing in the fourth century, interpreted our text to mean that we are not to defend ourselves against an aggressor but we can and should seek to defend an innocent third party. And it was Saint Augustine who gave to the church the theory of the “just war,” providing guidelines to help us determine when and how war was justifiable.
For others, like our Mennonite brothers and sisters, Jesus’ mandate not to resist the evil doer is a call not to take up arms for any reason. John Howard Yoder is perhaps the best contemporary incarnation of this call to pacifism. Yoder, who died in 1997, was professor of theology at Notre Dame and advocated throughout his life a radical pacifism. Yoder deeply influenced Stanley Hauerwas, who now teaches at Duke Divinity School and who writes;
I have on my office door a sign from the Mennonite Central Committee that shows two anguished people embracing one another. Below the picture is a slogan that says, “A modest proposal for peace: let the Christians of the world resolve not to kill one another.” I have people knock on my door all the time and say, “That makes me so mad.” I say, “Really? Why?” They say, “Well, Christians shouldn’t kill anyone.” And I say, “They call it a modest proposal. You’ve got to begin somewhere.”
Richard Hays is correct; this text has baffled the church and continues to do so. The greatest of theological minds are deeply divided over how to interpret this text. If we take Jesus’ commands literally, evil would seem to gain the upper hand; if we do not take Jesus’ commands literally, we would seem to be at risk for failing to take Jesus and what Jesus says seriously.
Recently we have all watched a mostly non violent revolution take place in Egypt. What we saw is what we all long for – a people expressing their desire to be heard without violence. Tanks did not roll in Tahrir Square as they did in Tiamen Square in China in 1989. What happened in Egypt these last weeks is what we would like to have happen all the time – that people might be free to oppose the policies of their governments without recourse to violence.
But now violence has exploded in Bahrain as the government seeks to halt demonstrations with force. No one knows now what might happen in that small country halfway around the world. But our gospel reading this morning haunts us profoundly as we struggle to live in a world shadowed by evil, forever tasked to figure out how to respond.
Jesus reminds us this morning that we are responsible; we can choose the way we respond to evil, we can choose how we respond to the slaps and hurts others inflict upon us. We are not victims. We can return evil for evil or we can return good for evil. Jesus’ commands are not admonitions to become doormats. Returning good for evil sometimes means simply walking away from situations in which remaining will only tempt the perpetrator to more evil. Seeking the good may mean not allowing the perpetrator to do more evil.
Discerning what “good” looks like in any particular situation takes time, patience and prayer. Unfortunately, when we are wronged, we seem almost instinctively to react, consciously or unconsciously sensing a threat to our existence. We may not literally strike back but what comes to mind is usually not “for evil give good.” When we are wronged, what comes to mind is more along the lines of “don’t get mad, get even.” Getting even, at a minimum, gives us the satisfaction of leveling the playing field, a way of saying to those who wish us harm: “Hey wait a minute. I, like you, am a human being and you cannot do that to me!” But getting even is mostly about our desire to preserve our dignity and our pride and our refusal to believe that we all are limited and finite creatures who really can and often are, wounded by others. Getting even may level the playing field but rarely does anything to contribute to the goodness of which we are all capable and to which Jesus calls us toward.
“Lead us not into temptation,” we pray every Sunday in the Lord’s Prayer, “but deliver us from evil.” Evil tempts us, tempts us into believing that we can, by our own power overcome evil. We cannot and over and over again in the New Testament evil is understood to be a power which only God can overcome. Evil seeks our destruction, or in the words of the baptismal liturgy which we heard last Sunday, “corrupts and destroys the creatures of God.” Jesus knew far better than any of us the power of evil. Evil is what nailed Jesus to the cross. But Jesus also knew that evil was at most a penultimate power, no match for the power of God, the power of self-giving love. We cannot rid the world of evil but we can choose how we respond.
The Eighth Sunday After the Epiphany
Isaiah 49: 8 – 16a
Sunday, February 27, 2011 I Corinthians 4: 1 – 5
The Rev. Bambi Willis Matthew 6: 24 - 34
“Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil not spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these.”
Matthew 6: 28b
Old Testament scholar Walter Bruggemann recently described the Bible as “a narrative of abundance.” The Biblical story which begins in the Old Testament and continues in the New Testament is the story of a people who discovered, usually to their great surprise, that when all seemed to be lost, when they had come to the end of their rope, a way forward was opened up for them. Over and over again, Brueggemann points out, we meet within the Bible, an abundance, a generosity which begins when a band of slaves is freed from the tyranny of Pharoah in Egypt and continues as these slaves wander in a desert without food or water yet are fed by a strange manna that falls from heaven. The slaves do indeed make it through this desert and cross over into a land flowing with milk and honey. Later, after the Hebrews are taken into exile to Babylon, the king of Persia defeats the Babylonians and sets the Hebrews free to return home.
In the New Testament, we see Jesus feeding the multitudes once again in the desert with a few loaves of bread and a couple of fish. And when the curtain seems to come down on all the hopes and dreams of the disciples at the crucifixion, they discover three days later, God’s most outrageous act of all – the undoing of death and the presence of Jesus in their midst.
The story of the Bible is a story that bears witness to a world in which what you see is not what you get; the story of the Bible is a story of a world in which what you see is not all you get. In the Bible, the world is not simply the realm of cause and effect; the Bible bears witness to a world haunted by an odd abundance, a strange generosity that bids the world to trust in Something or Someone other than ourselves.
Jesus celebrates God’s abundance in our reading from the gospel of Matthew this morning. “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil not spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you – you of little faith?” We need only to look around at the world about us, at the birds in the air and the lilies in the field, to know that God is generous, sustaining God’s very good creation minute by minute and day after day. Take a deep breath – did you do anything to create the air that you breathe? Crocuses are popping up in my garden and daffodils are pushing up and I did nothing to bring the sun a bit closer to this fragile earth, our island home, to thaw the frozen earth and start once again the yearly cycle of regeneration. I can only marvel at a world in which most of the loveliest things happen without my help!
Brueggemann contrasts this Biblical narrative of abundance with another narrative, the narrative within which we live, a narrative of scarcity. The story that surrounds us on all sides is a story that tells that we do not have enough, not enough love, not enough money, not enough comfort, not enough time, not enough security. The newspapers are filled with stories of violence, some near and some far away. Every day we are reminded we are not safe. We are also reminded regularly that the economy continues to struggle and we are at risk of losing our jobs and or our savings.
Put the newspaper down and switch on the television and you will hear that those fine lines on your face mean you are aging and getting older is not a good thing, maybe even a thing to be feared; but rest assured there is a face cream you can buy to keep you looking younger. Having a hard time sleeping? (And who does not given the stress of life?) Take a pill.
We live in a world that recognizes we are at risk and is afraid, afraid of terrorists, afraid of getting older, afraid of not having enough money and afraid our kids will not grow up to be productive citizens. We live in a world that is fragile but which urges us to take more control, to be more and to do more. Faced with a famine in Egypt, Pharoah told his slaves to work a bit harder. Pharoah ended up with a bunch of very tired and very frustrated slaves.
You and I have grown up in a world of fear and have been schooled to cope with anxiety. We worry about our children and those we love; we worry about our health; we worry about our savings accounts; we worry about our jobs. Indeed, some of us even worry when we do not have anything to worry about. Anxiety seems to be a part our DNA. Most of us most of the time are anxious about something.
And oftentimes we ought to worry. If you smell smoke, we would be well to take action lest a fire put our lives and those of others in danger. If your teenage daughter fails to come home from a date on a Saturday night, we would be foolish not to worry about her safety. Our anxiety is not always needless nor groundless but can alert us to imminent danger, danger we can try to avoid if we act.
If our experience tells us that we often worry too much, our experience also tells us that worrying is not altogether a bad thing. Scripture tells us, however, that God created a good world and all of us and has no intention of watching God’s very good creation unravel. Scripture tells us that God stepped into the world when the world was spinning out of control, calling together the people of Israel to bear God’s light into the world. Scripture tells us that in the fullness of time, God sent God’s Son into the world to save the world and to fulfill God’s promise to bring a wrong world back round right. Scripture tells us that God is not about to let God’s very good creation come undone.
Anxiety in and of itself is not necessarily a bad thing. Anxiety gets to be a bad thing when our anxiety blinds us to anyone other than ourselves. When we for whatever the reason are consumed by our fear that we might not make it, we have little time or energy or inclination to be really worried about others. And being concerned about others is pretty much the heart of things as far God is concerned.
You and I for sure cannot simply not worry. And I do not believe we are called to do so. But we are called to “consider the lilies of the field,” to remember and live into a vision of a world graced by abundance not scarcity. Life lived within a narrative of abundance has only what we have today and gives thanks. “Give us today our daily bread,” we pray in the words of the Lord’s Prayer, not what we will need tomorrow or next week. Life lived within a narrative of abundance assumes that for this day we have all that we need to do which is to love our neighbor as ourself. In a narrative of abundance, we are not the only players in this world, wholly responsible for our survival and well-being. We are for sure, responsible creatures, but the world does not rest upon our shoulders. The world and all that dwells therein is sustained by God not us. We really can make a mistake and God really can turn our mistakes to good.
Our lives need not be a rat race nor a zero sum game. Our lives can be lived wondering what God will do next rather than either believing there is no God or if God is, God will surely smite us and pay us back for our transgressions. The God of the Bible shows up usually when there is no way out at least as far as we can see and generally does so to keep God’s project of righting this world this world going. We can anticipate this God to show up or we can convince ourselves life is all about us. We can worry and fret, or we can live in a world made new each day by God.
Sunday after Sunday, week in and week out, we re-enact the abundance of God in the Eucharist. In the Eucharist, much like the crowds who were fed in the wilderness with only a bit of bread and a few fish or like those Hebrew slaves in the Sinai desert who received manna from heaven, God feeds us with bread and wine, not because of who we are but because of who God is – a God who desires to be with us and desires us to be with be with one another, not anxious because we do not have enough, but assured of God’s abundant love, the same love that clothes the lilies of the field and raised Jesus from the dead.
Sunday, February 27, 2011 I Corinthians 4: 1 – 5
The Rev. Bambi Willis Matthew 6: 24 - 34
“Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil not spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these.”
Matthew 6: 28b
Old Testament scholar Walter Bruggemann recently described the Bible as “a narrative of abundance.” The Biblical story which begins in the Old Testament and continues in the New Testament is the story of a people who discovered, usually to their great surprise, that when all seemed to be lost, when they had come to the end of their rope, a way forward was opened up for them. Over and over again, Brueggemann points out, we meet within the Bible, an abundance, a generosity which begins when a band of slaves is freed from the tyranny of Pharoah in Egypt and continues as these slaves wander in a desert without food or water yet are fed by a strange manna that falls from heaven. The slaves do indeed make it through this desert and cross over into a land flowing with milk and honey. Later, after the Hebrews are taken into exile to Babylon, the king of Persia defeats the Babylonians and sets the Hebrews free to return home.
In the New Testament, we see Jesus feeding the multitudes once again in the desert with a few loaves of bread and a couple of fish. And when the curtain seems to come down on all the hopes and dreams of the disciples at the crucifixion, they discover three days later, God’s most outrageous act of all – the undoing of death and the presence of Jesus in their midst.
The story of the Bible is a story that bears witness to a world in which what you see is not what you get; the story of the Bible is a story of a world in which what you see is not all you get. In the Bible, the world is not simply the realm of cause and effect; the Bible bears witness to a world haunted by an odd abundance, a strange generosity that bids the world to trust in Something or Someone other than ourselves.
Jesus celebrates God’s abundance in our reading from the gospel of Matthew this morning. “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil not spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you – you of little faith?” We need only to look around at the world about us, at the birds in the air and the lilies in the field, to know that God is generous, sustaining God’s very good creation minute by minute and day after day. Take a deep breath – did you do anything to create the air that you breathe? Crocuses are popping up in my garden and daffodils are pushing up and I did nothing to bring the sun a bit closer to this fragile earth, our island home, to thaw the frozen earth and start once again the yearly cycle of regeneration. I can only marvel at a world in which most of the loveliest things happen without my help!
Brueggemann contrasts this Biblical narrative of abundance with another narrative, the narrative within which we live, a narrative of scarcity. The story that surrounds us on all sides is a story that tells that we do not have enough, not enough love, not enough money, not enough comfort, not enough time, not enough security. The newspapers are filled with stories of violence, some near and some far away. Every day we are reminded we are not safe. We are also reminded regularly that the economy continues to struggle and we are at risk of losing our jobs and or our savings.
Put the newspaper down and switch on the television and you will hear that those fine lines on your face mean you are aging and getting older is not a good thing, maybe even a thing to be feared; but rest assured there is a face cream you can buy to keep you looking younger. Having a hard time sleeping? (And who does not given the stress of life?) Take a pill.
We live in a world that recognizes we are at risk and is afraid, afraid of terrorists, afraid of getting older, afraid of not having enough money and afraid our kids will not grow up to be productive citizens. We live in a world that is fragile but which urges us to take more control, to be more and to do more. Faced with a famine in Egypt, Pharoah told his slaves to work a bit harder. Pharoah ended up with a bunch of very tired and very frustrated slaves.
You and I have grown up in a world of fear and have been schooled to cope with anxiety. We worry about our children and those we love; we worry about our health; we worry about our savings accounts; we worry about our jobs. Indeed, some of us even worry when we do not have anything to worry about. Anxiety seems to be a part our DNA. Most of us most of the time are anxious about something.
And oftentimes we ought to worry. If you smell smoke, we would be well to take action lest a fire put our lives and those of others in danger. If your teenage daughter fails to come home from a date on a Saturday night, we would be foolish not to worry about her safety. Our anxiety is not always needless nor groundless but can alert us to imminent danger, danger we can try to avoid if we act.
If our experience tells us that we often worry too much, our experience also tells us that worrying is not altogether a bad thing. Scripture tells us, however, that God created a good world and all of us and has no intention of watching God’s very good creation unravel. Scripture tells us that God stepped into the world when the world was spinning out of control, calling together the people of Israel to bear God’s light into the world. Scripture tells us that in the fullness of time, God sent God’s Son into the world to save the world and to fulfill God’s promise to bring a wrong world back round right. Scripture tells us that God is not about to let God’s very good creation come undone.
Anxiety in and of itself is not necessarily a bad thing. Anxiety gets to be a bad thing when our anxiety blinds us to anyone other than ourselves. When we for whatever the reason are consumed by our fear that we might not make it, we have little time or energy or inclination to be really worried about others. And being concerned about others is pretty much the heart of things as far God is concerned.
You and I for sure cannot simply not worry. And I do not believe we are called to do so. But we are called to “consider the lilies of the field,” to remember and live into a vision of a world graced by abundance not scarcity. Life lived within a narrative of abundance has only what we have today and gives thanks. “Give us today our daily bread,” we pray in the words of the Lord’s Prayer, not what we will need tomorrow or next week. Life lived within a narrative of abundance assumes that for this day we have all that we need to do which is to love our neighbor as ourself. In a narrative of abundance, we are not the only players in this world, wholly responsible for our survival and well-being. We are for sure, responsible creatures, but the world does not rest upon our shoulders. The world and all that dwells therein is sustained by God not us. We really can make a mistake and God really can turn our mistakes to good.
Our lives need not be a rat race nor a zero sum game. Our lives can be lived wondering what God will do next rather than either believing there is no God or if God is, God will surely smite us and pay us back for our transgressions. The God of the Bible shows up usually when there is no way out at least as far as we can see and generally does so to keep God’s project of righting this world this world going. We can anticipate this God to show up or we can convince ourselves life is all about us. We can worry and fret, or we can live in a world made new each day by God.
Sunday after Sunday, week in and week out, we re-enact the abundance of God in the Eucharist. In the Eucharist, much like the crowds who were fed in the wilderness with only a bit of bread and a few fish or like those Hebrew slaves in the Sinai desert who received manna from heaven, God feeds us with bread and wine, not because of who we are but because of who God is – a God who desires to be with us and desires us to be with be with one another, not anxious because we do not have enough, but assured of God’s abundant love, the same love that clothes the lilies of the field and raised Jesus from the dead.
