The Fifth Sunday After Pentecost 2 Kings 2: 1 – 2, 6 – 14
Sunday, June 27, 2010 Galatians 5: 1, 3 – 25
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 9: 51 – 62
When the days drew near for Jesus to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem.
Luke 9: 51
Our reading this morning from the gospel of Luke comes at the beginning of a long middle section in Luke’s gospel which narrates Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem. “When the days drew near for him to be taken up,” Luke tells us, “Jesus set his face to go to Jerusalem.” Jesus is on a mission and from now until the end of October we will be hearing stories that take place along the way, another word Luke uses to describe the journey of faith.
Living the Christian life, for our evangelist Luke, is a journey that we begin in baptism and continue throughout our lives. And in the book of Acts, which Luke also wrote, Luke describes the journey of faith made by those first disciples after Jesus’ death and resurrection. As the Holy Spirit descended upon Jesus at his baptism, God pours out the Holy Spirit upon the disciples on the day of Pentecost and sends them out on a journey into the world to proclaim the good news.
Beginning with our reading this morning, would be disciples begin to get a hint of the nature of this journey. The journey begins immediately with rejection as the Samaritans refuse hospitality to Jesus. And Jesus moves on, attracting the attention of several folk who would like to become disciples.
To the first, Jesus says: “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” Are you ready to leave your home, your comforts, your place of rest, to follow me, Jesus asks?
To the second would be disciple who wants to bury his father first, Jesus says: “Let the dead bury their own dead; but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.” Burying one’s father for a Jew as well as for all of us was a commandment, a part of honoring your mother and your father. But the mission is more important than even obeying the commandment to honor one’s parents.
And to third would be disciple who only wishes to say goodbye to his family, Jesus says: “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” The past is of no account; nothing matters but the future.
With these uncompromising words, Jesus invites us to follow him. Luke does not tell us if these three folk followed Jesus or turned away. What we know from both the gospel of Luke and the book of Acts is that some folk followed, some did not and some, like Paul, had a change of heart. And what we also know is that some who followed were killed for doing so.
I was baptized when I was ten on a Sunday afternoon. Baptisms were “private” back then and not celebrated on Sunday mornings during worship. I was baptized along with my brother and sister as my parents, aunt and uncle made promises on our behalf. The church was dimly lit and the service brief. The thought that this event was the beginning of a lifelong journey never crossed my mind nor did the thought that perhaps this event might disturb my life which, at the time, I figured was mine to do with as I pleased.
Many years later, A.G. and I traveled to Florence, Italy, enjoying among other things the grand Duomo cathedral. Across the street from the cathedral is a large octagonal building built of stone around the fourth century. Inside, we found ourselves in a vast empty space, punctuated only by large pool in a far corner. Now empty, once this pool was filled with water, waiting for the candidates for baptism who would be lowered under the water by a priest, not once, but three times. When the newly baptized were brought up out of the water, the first thing they would see is the dome of the baptistery, a brilliant blaze of gold mosaics completely covering the dome. The risen Christ is at the center, larger than life, his arms outstretched. Circling Christ, around and around in five tiers are the stories of the Old Testament, the New Testament and the history of the church. The story of God from creation to the heavenly Jerusalem is re-created with thousands and thousands of small square tiles – bright blue, ruby red and glittering green, all against a gold background. The unimaginable beauty literally takes your breath away.
Just below the right arm of Christ are the saints in heaven. Just below Christ’s left arm are the damned, their bodies in graphically grotesque positions. In the silence of this space, what the eye sees makes the heart tremble. The drama and majesty of this magnificent dome is at one and the same time thrilling and sobering.
Baptism in the early church came at the end of a three year period of instruction in the faith. Newcomers to the faith were questioned about their reasons for wanting to be baptized. Those engaged in certain prohibited occupations had to cease or were rejected. Among the forbidden occupations was the teaching of children because teachers had to teach pagan myths. Baptism, in the early church, was not, as we now say in the marriage service, “to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly, but reverently” and “deliberately.” To be a Christian before the conversion of the Roman Emperor Constantine in the fourth century had huge implications – economically, socially and politically. Christianity was not an easy way of life back then.
Times have changed. And when we come to a text such as the one we have this morning, a text which suggests our faith may make our lives uncomfortable, we are tempted, in the words of one commentator, to look for loopholes. Maybe what Jesus means when he says he has nowhere to lay his head, he means we shouldn’t get too attached to our homes. Maybe what Jesus means when he says “Let the dead bury the dead” is that we need to balance caring for our parents with caring for others in our lives. What we want to do is to make this text which is radical easy to live with.
Our text this morning suggests that our journey of faith begun in baptism will neither be easy nor always comfortable as we follow a Lord whose claim upon us is primary. Christ calls each of us by name to follow where he leads and each of us must discern that way in light of scripture, the nudge of the Holy Spirit, and within the company of the faithful. We cannot rest in the assurance that our hopes and plans are those of God. We can rest, though, in the grace, mercy and peace of Christ.
I want to close this morning with a prayer written by the Trappist monk Thomas Merton.
God, we have no idea where we are going. We do not see the road ahead of us. We cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do we really know ourselves, and the fact that we think we are following your will does not mean we are actually doing so. But we believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And we hope we have that desire in all that we are doing. We hope that we will never do anything apart from that desire. And we know that if we do this you will lead us by the right road, though we may know nothing about it. Therefore, we will trust you always though we may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. We will not fear, for you are ever with us, and you will never leave us to face our perils alone.
Sunday, June 27, 2010 Galatians 5: 1, 3 – 25
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 9: 51 – 62
When the days drew near for Jesus to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem.
Luke 9: 51
Our reading this morning from the gospel of Luke comes at the beginning of a long middle section in Luke’s gospel which narrates Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem. “When the days drew near for him to be taken up,” Luke tells us, “Jesus set his face to go to Jerusalem.” Jesus is on a mission and from now until the end of October we will be hearing stories that take place along the way, another word Luke uses to describe the journey of faith.
Living the Christian life, for our evangelist Luke, is a journey that we begin in baptism and continue throughout our lives. And in the book of Acts, which Luke also wrote, Luke describes the journey of faith made by those first disciples after Jesus’ death and resurrection. As the Holy Spirit descended upon Jesus at his baptism, God pours out the Holy Spirit upon the disciples on the day of Pentecost and sends them out on a journey into the world to proclaim the good news.
Beginning with our reading this morning, would be disciples begin to get a hint of the nature of this journey. The journey begins immediately with rejection as the Samaritans refuse hospitality to Jesus. And Jesus moves on, attracting the attention of several folk who would like to become disciples.
To the first, Jesus says: “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” Are you ready to leave your home, your comforts, your place of rest, to follow me, Jesus asks?
To the second would be disciple who wants to bury his father first, Jesus says: “Let the dead bury their own dead; but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.” Burying one’s father for a Jew as well as for all of us was a commandment, a part of honoring your mother and your father. But the mission is more important than even obeying the commandment to honor one’s parents.
And to third would be disciple who only wishes to say goodbye to his family, Jesus says: “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” The past is of no account; nothing matters but the future.
With these uncompromising words, Jesus invites us to follow him. Luke does not tell us if these three folk followed Jesus or turned away. What we know from both the gospel of Luke and the book of Acts is that some folk followed, some did not and some, like Paul, had a change of heart. And what we also know is that some who followed were killed for doing so.
I was baptized when I was ten on a Sunday afternoon. Baptisms were “private” back then and not celebrated on Sunday mornings during worship. I was baptized along with my brother and sister as my parents, aunt and uncle made promises on our behalf. The church was dimly lit and the service brief. The thought that this event was the beginning of a lifelong journey never crossed my mind nor did the thought that perhaps this event might disturb my life which, at the time, I figured was mine to do with as I pleased.
Many years later, A.G. and I traveled to Florence, Italy, enjoying among other things the grand Duomo cathedral. Across the street from the cathedral is a large octagonal building built of stone around the fourth century. Inside, we found ourselves in a vast empty space, punctuated only by large pool in a far corner. Now empty, once this pool was filled with water, waiting for the candidates for baptism who would be lowered under the water by a priest, not once, but three times. When the newly baptized were brought up out of the water, the first thing they would see is the dome of the baptistery, a brilliant blaze of gold mosaics completely covering the dome. The risen Christ is at the center, larger than life, his arms outstretched. Circling Christ, around and around in five tiers are the stories of the Old Testament, the New Testament and the history of the church. The story of God from creation to the heavenly Jerusalem is re-created with thousands and thousands of small square tiles – bright blue, ruby red and glittering green, all against a gold background. The unimaginable beauty literally takes your breath away.
Just below the right arm of Christ are the saints in heaven. Just below Christ’s left arm are the damned, their bodies in graphically grotesque positions. In the silence of this space, what the eye sees makes the heart tremble. The drama and majesty of this magnificent dome is at one and the same time thrilling and sobering.
Baptism in the early church came at the end of a three year period of instruction in the faith. Newcomers to the faith were questioned about their reasons for wanting to be baptized. Those engaged in certain prohibited occupations had to cease or were rejected. Among the forbidden occupations was the teaching of children because teachers had to teach pagan myths. Baptism, in the early church, was not, as we now say in the marriage service, “to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly, but reverently” and “deliberately.” To be a Christian before the conversion of the Roman Emperor Constantine in the fourth century had huge implications – economically, socially and politically. Christianity was not an easy way of life back then.
Times have changed. And when we come to a text such as the one we have this morning, a text which suggests our faith may make our lives uncomfortable, we are tempted, in the words of one commentator, to look for loopholes. Maybe what Jesus means when he says he has nowhere to lay his head, he means we shouldn’t get too attached to our homes. Maybe what Jesus means when he says “Let the dead bury the dead” is that we need to balance caring for our parents with caring for others in our lives. What we want to do is to make this text which is radical easy to live with.
Our text this morning suggests that our journey of faith begun in baptism will neither be easy nor always comfortable as we follow a Lord whose claim upon us is primary. Christ calls each of us by name to follow where he leads and each of us must discern that way in light of scripture, the nudge of the Holy Spirit, and within the company of the faithful. We cannot rest in the assurance that our hopes and plans are those of God. We can rest, though, in the grace, mercy and peace of Christ.
I want to close this morning with a prayer written by the Trappist monk Thomas Merton.
God, we have no idea where we are going. We do not see the road ahead of us. We cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do we really know ourselves, and the fact that we think we are following your will does not mean we are actually doing so. But we believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And we hope we have that desire in all that we are doing. We hope that we will never do anything apart from that desire. And we know that if we do this you will lead us by the right road, though we may know nothing about it. Therefore, we will trust you always though we may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. We will not fear, for you are ever with us, and you will never leave us to face our perils alone.
The Fourth Sunday After Pentecost I Kings 19: 1 – 15a
Sunday, June 20, 2010 Galatians 3; 23 – 29
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 8: 26 – 39
Then all the people of the surrounding country of the Gerasenes asked Jesus to leave them; for they were seized with great fear. So he got into the boat and returned.
Luke 8: 37
Jesus calms a wild and crazy man today in our gospel reading from Luke. Tormented by demons, this man refuses to wear clothes and prefers to spend his days and nights among the dead. He breaks shackles and chains, violently resisting all efforts to subdue him, driven by forces beyond his control to live the life of an animal in the wild. This man is quite literally “out of his mind” and out of control. After Jesus commands the demons to leave, Luke tells us, the man sits at the feet of Jesus, “clothed and in his right mind.”
But not before a herd of pigs rushes down a hillside, drowning themselves in the sea, and leaving those who saw this strange event, wanting Jesus to leave and go back where he came from.
In the story of the Gerasene demoniac which we hear this morning from Luke and which is also told by the evangelists Matthew and Mark, although not in exactly the same way, we meet a man who is possessed by demons. And the Gerasene demoniac is not the only character in this gospel or the others, who is possessed by demons. Demons appear fairly frequently in the gospels and we often encounter Jesus casting them out, a ministry, by the way, Jesus passes on to his disciples.
The authors of the gospels were not shy about claiming that powers exist in this world that work against the goodness of God, that seek to undo the work of God. In the story of the Gerasene demoniac Luke gives us a vivid picture of a man created to be a human being who has been turned into something sub human, more animal than human. This man is violent, naked and prefers the company of the dead rather than the living. He is wholly incapable of living with others, of being a husband or a father, unable to bring forth food from the land or build a home in which to live. Created by God to be a human being, this man now is a threat to himself and others.
Most of us, I presume, would prefer to think of this man as mentally ill rather than possessed by demons. We know far more in the twenty-first century about the mind and its quirks than did our first century ancestors. What this man needs is treatment not an exorcism! We can dismiss the demons in our story and take comfort knowing that now we have hospitals who will care humanely for this troubled man and need not resort to shackles and chains to keep him under control.
You and I have grown up in a world that can now give us literally a new heart or a new set of lungs or a new liver. Polio is no longer a curse, mothers rarely die in childbirth and we have access to more information than we know what to do with courtesy of the web. I remember when a man walked on the moon for the first time. My grandmother could remember the invention of the electric light, the telephone, the television and her first automobile. We humans seem to be able to do most anything we want and the quality of life you and I enjoy was simply unimaginable 150 years ago.
In this heady air of modernity, believing in spiritual powers beyond our control was deemed irrational, a primitive vestige of our past, not to be taken seriously. Holy spirits and evil spirits had no place in a modern enlightened twentieth century western world. Whatever evils assailed our forebears could now be studied, diagnosed and treated if not always cured. For many in the church, stories like the one about the Gerasene demoniac were becoming a bit of an embarrassment, a story about demons to be told to a world from which demons had been banished forever. Demons, and the idea of evil which they represent, was a topic modern educated Christians sought mightily to avoid. And in the words of Bishop N. T. Wright, “evil is still a four letter word.”
But dismissing demons and evil comes at a price. In 1973, the movie The Exorcist was released, making Warner Brothers $440 million dollars as thousands watched Linda Blair’s head spin. The Exorcist was a box office smash and followed the release of Rosemary’s Baby, another film about demons. In the midst of a world that refused to acknowledge the presence of evil, suddenly the powers of darkness became fascinating, intriguing, the subject of popular books, movies and the focus of bizarre groups obsessed with the occult. If the church would not talk about evil, Hollywood would.
And then, when planes hit the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, “evil” made it’s way to the headlines and politicians declared their intention to get rid of it.
You and I live in a bit of conundrum. We do know a whole lot more than our ancestors did about the way the world works. The world is not a total mystery but is intelligible. Science has opened vast new vistas and we are the better for it. On the other hand, to suggest that ours is the only power at work in the world, makes us gods, not creatures. If our ancestors were culpable of according too much power to powers other than ours, we are just as culpable of according too little.
In the New Testament, the very good world that God created is under threat. God created a beautiful world and human beings to whom God entrusted this world’s care. In the beginning, out of nothingness, God brought forth all that is – the earth and the sky, the moon and the sun and the stars, the fish of the seas and the beasts of the field and human beings. And all was well for a while. But then a snake convinced Eve God did not have her best interests at heart and the world God created started to come undone.
Evil in the New Testament is a return to chaos, the kind of chaos we see in the Gerasene demoniac, a violent, screaming, naked and lonely existence. Evil is an unraveling of what God desires, an undoing, a kind of cosmic resistance to the purposes of God. On September 11, 2001, we all felt the terror, the undoing, the dismantling of life as we know it. The Jews came to know that reality during World War II, as they were herded onto box cars and sent to concentration camps. Hitler died, and the Nuremburg trials brought some measure of justice. And we continue to hunt down terrorists and want to believe if we can get rid of them, our lives will be safe.
We are neither safe nor immune from the power of evil. Evil infects all of creation, including us. As Bishop Wright argues, simplistic understandings of evil, which lead us to believe that we are “good” while others are “bad” only leads to the unleashing of more evil, as the “good guys” try to get rid of the “bad guys.” The New Testament writers knew far better than we, that we are all subject to the power of evil and by our own power will never rid the world of evil. Evil has a power that we cannot overcome. That evil will not triumph is the message of the Resurrection, God’s resounding victory over all that would keep God’s good creation in bondage.
Our task is to imagine a world without evil, a challenge our neighbors in the country of the Gerasenes must face as our story closes. Having lost a whole herd of swine, they ask Jesus to leave. The healing of the demoniac has come with a price. The demoniac is fine but his neighbors have lost their pigs, their resources, their power and their hedge against sin. What are they going to do now? And what will happen to this once possessed man who Jesus sends back to his people in his right mind to bear witness to the power of God? Will his healing be celebrated or condemned? Have the demons been banished forever from the country of the Gerasenes or only temporarily?
Sunday, June 20, 2010 Galatians 3; 23 – 29
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 8: 26 – 39
Then all the people of the surrounding country of the Gerasenes asked Jesus to leave them; for they were seized with great fear. So he got into the boat and returned.
Luke 8: 37
Jesus calms a wild and crazy man today in our gospel reading from Luke. Tormented by demons, this man refuses to wear clothes and prefers to spend his days and nights among the dead. He breaks shackles and chains, violently resisting all efforts to subdue him, driven by forces beyond his control to live the life of an animal in the wild. This man is quite literally “out of his mind” and out of control. After Jesus commands the demons to leave, Luke tells us, the man sits at the feet of Jesus, “clothed and in his right mind.”
But not before a herd of pigs rushes down a hillside, drowning themselves in the sea, and leaving those who saw this strange event, wanting Jesus to leave and go back where he came from.
In the story of the Gerasene demoniac which we hear this morning from Luke and which is also told by the evangelists Matthew and Mark, although not in exactly the same way, we meet a man who is possessed by demons. And the Gerasene demoniac is not the only character in this gospel or the others, who is possessed by demons. Demons appear fairly frequently in the gospels and we often encounter Jesus casting them out, a ministry, by the way, Jesus passes on to his disciples.
The authors of the gospels were not shy about claiming that powers exist in this world that work against the goodness of God, that seek to undo the work of God. In the story of the Gerasene demoniac Luke gives us a vivid picture of a man created to be a human being who has been turned into something sub human, more animal than human. This man is violent, naked and prefers the company of the dead rather than the living. He is wholly incapable of living with others, of being a husband or a father, unable to bring forth food from the land or build a home in which to live. Created by God to be a human being, this man now is a threat to himself and others.
Most of us, I presume, would prefer to think of this man as mentally ill rather than possessed by demons. We know far more in the twenty-first century about the mind and its quirks than did our first century ancestors. What this man needs is treatment not an exorcism! We can dismiss the demons in our story and take comfort knowing that now we have hospitals who will care humanely for this troubled man and need not resort to shackles and chains to keep him under control.
You and I have grown up in a world that can now give us literally a new heart or a new set of lungs or a new liver. Polio is no longer a curse, mothers rarely die in childbirth and we have access to more information than we know what to do with courtesy of the web. I remember when a man walked on the moon for the first time. My grandmother could remember the invention of the electric light, the telephone, the television and her first automobile. We humans seem to be able to do most anything we want and the quality of life you and I enjoy was simply unimaginable 150 years ago.
In this heady air of modernity, believing in spiritual powers beyond our control was deemed irrational, a primitive vestige of our past, not to be taken seriously. Holy spirits and evil spirits had no place in a modern enlightened twentieth century western world. Whatever evils assailed our forebears could now be studied, diagnosed and treated if not always cured. For many in the church, stories like the one about the Gerasene demoniac were becoming a bit of an embarrassment, a story about demons to be told to a world from which demons had been banished forever. Demons, and the idea of evil which they represent, was a topic modern educated Christians sought mightily to avoid. And in the words of Bishop N. T. Wright, “evil is still a four letter word.”
But dismissing demons and evil comes at a price. In 1973, the movie The Exorcist was released, making Warner Brothers $440 million dollars as thousands watched Linda Blair’s head spin. The Exorcist was a box office smash and followed the release of Rosemary’s Baby, another film about demons. In the midst of a world that refused to acknowledge the presence of evil, suddenly the powers of darkness became fascinating, intriguing, the subject of popular books, movies and the focus of bizarre groups obsessed with the occult. If the church would not talk about evil, Hollywood would.
And then, when planes hit the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, “evil” made it’s way to the headlines and politicians declared their intention to get rid of it.
You and I live in a bit of conundrum. We do know a whole lot more than our ancestors did about the way the world works. The world is not a total mystery but is intelligible. Science has opened vast new vistas and we are the better for it. On the other hand, to suggest that ours is the only power at work in the world, makes us gods, not creatures. If our ancestors were culpable of according too much power to powers other than ours, we are just as culpable of according too little.
In the New Testament, the very good world that God created is under threat. God created a beautiful world and human beings to whom God entrusted this world’s care. In the beginning, out of nothingness, God brought forth all that is – the earth and the sky, the moon and the sun and the stars, the fish of the seas and the beasts of the field and human beings. And all was well for a while. But then a snake convinced Eve God did not have her best interests at heart and the world God created started to come undone.
Evil in the New Testament is a return to chaos, the kind of chaos we see in the Gerasene demoniac, a violent, screaming, naked and lonely existence. Evil is an unraveling of what God desires, an undoing, a kind of cosmic resistance to the purposes of God. On September 11, 2001, we all felt the terror, the undoing, the dismantling of life as we know it. The Jews came to know that reality during World War II, as they were herded onto box cars and sent to concentration camps. Hitler died, and the Nuremburg trials brought some measure of justice. And we continue to hunt down terrorists and want to believe if we can get rid of them, our lives will be safe.
We are neither safe nor immune from the power of evil. Evil infects all of creation, including us. As Bishop Wright argues, simplistic understandings of evil, which lead us to believe that we are “good” while others are “bad” only leads to the unleashing of more evil, as the “good guys” try to get rid of the “bad guys.” The New Testament writers knew far better than we, that we are all subject to the power of evil and by our own power will never rid the world of evil. Evil has a power that we cannot overcome. That evil will not triumph is the message of the Resurrection, God’s resounding victory over all that would keep God’s good creation in bondage.
Our task is to imagine a world without evil, a challenge our neighbors in the country of the Gerasenes must face as our story closes. Having lost a whole herd of swine, they ask Jesus to leave. The healing of the demoniac has come with a price. The demoniac is fine but his neighbors have lost their pigs, their resources, their power and their hedge against sin. What are they going to do now? And what will happen to this once possessed man who Jesus sends back to his people in his right mind to bear witness to the power of God? Will his healing be celebrated or condemned? Have the demons been banished forever from the country of the Gerasenes or only temporarily?
The Third Sunday After Pentecost I Kings 21: 1 – 21a
Sunday, June 13, 2010 Galatians 2: 15 – 21
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 7: 36 – 8:3
Then turning toward the woman, Jesus said to Simon, “Do you see this woman?”
Luke 7: 44a
“Do you see this woman?” Jesus asks Simon, a Pharisee, as they are eating dinner together. This woman would be hard to miss, intruding as she did upon their dinner party, weeping, her hair shamelessly hanging down loose around her face, anointing Jesus’ feet with perfume. Simon saw this woman come in off the streets. Simon knew exactly what kind of woman she was – she was bad company. And her outrageous behavior only confirmed what he already knew.
But as Simon watched Jesus allow this woman to kiss his feet over and over again, Simon’s perception of Jesus was confirmed as well. Jesus was no prophet for no Jewish prophet would have dared to be touched by an unclean woman. Simon knew exactly what he was seeing – a sinful woman disrupting his well ordered home and a would be prophet falling from grace.
Falling from grace was precisely what Simon did not want to happen to him! Simon was a Pharisee and as such, lived his life according to the Jewish law, the commandments God gave to the Jews to mark them as God’s people, a people called to be holy as God is holy. These laws, which orthodox Jews continue to observe, covered all aspects of life including which foods could be eaten and which were to be avoided and what to do if you were struck down with a disease.
God’s people were to avoid sin which would make them “unclean” and could, like a contagious disease, be spread. Touching a sinner, like touching a dead body, rendered you unclean, requiring rituals of purification before you could rejoin the community, the holy people of God. When Jesus allowed himself to be touched and kissed by this woman, Jesus threatened the purity of the people of God. Simon’s response to the scene unfolding before him was the response of a good man trying to do the right thing.
“Simon, I have something to say to you,” Jesus begins. And Jesus tells Simon a parable about two debtors – one who owed his creditor a little bit of money and one who owed a lot of money. Both are forgiven their debts but which one, Jesus asks Simon, would love the creditor more? The one who owed the greater debt, Simon responds.
And with that Jesus points out to Simon, that the actions of this sinful woman are far more loving than those Simon extended to his dinner guest. This woman is outrageously grateful because this woman has been forgiven by Jesus for a whole lot of wrongs. Simon, on the other hand, who has worked so hard to be “good,” holds Jesus at arm’s length, kind of checking him out and cannot grasp his own need for forgiveness which Jesus offers freely to him.
Simon reminds us a little of Saint Paul, who like Simon, was also a Pharisee. As a Pharisee, Paul lived according to the law. And as a Pharisee, Paul persecuted Christians, who Paul perceived to be threatening the Jewish way of life. But after Paul’s conversion on the Damascus Road, when Paul heard the voice of Christ say to him: “Paul, why are you persecuting me?” Paul became a missionary to the gentiles, prompting him to consider deeply the place of the law in the life of the church. For Paul, we are made right with God not through following the law, but by faith in Christ. In our reading this morning from Paul’s letter to the Galatians, Paul writes: “I do not nullify the grace of God; for if justification comes through the law, then Christ died for nothing.” For Paul, we are made worthy to stand before God not by anything we do, no matter how righteous or unrighteous we are, but solely because of Christ’s death on the cross. No one of us is any more or less guilty before God, we each have been redeemed by Christ’s death and nothing we can do can change that truth. That truth is meant to change us.
Some years ago, when I was in Seminary in Alexandria, I interned at a church in Maryland. The church was not far from D.C. and home for people from all over the world. The parish was a thoroughly multi-cultural community, one of only a handful of like parishes in the diocese of Washington. The parish was not large, but on Sunday, about half of the parish came to worship in traditional African dress and the other half in coats and ties.
One Sunday, at the early service, just about midway through the sermon, we heard a knock on the church door. “Come in,” the preacher said. “What kind of a church is this?” a voice called out. “This is an Episcopal Church,” the preacher said. “Come in.” Not missing a beat, the preacher, and he was very good, continued his sermon, as a young woman stumbled into the sanctuary, taking her place on the front pew. “Is this a Baptist Church?” she asked. “No, this is an Episcopal Church,” the preacher answered again and kept preaching. Minutes later she said loudly, “I’m cold.” It was January and she was dressed in a short skirt, a thin jacket and high boots. She was not dressed for the weather and heating the church properly was a perennial problem. “Yes,” the preacher acknowledged, “it is cold in here.” And continued with his sermon.
I was not preaching that Sunday and was sitting not far from this newcomer. I noticed out of the corner of my eye someone in the back get up and slip out of the church. Next thing I knew someone offered this cold woman a lap robe, which she gratefully accepted. When the sermon was finished, and the preacher invited us to communion, a couple of folk came to this woman and offered to help her to the communion rail if she would like to go. She accepted and with some assistance she received the bread and the wine. After church, we said our usual good byes. Nothing was said about this odd intrusion. The preacher and I drove her home as she had come on the bus and would have to wait in the cold for another. She came again once or twice, but then disappeared.
For me, that day, the church was church, really church. Her odd behavior was intrusive. But she was welcomed as graciously as if she had been the Queen of England. Nobody said anything, nobody talked about her coming after the service, and to this day I do not know who brought her the lap robe. It just happened. And nobody said anything at all.
Our gospel this morning challenges each and every one of us. Living into the good news that Christ died for us, took our place on the cross, is no simple matter. Appropriating the truth that we are all sinners in the eyes of God is hard work. Most of us, I daresay, want to believe we are not as bad as we could be and on par, are probably O.K. We are not O.K. and neither was Simon, who by all measures was far more “righteous” than you and I will ever be.
“Simon, I have something to say to you.” “Do you see this woman?”
What do we see when we meet a drunk staggering towards us on the street or a dirty old woman pushing all of her earthly goods in a shopping cart or hear someone spewing hateful epithets against Jews or Muslims or whomever? Do we see someone to be welcomed into our midst and offered a place at God’s table or someone who makes us uncomfortable and who we hope won’t find their way here on a Sunday morning?
Sunday, June 13, 2010 Galatians 2: 15 – 21
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 7: 36 – 8:3
Then turning toward the woman, Jesus said to Simon, “Do you see this woman?”
Luke 7: 44a
“Do you see this woman?” Jesus asks Simon, a Pharisee, as they are eating dinner together. This woman would be hard to miss, intruding as she did upon their dinner party, weeping, her hair shamelessly hanging down loose around her face, anointing Jesus’ feet with perfume. Simon saw this woman come in off the streets. Simon knew exactly what kind of woman she was – she was bad company. And her outrageous behavior only confirmed what he already knew.
But as Simon watched Jesus allow this woman to kiss his feet over and over again, Simon’s perception of Jesus was confirmed as well. Jesus was no prophet for no Jewish prophet would have dared to be touched by an unclean woman. Simon knew exactly what he was seeing – a sinful woman disrupting his well ordered home and a would be prophet falling from grace.
Falling from grace was precisely what Simon did not want to happen to him! Simon was a Pharisee and as such, lived his life according to the Jewish law, the commandments God gave to the Jews to mark them as God’s people, a people called to be holy as God is holy. These laws, which orthodox Jews continue to observe, covered all aspects of life including which foods could be eaten and which were to be avoided and what to do if you were struck down with a disease.
God’s people were to avoid sin which would make them “unclean” and could, like a contagious disease, be spread. Touching a sinner, like touching a dead body, rendered you unclean, requiring rituals of purification before you could rejoin the community, the holy people of God. When Jesus allowed himself to be touched and kissed by this woman, Jesus threatened the purity of the people of God. Simon’s response to the scene unfolding before him was the response of a good man trying to do the right thing.
“Simon, I have something to say to you,” Jesus begins. And Jesus tells Simon a parable about two debtors – one who owed his creditor a little bit of money and one who owed a lot of money. Both are forgiven their debts but which one, Jesus asks Simon, would love the creditor more? The one who owed the greater debt, Simon responds.
And with that Jesus points out to Simon, that the actions of this sinful woman are far more loving than those Simon extended to his dinner guest. This woman is outrageously grateful because this woman has been forgiven by Jesus for a whole lot of wrongs. Simon, on the other hand, who has worked so hard to be “good,” holds Jesus at arm’s length, kind of checking him out and cannot grasp his own need for forgiveness which Jesus offers freely to him.
Simon reminds us a little of Saint Paul, who like Simon, was also a Pharisee. As a Pharisee, Paul lived according to the law. And as a Pharisee, Paul persecuted Christians, who Paul perceived to be threatening the Jewish way of life. But after Paul’s conversion on the Damascus Road, when Paul heard the voice of Christ say to him: “Paul, why are you persecuting me?” Paul became a missionary to the gentiles, prompting him to consider deeply the place of the law in the life of the church. For Paul, we are made right with God not through following the law, but by faith in Christ. In our reading this morning from Paul’s letter to the Galatians, Paul writes: “I do not nullify the grace of God; for if justification comes through the law, then Christ died for nothing.” For Paul, we are made worthy to stand before God not by anything we do, no matter how righteous or unrighteous we are, but solely because of Christ’s death on the cross. No one of us is any more or less guilty before God, we each have been redeemed by Christ’s death and nothing we can do can change that truth. That truth is meant to change us.
Some years ago, when I was in Seminary in Alexandria, I interned at a church in Maryland. The church was not far from D.C. and home for people from all over the world. The parish was a thoroughly multi-cultural community, one of only a handful of like parishes in the diocese of Washington. The parish was not large, but on Sunday, about half of the parish came to worship in traditional African dress and the other half in coats and ties.
One Sunday, at the early service, just about midway through the sermon, we heard a knock on the church door. “Come in,” the preacher said. “What kind of a church is this?” a voice called out. “This is an Episcopal Church,” the preacher said. “Come in.” Not missing a beat, the preacher, and he was very good, continued his sermon, as a young woman stumbled into the sanctuary, taking her place on the front pew. “Is this a Baptist Church?” she asked. “No, this is an Episcopal Church,” the preacher answered again and kept preaching. Minutes later she said loudly, “I’m cold.” It was January and she was dressed in a short skirt, a thin jacket and high boots. She was not dressed for the weather and heating the church properly was a perennial problem. “Yes,” the preacher acknowledged, “it is cold in here.” And continued with his sermon.
I was not preaching that Sunday and was sitting not far from this newcomer. I noticed out of the corner of my eye someone in the back get up and slip out of the church. Next thing I knew someone offered this cold woman a lap robe, which she gratefully accepted. When the sermon was finished, and the preacher invited us to communion, a couple of folk came to this woman and offered to help her to the communion rail if she would like to go. She accepted and with some assistance she received the bread and the wine. After church, we said our usual good byes. Nothing was said about this odd intrusion. The preacher and I drove her home as she had come on the bus and would have to wait in the cold for another. She came again once or twice, but then disappeared.
For me, that day, the church was church, really church. Her odd behavior was intrusive. But she was welcomed as graciously as if she had been the Queen of England. Nobody said anything, nobody talked about her coming after the service, and to this day I do not know who brought her the lap robe. It just happened. And nobody said anything at all.
Our gospel this morning challenges each and every one of us. Living into the good news that Christ died for us, took our place on the cross, is no simple matter. Appropriating the truth that we are all sinners in the eyes of God is hard work. Most of us, I daresay, want to believe we are not as bad as we could be and on par, are probably O.K. We are not O.K. and neither was Simon, who by all measures was far more “righteous” than you and I will ever be.
“Simon, I have something to say to you.” “Do you see this woman?”
What do we see when we meet a drunk staggering towards us on the street or a dirty old woman pushing all of her earthly goods in a shopping cart or hear someone spewing hateful epithets against Jews or Muslims or whomever? Do we see someone to be welcomed into our midst and offered a place at God’s table or someone who makes us uncomfortable and who we hope won’t find their way here on a Sunday morning?
The Second Sunday of Pentecost I Kings 17: 17 – 24
Sunday, June 6, 2010 Galatians 1: 11 – 24
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 7: 11 – 17
Then he came forward and touched the bier, and the bearers stood still. And he said, “Young man, I say to you rise!”
Luke 7: 14
“As long as matters are really hopeful,” quipped the English writer G.K. Chesterton, “hope is a mere flattery or platitude.” If life isn’t too bad, Chesterton is saying, and we can indeed see some light at the end of the tunnel, we may need a little luck, but we do not need hope. “It is only when everything is hopeless,” Chesterton continues, “that hope begins to be a strength at all.” Only when there is no way out, only when there is no possibility of changing what is, only then does God dare us to hope.
We just heard the story of the raising of a widow’s son from the gospel of Luke. And we heard a very similar story in our Old Testament reading from I Kings. Luke wants us to remember the story from I Kings as we hear how Jesus brought to life a dead young man in the town of Nain. Luke wants us to know that Jesus is doing what the great Hebrew prophet Elijah did - raising the dead. And Luke also wants us to look forward to the Resurrection when God raises Jesus from the dead. Luke wants us to look backwards and remember and look ahead with hope. Luke tells us this story this morning to give us hope and Luke does so by presenting a hopeless situation.
The woman in our text is a widow and widowhood in first century Palestine was a particularly difficult circumstance. In a culture that believed men were better suited to be leaders and decision makers, women were dependent upon men for their economic well-being, their protection and their social status. Fathers cared for their unmarried daughters and husbands cared for their wives. When a woman lost her husband to death, Jewish law required one of her husband’s brothers to marry her, to take over her care and protection. Without a man to look after her, a woman had no means to earn a living or secure her future. Unless of course, the woman had a son in which case, the son would assume the role of bread winner. Absent a husband, a father or a son, a woman in first century Palestine was an object of pity, dependent upon the good graces of her neighbors to give her food and shelter and care for her when she got sick.
We can only imagine what this woman must have been thinking as she walked up the hill behind the body of her only son that day in Nain. She has buried her husband and now she is burying her only son. She is now not only a widow but a woman without a son. And although Jewish law said her husband’s brothers were obligated to marry her, our text gives us no indication that this happened. She is quite powerless and alone. This woman is now at the mercy of the town of Nain, for her food, for her shelter, for her very life. Perhaps for the first time in her life she has no idea how she will survive and maybe doesn’t even know if she wants to survive – who among us wants to depend upon the goodness of our neighbors?
As the funeral procession makes its way up the hill to the cemetery, they meet Jesus, the disciples and a crowd coming towards them from the opposite direction. Seeing the woman in great grief, Jesus touches the bier and says: “Young man, I say to you, rise!” With a touch and a word, Jesus brings this man to life, giving an only son back to his mother, restoring their relationship, redeeming her from a future of poverty, transforming her grief into joy, turning her despair into hope.
This woman never asks Jesus to help her and we are given no indication that she has ever even heard of Jesus. She displays no faith and no hope that her circumstances could be anything other than what they were. Jesus takes her completely by surprise. And us, for who among us would ever dare to hope that someone we loved would
somehow be returned to us, given life after they have died? Such hope is foolish indeed.
And yet, our hope is grounded in the faithfulness of God, that God will complete God’s purpose for creation, that somehow evil and sin and death will not have the last word. We dare to hope in God’s act in Christ, whom God raised from the dead and by whom, we, too, will be brought through death into life.
When was the last time you dared to hope – to believe that the impossible was yet possible, that even though you could not see a way through, you dared to hope that God would make a way? When was the last time you stood peering into that dark deep abyss of despair and dared God to save you? We only need hope, you see, when we are at the end our rope, when we have spent all of our resources, when there is absolutely nothing left to hope for save God. Few of us like getting that close to the edge. Most of us believe most of the time, we ourselves can find a way out.
Peter Gomes, minister of the Memorial Church at Harvard University, in his book The Good Life, calls Christian hope “unreasonable and indispensable.” He argues that hope “makes it possible to endure what to those without hope would appear to be hopelessness itself.” Gomes lifts up as a model of hope the Lutheran pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer who was imprisoned by the Nazis during World War II for his participation in a plot to kill Hitler. Bonhoeffer spent two years in a Nazi prison and while he was in prison Bonhoeffer ministered to the other inmates who suffered the cruelest of treatment as well as to the guards and he wrote. Bonhoeffer wrote to his family and to his friends sharing his faith, confirming them in Christian hope. “I believe that God can and will bring good out of evil,” Bonhoeffer wrote from prison, “even out of the greatest evil ….I believe that God will give us all the strength we need to help us to resist in all times of distress. But he never gives it in advance, lest we should rely on ourselves and not on him alone. A faith such as this should allay all our fears for the future.” Bonhoeffer was hanged on April 9, 1945, six weeks before the Allies declared victory. Hope does not spare us from suffering and evil and death; hope gives us the strength to endure.
Hopelessness and the despair which it spawns like mosquitoes from a stagnant pool of water, is death. Hopelessness leaves us with no future, no possibilities, and without a future we die. When Jesus raised the widow’s son, Jesus not only gave her back her son, Jesus gave her a future. And when Luke shares this story with us, Luke invites to look back and remember the long history of Israel and God, a history in which Israel knew God had acted, calling them out of slavery in Egypt and raising up for them prophets like Elijah who kept them from abandoning their faith. And Luke invites us to look forward to the end of his gospel when he will tell us following the crucifixion of Jesus, women went to the tomb expecting to anoint a body but “did not find the body.” Luke dares us to hope. Luke dares us to believe that a rag tag group of slaves became the people of God, that a poor widow was given a future, and that Christ was raised from the dead. Luke dares us to hope.
Today, following this service, we are dedicating the elevator. I was not with you all when you determined to make this church accessible to those who struggled getting up and down stairs. What I know is that installing an elevator and paying for it was no small task for a parish the size of St. Asaph’s. Installing an elevator was daring, particularly in light of the fact you did not have the money in the bank to pay for it when you started. You all took a risk. And this morning we are rejoicing that the elevator is up and running and almost completely paid for.
God will call us again to take risks, to hope for things we by ourselves cannot begin to make happen. God dares us to trust that God can do what seems impossible for us. God has already manifested God’s power among us. As we give thanks this day for the elevator, we can look forward in hope to other things, new things, all kinds of things, to a future filled with possibilities, limited only by our imaginations. “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen,” Hebrews tells us. God has only just begun.
Sunday, June 6, 2010 Galatians 1: 11 – 24
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 7: 11 – 17
Then he came forward and touched the bier, and the bearers stood still. And he said, “Young man, I say to you rise!”
Luke 7: 14
“As long as matters are really hopeful,” quipped the English writer G.K. Chesterton, “hope is a mere flattery or platitude.” If life isn’t too bad, Chesterton is saying, and we can indeed see some light at the end of the tunnel, we may need a little luck, but we do not need hope. “It is only when everything is hopeless,” Chesterton continues, “that hope begins to be a strength at all.” Only when there is no way out, only when there is no possibility of changing what is, only then does God dare us to hope.
We just heard the story of the raising of a widow’s son from the gospel of Luke. And we heard a very similar story in our Old Testament reading from I Kings. Luke wants us to remember the story from I Kings as we hear how Jesus brought to life a dead young man in the town of Nain. Luke wants us to know that Jesus is doing what the great Hebrew prophet Elijah did - raising the dead. And Luke also wants us to look forward to the Resurrection when God raises Jesus from the dead. Luke wants us to look backwards and remember and look ahead with hope. Luke tells us this story this morning to give us hope and Luke does so by presenting a hopeless situation.
The woman in our text is a widow and widowhood in first century Palestine was a particularly difficult circumstance. In a culture that believed men were better suited to be leaders and decision makers, women were dependent upon men for their economic well-being, their protection and their social status. Fathers cared for their unmarried daughters and husbands cared for their wives. When a woman lost her husband to death, Jewish law required one of her husband’s brothers to marry her, to take over her care and protection. Without a man to look after her, a woman had no means to earn a living or secure her future. Unless of course, the woman had a son in which case, the son would assume the role of bread winner. Absent a husband, a father or a son, a woman in first century Palestine was an object of pity, dependent upon the good graces of her neighbors to give her food and shelter and care for her when she got sick.
We can only imagine what this woman must have been thinking as she walked up the hill behind the body of her only son that day in Nain. She has buried her husband and now she is burying her only son. She is now not only a widow but a woman without a son. And although Jewish law said her husband’s brothers were obligated to marry her, our text gives us no indication that this happened. She is quite powerless and alone. This woman is now at the mercy of the town of Nain, for her food, for her shelter, for her very life. Perhaps for the first time in her life she has no idea how she will survive and maybe doesn’t even know if she wants to survive – who among us wants to depend upon the goodness of our neighbors?
As the funeral procession makes its way up the hill to the cemetery, they meet Jesus, the disciples and a crowd coming towards them from the opposite direction. Seeing the woman in great grief, Jesus touches the bier and says: “Young man, I say to you, rise!” With a touch and a word, Jesus brings this man to life, giving an only son back to his mother, restoring their relationship, redeeming her from a future of poverty, transforming her grief into joy, turning her despair into hope.
This woman never asks Jesus to help her and we are given no indication that she has ever even heard of Jesus. She displays no faith and no hope that her circumstances could be anything other than what they were. Jesus takes her completely by surprise. And us, for who among us would ever dare to hope that someone we loved would
somehow be returned to us, given life after they have died? Such hope is foolish indeed.
And yet, our hope is grounded in the faithfulness of God, that God will complete God’s purpose for creation, that somehow evil and sin and death will not have the last word. We dare to hope in God’s act in Christ, whom God raised from the dead and by whom, we, too, will be brought through death into life.
When was the last time you dared to hope – to believe that the impossible was yet possible, that even though you could not see a way through, you dared to hope that God would make a way? When was the last time you stood peering into that dark deep abyss of despair and dared God to save you? We only need hope, you see, when we are at the end our rope, when we have spent all of our resources, when there is absolutely nothing left to hope for save God. Few of us like getting that close to the edge. Most of us believe most of the time, we ourselves can find a way out.
Peter Gomes, minister of the Memorial Church at Harvard University, in his book The Good Life, calls Christian hope “unreasonable and indispensable.” He argues that hope “makes it possible to endure what to those without hope would appear to be hopelessness itself.” Gomes lifts up as a model of hope the Lutheran pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer who was imprisoned by the Nazis during World War II for his participation in a plot to kill Hitler. Bonhoeffer spent two years in a Nazi prison and while he was in prison Bonhoeffer ministered to the other inmates who suffered the cruelest of treatment as well as to the guards and he wrote. Bonhoeffer wrote to his family and to his friends sharing his faith, confirming them in Christian hope. “I believe that God can and will bring good out of evil,” Bonhoeffer wrote from prison, “even out of the greatest evil ….I believe that God will give us all the strength we need to help us to resist in all times of distress. But he never gives it in advance, lest we should rely on ourselves and not on him alone. A faith such as this should allay all our fears for the future.” Bonhoeffer was hanged on April 9, 1945, six weeks before the Allies declared victory. Hope does not spare us from suffering and evil and death; hope gives us the strength to endure.
Hopelessness and the despair which it spawns like mosquitoes from a stagnant pool of water, is death. Hopelessness leaves us with no future, no possibilities, and without a future we die. When Jesus raised the widow’s son, Jesus not only gave her back her son, Jesus gave her a future. And when Luke shares this story with us, Luke invites to look back and remember the long history of Israel and God, a history in which Israel knew God had acted, calling them out of slavery in Egypt and raising up for them prophets like Elijah who kept them from abandoning their faith. And Luke invites us to look forward to the end of his gospel when he will tell us following the crucifixion of Jesus, women went to the tomb expecting to anoint a body but “did not find the body.” Luke dares us to hope. Luke dares us to believe that a rag tag group of slaves became the people of God, that a poor widow was given a future, and that Christ was raised from the dead. Luke dares us to hope.
Today, following this service, we are dedicating the elevator. I was not with you all when you determined to make this church accessible to those who struggled getting up and down stairs. What I know is that installing an elevator and paying for it was no small task for a parish the size of St. Asaph’s. Installing an elevator was daring, particularly in light of the fact you did not have the money in the bank to pay for it when you started. You all took a risk. And this morning we are rejoicing that the elevator is up and running and almost completely paid for.
God will call us again to take risks, to hope for things we by ourselves cannot begin to make happen. God dares us to trust that God can do what seems impossible for us. God has already manifested God’s power among us. As we give thanks this day for the elevator, we can look forward in hope to other things, new things, all kinds of things, to a future filled with possibilities, limited only by our imaginations. “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen,” Hebrews tells us. God has only just begun.