Double Vision

This blog post is based on my sermon from Palm Sunday, April 14, 2019.

When they had come near Jerusalem and had reached Bethphage, at the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two disciples, saying to them, "Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately you will find a donkey tied, and a colt with her; untie them and bring them to me. If anyone says anything to you, just say this, 'The Lord needs them.' And he will send them immediately." This took place to fulfill what had been spoken through the prophet, saying, "Tell the daughter of Zion, Look, your king is coming to you, humble and riding on a donkey, and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.? The disciples went and did as Jesus had directed them; they brought the donkey and the colt, and put their cloaks on them, and he sat on them. A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, and the others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. The crowds that went ahead of him and that followed were shouting, "Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest heaven!" When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, "Who is this?" The crowds were saying, "This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee."

--Matthew 21:1-11, New Revised Standard Version

 Each of the four gospels contributes something unique to the story of Palm Sunday.

Mark was probably the first gospel writer to tell the story.

The Gospel of John is the only gospel that mentions the waving of palm branches. In the other gospels, the people cut down nondescript branches and place them on the road. So, you have John to thank for making you hold up the leafy palms and wave them back and forth. Otherwise, we might be celebrating nondescript branches Sunday!

The Gospel of Luke, as we were reminded a moment ago in the Time for the Child, includes the wonderful anecdote of the authorities complaining to Jesus about the noise of the crowd and Jesus responding that if the people were kept silent even the stones would cry out.

The unique thing about Matthew is that Matthew has Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a donkey and a colt. Two animals. The other three gospel writers simply have Jesus riding on top of one animal.

The 14th century Italian artist Pietro Lorenzetti tried to reconcile Matthew's account with the other three gospel writers. He painted the Palm Sunday procession with Jesus riding on top of a donkey while holding onto the reigns of a young colt that walked beside them.

Pietro Lorenzetti (1280-1348), "Entry of Christ into Jerusalem"

Yet if you listen to Matthew's account closely, it actually sounds like Jesus is trying to ride both animals simultaneously. In fact, verse seven explicitly states that Jesus sat on them. Plural.

One time a woman in a Bible study group told me that she used to imagine Jesus riding sidesaddle on the larger animal while using the shorter animal as a footstool.

How ever you might imagine the scene, Matthew wants us to see Jesus riding two animals at once.

Why does Matthew have us seeing double?

To be honest, some scholars think that Matthew may have made a mistake, that Matthew may have mistakenly assumed that the Prophet Zechariah, whom Matthew quotes, made reference to two animals, when in truth only one animal was intended.

Matthew quotes a line from Zechariah 9:9, "Lo, your king comes to you; humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey." At first, that might sound like two animals--a donkey and a colt, but in reality Zechariah is employing the Hebrew poetic device of parallelism, in which something is said once and then repeated again for emphasis in a slightly different way (see comments by Thomas G. Long in Matthew, Westminster Bible Companion Series).

If I were to say to you, "Jesus came riding into Denver on a bronco [comma] on a horse," I am only describing one animal. 

Now, in biblical Hebrew there are no punctuation marks; there are no commas. Nonetheless, the structure of the Hebrew poetry itself reveals the parallelism.

So, what happened? Was Matthew absent that day in 9th grade Hebrew school when the poetic device of parallelism was explained?

Did Matthew make a mistake, or did Matthew have his own reasons for making us see double?

New Testament scholar David Garland has suggested that Matthew found hidden meaning in the two words donkey and colt.

The donkey, a coronation animal, may have been symbolic of Jesus' royal status as the Son of David, whereas the more humble colt may have been symbolic of Jesus' servant role (David Garland, as cited by Long, Matthew, Westminster Bible Companion Series).

I'm inclined to agree with David Garland. I think that Matthew wants us to see the symbolism in both animals. I think that Matthew wants us to see double. Matthew wants us to have double vision.

Matthew wants us to see the cheering crowds, but Matthew also wants us to see how the rest of Jerusalem is in turmoil.

Matthew wants us to see on one level how the religious authorities, the Romans, and the evil powers that rule the world are teaming together to take Jesus' life, but Matthew also wants us to see, on an even deeper level, how Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of David, and how the forces of heaven have the upper hand, and how Jesus gives his life freely, no one takes it away (Long, Matthew).

In recent years it has become customary for many churches to celebrate Palm [slash] Passion Sunday, or they might do what we've been doing here at KPC, which is that one year we will emphasize the liturgy of the palms, as we are doing this year, and another year, we might emphasize the liturgy of the passion, as we did last year.

Thirty or more years ago nearly all of our churches would have simply celebrated Palm Sunday, but in the decades since, as it's become apparent that Maundy Thursday and Good Friday services are not that well attended, many voices have suggested that we remember Jesus' Passion on the Sunday before Easter.

Scott Black Johnston, the pastor of the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church in New York City, argues that many of our attempts to combine Palm Sunday and Passion Sunday in the same worship service don't always work out as well as we intended. He lightheartedly observes that they end up being the liturgical equivalent of the El Camino. Do your remember the El Camino? It was a Chevrolet product that was rolled out around 1965 that was meant to be a combination of a cushy sedan and a pick-up truck. It never sold very well. Those who wanted a sedan bought a sedan, and those who wanted a truck bought a truck (from a sermon by Scott Black Johnston, "Save Us," preached April 5, 2009 on the Day One Radio Network).

Here's the point. We don't have to worry about our awkward attempts to combine Palm Sunday and Passion Sunday because the Gospel-writer Matthew has already combined them for us.

If we put on Matthew's special glasses which enable us to see double, we already see the foreboding of Jesus' Passion in the events of Palm Sunday itself. We can simply focus on Palm Sunday and allow the master storyteller Matthew to do the rest of the work.

Matthew's double vision allows us to see how Jerusalem is the holy city of the Son of David, but it also allows us to see how Jerusalem is the city that kills the prophets and stones those sent to it.

To celebrate Palm Sunday as Matthew celebrates Palm Sunday means that we already anticipate Jesus' Passion and his death on the cross. And we begin to anticipate how Jesus' death will lead to our salvation. To help us understand this, Matthew not only gives us double vision, he also gives us double hearing.

With one ear Matthew wants us to hear the crowds chanting their joyful hosannas, and with the other ear Matthew wants us to hear those hosannas as a cry for help.

Scott Black Johnston points out that, while the precise etymology of the word "hosanna" is uncertain, many scholars believe that the word is likely a combination of two Hebrew words:  yaw-shaw (meaning to save or deliver) and naw (meaning to beseech or pray). So, you might translate the shouts of the crowd as "we beseech to deliver us."

Thus, hosanna sounds like a joyful, celebratory word, but it's also a plea for help. 

"Lord, save us!"

"We beseech you to deliver us!"

Hosanna! 

Lord, save us from shame, from the sinking feeling that we will never measure up or be good enough.

Hosanna! 

Lord, save us from deep disappointment in ourselves.

Hosanna!

Lord, save us from the paralyzing grief that prevents us from moving forward. Help us to hold onto what we need to hold onto, but also help us to let go what we need to let go.

Hosanna!

Lord, save us from our own worst inclinations.

Hosanna!

Lord, save us from debt and financial disaster.

Hosanna!

Lord, save us from loneliness.

In our middle schools and high schools there's a cry of Hosanna!, Lord, save us from Tuesday's math test, but there's also a cry of hosanna, Lord, save us from the bullying, from the pressure to conform, form the school shootings.

Hosanna!

Lord, save us from the addictions over which we have no control.

Hosanna!

Lord, save us from obsessive worry about our children, whether those children still live at home, or whether they've long since been adults trying to make their way in the world.

Hosanna!

Lord, save us from cancer, from ALS, from MS, from Parkinson's, from dementia and decline.

Hosanna!

Lord, save us from cruelty, from the harsh treatment that is often given to immigrants and refugees.

Hosanna!

Lord, save us from the savage inequalities that are tearing apart the fabric of our society.

Hosanna!

Lord, save us from the rancor that makes civil, political discourse seem impossible these days.

Hosanna!

Lord, save us from racism, from sexism, from every --ism that causes us to devalue or fear the other, and help us instead to embrace the beauty of each other's humanity.

Hosanna!

Lord, save us from sin.

Hosanna!

Lord, save us from the hell of feeling ourselves abandoned by God.

What is the thing in your life that is weighing on you most heavily right now?

What is the nature of the unresolved grief that you are carrying within you?

What are you deepest longings for yourself, for your children, for our society, that so far have remain unfulfilled?

Acknowledge those things for a moment.

[Pause]

And now, haveing acknowledged them, let us pray together to God for deliverance, let us shout together: Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna!

$3.00 Worth of God

This blog post is based on my sermon from Sunday, April 7, 2019.

When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, and he will put the sheep at his right hand and the goats at the left. Then the king will say to those at his right hand, 'Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.' Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you? And the king will answer them, 'Truly, I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.'

--Matthew 25:31-40, New Revised Standard Version

 $3.00 Worth of God is a title of a book of meditations published by Wilbur E. Rees. The irony is that the book was published in 1971 and has long since been out-of-print, so when a rare copy does show up in a used bookstore, it retails for about five hundred dollars!

Now, if by some coincidence, this little book were to show up on Rummage Donation Sunday, please tell the donor that while we don't normally accept book donations (other than children's books), that we are willing to make an exception in this case, and then take the book directly to the boutique!

Here's a quotation from the first meditation in the book:

I would like to buy $3.00 worth of God, please, not enough to explode my soul or disturb my sleep, but just enough to equal a warm cup of milk or a snooze in the sunshine. I don't want enough of [God] to make me love a black man or pick beets with a migrant. I want ecstasy, not transformation; I want the warmth of the womb; not a new birth. I want a pound of the Eternal in a paper sack. I would like to buy $3.00 worth of God, please.

It seems to me that Wilbur E. Rees has written perhaps the quintessential mediation on keeping God at arm's length. How different is that from what Jesus said:

I was hungry and you gave me food to eat. I was thirsty and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger and you welcomed me. I was naked and you gave me clothes to wear. I was sick and you took care of me. I was in prison and you visited me. 

Those who hear this are incredulous, and they ask, "Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you a drink? When did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and give you clothes to wear? When did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?

Then Jesus replies: "I assure you that when you have done it for one of the least of these members of my family, you have done it for me."

The original hearers of Matthew's Gospel were those who were well acquainted with being hungry, with being persecuted and thrown in prison, with having little to no resources of their own and having no choice but to rely on the hospitality of strangers. How reassuring it must have been for them to know that all those who had shown kindness and compassion to them would be acknowledged by Jesus as having shown the very same kindness and compassion directly to Jesus. The original hearers of Matthew's Gospel would have recognized themselves in the persons of "the least of these," and they would have taken heart in Jesus' promise of blessing to all those who had given them food when they were hungry, or something to drink when they were thirsty, or clothes to wear when they were without clothing, or who had welcomed them when they were strangers, or who had visited them when they were sick or in prison.

How do we hear these words as followers of Christ nearly two thousand years later, when our own social location is, for the most part, one of privilege and security?

We may hear it as an ethical demand to feed the hungry and welcome the stranger, which it is, but there's a danger in thinking of ourselves as the "haves" while thinking of the "least of these" as the "have nots." We might begin to think of ourselves as regulators of the resources, as the ones who get to decide who is the most deserving of our support.

And where is Christ in all of this?

Jesus Christ is in 100% solidarity with those who are hungry, thirsty, naked, sick, or in prison. If we as followers of Christ want to be where Christ is, then we need to be in solidarity with those who are hungry, thirsty, naked, strangers, immigrants, sick, or in prison.

How can we begin to identify and partner with our fellow human beings, and not simply think of ourselves as the regulators of the resources?

My friend and colleague the Rev. Cari Pattison was an associate pastor at the Reformed Church of Bronxville (New York) for nearly twelve years. She recently left her position to begin thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail. She started out three weeks ago today, on March 17th, at Springer Mountain in Georgia, and she hopes to get to Mount Katahdin in Maine sometime this Fall.

It seems to me that in the three weeks that she's been on the trail that she has posted on social media with much greater frequency than she ever has before, which has been an incredible gift, making it possible for hundreds of people to follow her hike in real time through Facebook, Instagram, and her blog.

In one recent blog post she wrote about hunger:

Hunger is a funny thing. I am sitting on a shuttle out of Winding Stair Gap, riding into Franklin, [North Carolina]. Reeking of the woods, I feel like the homeless woman on the back seat of the bus. I'm surrounded by what seem to be squeaky-clean day hikers.

My stomach rumbles. It is all I can do to sit on my hands to keep from swiftly reaching over the seat to grab their packs and rummage for food. I am quite certain that if there were a garbage can, I would be going through it.

I watch one of the passengers on the bus in front of me, a smiling, 50-something woman. She leans over ad kisses the man she's with, as they affectionately share a PayDay bar.

"I will not take their PayDay," I repeat to myself. "I will not take their PayDay," summoning all powers of restraint.

(just in case you weren't already craving one ...)

They kiss again. "I will not yell or punch them."

I ate my last calories earlier that day--a lone packet of apple cinnamon oatmeal. What's the big deal? I have fasted before. I have dieted and cleansed and done ten-day green-smoothie challenges before. But not while hiking ten to fifteen mountain miles a day with a 30-pound pack on my back.

This kind of hunger is new. This kind of hunger encompasses every muscle, every cell, every bone. This hunger has invaded my brain, giving me violent fantasies of confiscating the woman's fanny pack on the seat in front of me.

My hands and fingernails are caked in dirt, and I put on my sunglasses so I don't have to make conversation or eye contact. My empty belly feels like another character on the bus, yelling at me for not packing enough food. The smell of the woman's peanut bar wafts into my nostrils and I try not to breathe.

She tries to make small talk with me and I cannot concentrate on the words because the peanuts--the peanuts are so loud and taunting and the woman is so clean and kissing and not-hungry and I am trying so hard not to scream.

I have never, ever, felt this famished.

Disclaimer: I have never been truly poor. I have had a largely privileged life.

The bus driver careens around a corner and I make a promise. Never again will I walk through the streets of New York City without carrying an ample supply of protein bars or McDonald's gift cards.

I will never again walk by someone who looks hungry or says she's hungry, and not give her something to eat. 

And here ends my long quotation from her blog post. To read her post in its entirety, please click here.

We who are followers of Jesus Christ are called to identify just this strongly and intensely with those who are hungry, with those who are immigrants, with those who are in prison.

A few longtime members of Katonah Presbyterian Church will remember Helen and Jack George, who helped start the food pantry out of KPC that eventually became the Community Center of Northern Westchester. Helen and Jack were remarkable in that their son was killed as a bystander in a crime, yet they visited their son's killer in prison and forgave him. As Susan Polos describes them, they were incredible examples of love.

Many will also remember Thea and Bailey Jackson, who were very active in prison ministry. Thea, along with Lee Roberts, started the college program at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility.

Jim and Susan Polos recall with fondness the many experiences they've had with the Children's Center, hosting children so that they could visit their mothers at Bedford Hills.

And isn't the best part of our annual Rummage sale the fact that we provide clothing and other essentials at greatly reduced prices to marginalized people in our community?

In many ways we do already embody what it means to be a Matthew 25 church, but we can still grow to be more of a Matthew 25 church.

Last Monday the Presbyterian Mission Agency of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) issued an invitation to each congregation in our denomination to become a Matthew 25 church. An invitation, in the words of Executive Director the Rev. Diane Moffat, to put feet to faith, hands to hope, and legs to love.

You can learn more about this invitation by clicking here.

Congregations are invited to become a part of this Matthew 25 initiative by committing to work toward congregational vitality, dismantling structural racism, and eradicating systemic poverty.

I am eager myself to learn more about this newly announced initiative, but in truth the invitation is nearly two thousand years old. An invitation not merely to distribute resources, but to identify with and walk alongside those who are hungry, thirsty, naked, strangers, sick, or in prison.

And the one issuing the invitation is none other than Jesus Christ.

All glory and praise be to our God. Amen. 

Over Prepare, Then Go with the Flow

(thank you to Sue Kravits for the meme)

This blog post is based on my sermon from March 31, 2019. The title comes from Regina Brett, the author of 45 Lessons Life Taught Me. Number #22 is "Over prepare, then go with the flow." The five "wise" bridesmaids in the parable were certainly over prepared, whereas the five "foolish" bridesmaids were merely adequately prepared. If I were to assign a new title to this sermon, it would be "Don't Grow Weary."

Then the kingdom of heaven will be like this. Ten bridesmaids took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish, and five were wise. When the foolish took their lamps, they took no oil with them; but the wise took flasks of oil with their lamps. As the bridegroom was delayed, all of them became drowsy and slept. But at midnight there was a shout, 'Look! Here is the bridegroom! Come out to meet him.' Then all those bridesmaids got up and trimmed their lamps. The foolish said to the wise, 'Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.' But the wise replied, 'No, there will not be enough for you and for us; you had better go to the dealers and buy some for yourselves.' And while they went to buy it, the bridegroom came, and those who were ready went with him into the wedding banquet; and the door was shut. Later the other bridesmaids came also, saying, 'Lord, lord, open to us.' But he replied, 'Truly, I tell you, I do not know you.' Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.

--Matthew 25:1-13, New Revised Standard Version

I'd like to begin with an informal survey. Raise your hand if you've ever been to a wedding. Looks like a full house.

Now, raise your hand if you've ever been to an evening wedding. Again, almost everyone here.

Of those of you who went to an evening wedding, how many of you brought a flashlight?

Now, for those of you who did not bring a flashlight--and I do not intend in any way to sound harsh or judgmental--do you think that was wise? Suppose that the wedding had been long delayed and then suddenly there was a massive power outage, and then you would be a wedding guest without a flashlight.

Now, for those of you who did have the foresight to bring along a flashlight, let me ask you another question. Did you bring extra batteries? If not--and again I do not in any way wish to sound harsh or judgmental--do you think that was wise? After all, you have no way of knowing how long the wedding will be delayed or how long it will take before electric power is restored. It would have been prudent to bring along extra batteries.

Some of you may be thinking that you really had no need to bring a flashlight because your smartphone has a flashlight app. Very well, did you remember to bring a charger? And if you did remember to bring a charger, did you check the flashlight app on your phone to make sure it was functioning properly? Sure, those little LED bulbs are meant to last much longer than the life of your phone, but you never know.

We laugh or roll our eyes at such outrageous wedding scenarios, but underlying this parable is a very serious question.

How long are we prepared to wait?

How long are we prepared to wait for healing from a debilitating illness?

How long are we prepared to wait for reconciliation with estranged members of our family?

How long until the school shootings cease?

How long until hatred and discrimination end?

How long until all divisions end?

How long, in the words of the Prophet Isaiah, until we learn to study war no more?

And how long, in the words of the Prophet Amos, until justice rolls down like waters?

Wedding guests in Jesus' day would have been prepared for a slight delay. The bridegroom would often deliberately be a little late in order to build suspense and to heighten the sense of joy when he finally arrived. But the delay would only usually be for an hour or two. Under normal circumstances most members of the wedding party would have had more than enough oil in their lamps for a slight delay (insights from Thomas G. Long, Matthew, Westminster Bible Companion).

This parable has traditionally been called the Parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins, but I've sometimes wondered how fair it was to call half of them foolish when they did in fact have enough oil in their lamps for the usual slight delay. Are we really talking about a contrast between the foolish and the wise, or is it more of a contrast between the adequately prepared and obsessively, over prepared?

If someone shows up to a wedding with a flashlight and extra batteries, your immediate reaction is not likely to be, "Wow, that person is really prepared!" You're more apt to think, "Wow, that person is really odd!"

But in the narrative world of this parable the ones who are obsessively, over prepared are called wise, and the ones who are merely adequately prepared are called foolish.

Why was it necessary to bring along that extra gallon jug of oil from Costco?

Because we have to be prepared for a very long wait.

Matthew is the only gospel writer who included this particular parable of Jesus. The Christians in Matthew's day had been expecting Christ to come again, but it had already been more than 50 or 60 years since the time of Jesus' ministry. Most of the first generation of Christians had already died.

How long must the church be prepared to wait? How long can the church stand on its tiptoes in anticipation? How do you maintain a sense of urgency after all that time?

Alyce McKenzie is a Methodist minister and a preaching professor at Perkins School of Theology in Dallas, Texas. She tells her own parable about how to live with a sense of urgency in a seemingly endless future. One semester Alyce McKenzie asked her students to read through a book in the Bible prayerfully at the same time each evening as a spiritual discipline.

One of her graduate students, Greg, decided to do this. His wife was out-of-town for a while. And so, every night at ten o'clock, he'd get off the couch where he usually watched ESPN and would sit on the love seat and begin to read a book of the Bible and pray his way through it. Their two-year-old beagle named Sadie decided that this was an opportunity for spiritual growth for herself as well. And so, when Greg was sitting on the love seat, reading the Bible, Sadie would cuddle next to him and put her head in his lap.

One night Greg got real interested in a football game, and he was still on the couch well after ten o'clock, and he found Sadie tugging on his pant leg, trying to get him to come over to the love seat to do his prayerful Bible reading.

Another night, Greg was dead tired and went to bed at 9:45 PM, and he heard whimpering in the bedroom and Sadie was pulling the blankets off the bed, calling him to prayer. Greg decided that some dogs are bird dogs, some dogs are sheep dogs, and that Sadie must be a prayer dog! Alyce McKenzie writes that Sadie, the prayer dog, does indeed teach us how to live with a sense of urgency in a seemingly endless future.

We pray day after day. We study the Bible for the sake of our own spiritual growth. We love God with our whole hearts, and we love our neighbors as ourselves. We strive to serve others. We cultivate oil.

And this oil--this oil of resilience--must be cultivated. It cannot be shared. I suspect that many of us are taken aback by the refusal of the "wise" bridesmaids to share their oil with the others. But perhaps the reason that the oil is not so easily shared is because the oil represents the kind of resilience that we have to learn on our own.

Your daughter is in her first year of college. That first semester away has been exciting and exhilarating, but it's also been academically stressful. She calls you up the night before her first college midterm exam, and she's almost in a panic. You can listen to her, you can talk her through her anxiety, you can pray for her, but you cannot give to her that oil of resilience that she must cultivate on her own.

We cannot give that oil of resilience to our children, but our children can watch us as our own lamps burn from a reservoir of cultivated oil.

I remember a scene from To Kill a Mockingbird. Scout is talking to her father about the upcoming trial. He father, Atticus, is about to defend an African-American man named Tom Robinson. It's the 1930s in rural Alabama. The jury is going to be all white. Scout asks her father, "Daddy, are we going to win?" And Atticus turns to his daughter and says, "No, Scout, we are not going to win. But I couldn't go to church on Sunday if I didn't defend this man."

Perhaps the oil in this parable represents resiliency in the face of injustice, a determination to do the right thing no matter what. One doesn't become an Atticus over night. We become more like Atticus through a lifetime of cultivating oil, of building up reservoirs of hidden strength that go much deeper than our personal strength alone.

On the day when Atticus does indeed lose the trial and Tom Robinson is declared guilty, all the white guests exit their seats from the main floor of the courtroom, while all the African-American guests in the balcony remain. When Atticus himself finally stands and leaves to exit the courtroom, all the African American guests stand up in a gesture of respect. Scout (Jean Louise) had been watching the trial from the balcony. As Atticus walks by below, Rev. Sykes, the pastor of the African American congregation, says to Scout, "Jean Louise, stand up, your father's passing."

That's probably my favorite scene in both the novel and the 1962 movie. If Atticus had a reservoir of resilience, then imagine how much deeper a reservoir Rev. Sykes must have had. I've always wished that Harper Lee had given us more of Rev. Sykes's back story. I can't even begin to imagine all the things that Rev. Sykes must have endured in his lifetime--all those years of Jim Crow, discrimination, and terror.

But I picture him preaching to his congregation, encouraging them to cultivate the oil of resilience. I can hear the congregation singing the spiritual that we sang this morning, "Keep Your Lamps Trimmed and Burning." I can hear them singing . . .

Keep your lamps trimmed and burning / Keep your lamps trimmed and burning / Keep your lamps trimmed and burning / for the time is drawing nigh.

Sisters, don't grow weary / brothers, don't grow weary / children, don't grow weary / for the time is drawing nigh.

You, living with cancer, don't grow weary.
You, newly divorced or a long time alone, don't grow weary.
You, care takers in your family, don't grow weary.
You who are grieving, whether that grief is fresh or ancient, don't grow weary.
You, longing for reconciliation, don't grow weary.
You, who are waiting for justice, don't grow weary.
You, who are waiting for the Lord, don't grow weary, for the time is drawing nigh.

All glory and praise be to our God. Amen.

What Not to Wear to the Cedarcrest Prom

This blog post is based on my sermon from March 24, 2019.

(thank you to Sue Kravits for the meme)

Then Jesus said to him, "Someone gave a great dinner and invited many. At the time for the dinner he sent his slave to say to those who had been invited, 'Come; for everything is ready now.' But they all alike began to make excuses. The first said to him, 'I have bought a piece of land, and I must go out and see it; please accept my regrets.' Another said, 'I have bought five yokes of oxen, and I am going to try them out; please accept my regrets.' Another said, 'I have just been married, and therefore I cannot come.' So the slave returned and reported this to his master. Then the owner of the house became angry and said to his slave, 'Go out at once into the streets ad lanes of the town and bring in the poor, the crippled, the blind, and the lame.' And the slave said, 'Sir, what you have ordered has been done, and there is still room.' Then the master said to the slave, 'Go out into the roads and lanes, and compel people to come in, so that my house may be filled. For I tell you, none of those who were invited will taste my dinner.'"

--Luke 14:16-24

Once more Jesus spoke to them in parables, saying: "The kingdom of heaven may be compared to a king who gave a wedding banquet for his son. He sent his slaves to call those who had been invited to the wedding banquet, but they would not come. Again, he sent other slaves, saying, 'Tell those who have been invited: Look, I have prepared my dinner, my oxen and my fat calves have been slaughtered, and everything is ready; come to the wedding banquet.' But they made light of it and went away, one to his farm, another to his business, while the rest seized his slaves, mistreated them, and killed them. The king was enraged. He sent his troops, destroyed those murderers, and burned their city. Then he said to his slaves, 'The wedding is ready, but those invited were not worthy. Go therefore into the main streets, and invite everyone you find to the wedding banquet.' Those slaves went out into the streets and gathered all whom they found, both good and bad; so, the wedding hall was filled with guests. But when the king came in to see the guests, he noticed a man there who was not wearing a wedding robe, and he said to him, 'Friend, how did you get in here without a wedding robe?' And he was speechless. Then the king said to the attendants, 'Bind him hand and foot, and throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.' For many are called, but few are chosen."

--Matthew 22:1-14

Now that's a very different version of the parable from the one that we heard in Luke!

In Luke's version, someone gives a great dinner, but all the invited guests have excuses for why they can't come. The house owner then tells his servant to go out into the streets and lanes of the town and bring in the poor, the crippled, the blind, and the lame. The servant reports back that what the house owner had ordered was done and that there is still more room at the banquet. So the house owner told him to go out into the roads and lanes and compel people to come, so that the house would be full. Finally, the house owner, with a seemingly surly reply, declares that none of the original invited guests will taste the dinner. That's Luke's version of the parable.

Parable of the Great Supper, illustrated by Harold Copping (1863-1932)

"Go out into the roads and lanes, and compel people to come!"

In Matthew's version of the parable people actually die! A king gives a wedding banquet for his sons. When the king's slaves go out to spread the word, some of them are mistreated and killed. Then the king sends his troops to destroy the murderers and burn their city. Somehow a spurned banquet invitation leads to all-out war. I prefer Luke's version of the parable, where the house owner simply says to the no-shows, "Well, no dinner for you!"

I'm troubled by the gratuitous violence in Matthew's parable, but I don't believe that Matthew is advocating violence. The last thing we need is for a parable to advocate violence, particularly after what happened a little over a week ago in Christchurch, New Zealand! We do NOT need a religious text that seemingly advocates violence in the name of religion!

Instead of advocating violence, I believe that the Gospel writer Matthew was most likely reporting violence that had already happened. Most scholars believe that Matthew was writing to Christians who lived in Syria between the years 80 and 90 of the Common Era. To them the reference to the destroyed city would have evoked memories of the destruction of Jerusalem in the year 70. The earlier mistreatment and murder of the slaves would have been heard as a reference to Israel's rejection of the prophets. And the members of Matthew's church would have recognized themselves as the last-minute replacement guests assembled in the great wedding hall (insights from Thomas G. Long, Matthew, Westminster Bible Companion Series, pp. 246-247).

If we put ourselves in the place of these last-minute replacement guests, then the parable, far from advocating violence, becomes a motivational lesson about living faithfully, even in times of violence and persecution.

Because of the times in which we live, there is an urgency about our faith. There is a compelling motivation to take our faith seriously enough to dress the part!

Look at the interaction in the parable between the king and someone who failed to dress the part.

When the king notices that one guest in particular is not wearing a wedding robe, the king says, "Friend, how did you get in here without a wedding robe?"

This is another difference between Luke and Matthew. In the Gospel of Luke, the word "friend" has a positive connotation, but in the Gospel of Matthew it has a negative connotation and really means something more like "buster" (see Long, p. 247). Thus, the king is saying, in essence, "Hey, buster, where's your tux?" The guest is speechless, and the king orders him to be thrown into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth, which is an ancient Jewish way of saying that his life will unfold in endless tragedy.

Endless tragedy? Simply for forgetting to wear a tux? Why does Jesus make such a big to-do about wearing the proper attire?

If we were to survey the full scope of the Bible, we would notice an interesting preoccupation with with what we wear. In the words of one preacher, the Bible begins with God dressing Adam and Eve in the Garden, and it ends with the saints being given white robes to wear in the New Jerusalem. In between there is Paul's reminder to the Galatians that "as many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ." Likewise, the Christians in Colossae, in a passage that is often quoted at weddings, are told to clothe themselves with "compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience" (insight from Bob Dunham, in a sermon preached at University Presbyterian Church, Chapel Hill, North Carolina, October 9, 2011).

Thus, it shouldn't be surprising that the Gospel writer Matthew also has a keen interest in what we wear. In our parable, the wedding robe itself represents the Christian life. In the words of preacher and scholar Tom Long, the parable reminds us with urgency that being a part of the Christian community should make a discernible difference in who we are and how we live . . .

There should be a sense of awe and responsiveness about . . . belonging to the community of Christ . . . Sure, the spotlighted guest in the parable was [whisked away] from the street unexpectedly and was probably wearing cutoffs and [sneakers], but, when he got inside, only a fool would fail to see the difference between what he wore and where he was. He was in the banquet hall of the king; he was at the wedding feast of the royal son . . . He is the recipient of massive grace. Where is his awe? Where is his wonder? Where is his regard for generosity? [The other guests have quietly traded] their street clothes for the garments of worship and celebration, but there he is bellying up to the punch bowl, stuffing his mouth with fig preserves, and wiping his hands on his T-shirt. When the host demands to know where his wedding garment is, the man is speechless, and well he should be. In his self-absorption, he [hadn't fully realized] until that very moment that he was at a wedding banquet at all! Just so, to come into the church in response to the gracious and unmerited invitation of Christ and then not conform one's life to that mercy is to demonstrate a spiritual narcissism so profound that one cannot tell the difference between the wedding feast of the Lamb of God and happy hour in a bus station bar (Long, pp. 247-248).

Many commentators have suggested that a guest at an ancient Mediterranean wedding would have been provided with a robe to wear, which perhaps explain the rage of the king upon discovering that this man had casually tossed his wedding robe onto a bar stool while taking advantage of the free booze.

For me, I'll admit that it makes the ending of the parable easier to swallow if the wayward guest had been given a robe to wear and then simply refused to wear it.

But part of me wonders that even if he hadn't been provided with a robe, wouldn't his awe and gratitude at being invited to the royal wedding have bee enough to motivate him to procure a robe? Wouldn't his thankfulness have been enough to spur him to new levels of ingenuity and creativity?

For most of my ministry, I have preached a gospel of gracious inclusion. All people are invited to the feast. God loves and cares for each one of us. In response the church is called to go out into the streets and invite still more people to come, because there is plenty of room in the banquet hall. And for those of you who need to hear that message this morning, I pray that is the message you will hear.

But for those of us who have heard that message, for those of us who have responded to the invitation and find ourselves assembled in the great wedding hall, there is another message--namely, that if we truly comprehend what a marvelous thing it is to be included in the family of God, then it will motivate us to take our faith seriously enough to dress the part!

The gospel message is "come as you are" not "come as you were." Grace is free, but it isn't cheap.

We have all been invited to the $500,000 per plate dinner that we could have never afforded on our own. The creative challenge before us is to figure out how to dress. Even if the tuxes and gowns are not passed out as we walk through the door, surely we have enough ingenuity to figure out how to dress to the nines anyway.

Surely, we have enough awe and gratitude to help each other grow in our generosity, to help each other grow in our spiritual disciplines. And in the midst of the violence in our world, it is all the more crucial that we dress the part, that we look and sound like peacemakers and seekers of justice.

In Keene, New Hampshire, there is a facility named Cedarcrest that provides round-the-clock treatment for children with severe mental and developmental disabilities. Most families are too overwhelmed to provide that level of twenty-four hour care at home.

One Saturday I was making a pastoral visit to Cedarcrest with a family from the congregation I once served in Vermont, and I noticed that all along the walls of the front hallway were pictures of the Cedarcrest children in evening gowns and tuxedos.

One 12-year-old boy had a jacket and tails draped over the back of his highly specialized wheelchair.

Another photo showed a toddler wearing an absolutely stunning sequined dress.

I asked one of the staff members about the photographs, and she told me that they were photos from the Cedarcrest Prom. I remarked how the staff must have spent hours and hours custom fitting the formal wear and painstakingly dressing each child, not to mention all the other preparations for the prom.

And she smiled and nodded her head in a way that indicated that all of those hours of work had been a labor of love.

If you are ever invited to the Cedarcrest Prom, you wouldn't dare show up in a T-shirt and jeans!

The View from the Back of the Line

This blog post is based on my sermon from March 10, 2019.

For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire laborers for his vineyard. After agreeing with the laborers for the usual daily wage, he sent them into his vineyard. When he went out about nine o'clock, he saw others standing idle in the marketplace; and he said to them, "You also go into the vineyard, and I will pay you whatever is right." So they went. When he went out again about noon and about three o'clock, he did the same. And about five o'clock he went out and found others standing around; and said to them, "Why are you standing idle all day?" They said to him, "Because no one has hired us." He said to them, "You also go into the vineyard." When evening came, the owner of the vineyard said to his manager, "Call the laborers and give them their pay, beginning with the last and then going to the first." When those hired about five o'clock came, each of them received the usual daily wage. Now when the first came, they thought they would receive more; but each of them also received the usual daily wage. And when they received it, they grumbled against the landowner, saying, "These last worked only one hour, and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the day and the scorching heat. But he replied to one of them, "Friend, I am doing you no wrong; did you not agree for the usual daily wage? Take what belongs to you and go; I choose to give to this last the same as I give to you. Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am generous?" So the last will be first, and the first will be last.

--Matthew 20:1-16, New Revised Standard Version

 (with thanks to Sue Kravits for the meme)

If you're a fan of the filmmaker John Sayles, then you surely know the movie "Matewan," which was about the attempt to unionize coal miners in Matewan, West Virginia in 1920. The film is narrated by fifteen-year-old Danny Radnor. At this young age Danny is already a coal miner, and he's a part-time Baptist preacher. From time to time he preaches at both of the Baptist churches in his small town: the Hard Shell Baptist and the Soft Shell Baptist. 

One night Danny is preaching at the Hard Shell Baptist Church. He reads the same parable that we just read, the Parable of the Laborers in the Vineyard. Now, by way of background you should know that Danny's father was killed in a mining accident, and Danny is hoping that the coal miners in his town will be able to get the union so that they can press for safer practices and better pay. However, the pastor of the Hard Shell Baptist Church (played by John Sayles in cameo) believes that the union organizers are all communists and agents of Satan!

In this particular scene Danny reads the parable from the pulpit while the Hard Shell pastor sits in the chancel and looks over Danny's shoulder. Danny finishes reading the parable, and then he says, "Now, it's clear from this parable that Jesus ain't heard nothin' about the union! Cuz if he had, he'd of changed his tune! He'd say everyone should get the same dollar for the same work!" And that's about as far as Danny got with his sermon before the Hard Shell pastor chased him out of the pulpit!

When we hear this parable, we're tempted to think that there are all kinds of things that Jesus ain't heard nothing about.

Has Jesus ever been to college, for instance? Apparently Jesus doesn't understand that if you're taking a university-level course that you simply cannot ditch class the entire semester, fail to turn in any work whatsoever, play hooky on the day of the midterm, and then show up on the last day of classes and announce that you'd like full credit for the course! That's not how it works.

Also, Jesus apparently has never stood in line at King Kone on a summer's evening. That bit about the "last will be first, and the first will be last" is never going to play well with those at the front of the line who have already been waiting patiently for their ice cream.

Perhaps the cruelest part of the parable is when those who were hired first were made to wait at the end of the line to get their pay. They had bargained for the usual daily wage--a "denarius" in the Greek--in other words, just enough money to provide for their needs for that one day. They watch as the others get paid, and they see that those who were hired last, who only worked one hour, also got the full, usual daily wage--a denarius. And then they brighten up, because all of a sudden, it's no longer a denarius for a day's work; it's now one denarius per hour! Thus, those who have worked the full twelve-hour day can now expect to be paid twelve denarii! (Barbara Brown Taylor imagines a similar scene in her sermon titled, "Beginning at the End").

Automatically, they start calculating everything that twelve denarii will buy. Some of them are planning vacations. Others, who are more prudent, are planning on how they can pay off their credit cards and medical bills. Maybe they'll even have a little left over to put into savings. And, of course, before they even reach the manager and receive their paycheck, those twelve denarii have already been spent! Imagine their profound disappointment when they, too, only receive the usual daily wage. Yes, it was what they bargained for. But it's fundamentally unfair that those who worked only one hour would get paid the same as those who worked three, six, nine, or twelve hours.

Later, when the vineyard owner asks, "Are you envious because I am generous?" The answer is "You bet we are!" That's the PG-rated answer at any rate. It's probably not appropriate for me to quote the profanity-laced answer, but who wouldn't be tempted to swear at an employer who pulled such shenanigans!?

Are you envious because I am generous? You bet we are. Of course, we are!

Perhaps it is the inherent unfairness that upsets us the most. Like Danny Radnor, we believe that every worker should get the same dollar for the same amount of work.

Others of us may be okay with the unfairness, as long as we are the beneficiaries of the unfair practices. We might not want to admit that out loud, but, as Calvinists, we shouldn't be surprised either!

Have you ever seen that bumper sticker: "Jesus loves you, but I'm his favorite"? Yes, if there is going to be a favored group, then most of us would prefer to be in that favored group.

Some of you may recall the Academy-award winning film "Amadeus." It was based on Peter Shaffer's play of the same name. The action of the play centers on the bitter, intense rivalry between Antonio Salieri, an 18th century Italian composer who was living in Vienna, and his nemesis, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. As Salieri tells us, Salieri himself was a virtuous, hard-working man. From his boyhood Salieri only wanted to compose music. As a teenage, Salieri slipped into a church and made a bargain with God; he would write God glorious music, and God would grant him fame and fortune in return. As the play begins, it would appear that both Salieri and God have kept their respective ends of the bargain. Salieri is writing church music, and he has indeed become a succesful and admired composer.

Then we meet Mozart, who as a child prodigy had composed his first symphony at the age of five. In the play Mozart is portrayed as a vulgar, notorious womanizer, who is also tactless, arrogant, rude, irreverent, and musically talented beyond imagination.

Salieri has worked hard to compose beautiful music, but Mozart does so effortlessly. The music flows from Mozart as if by grace. Salieri himself believes that Mozart's music flows directly from God, that Mozart is indeed Amadeus, a name that means "beloved of God." Yes, it's true that Salieri received the acclaim he had bargained for, but nothing near the fame and renown that Mozart would enjoy.

Are you envious because I am generous? Well, yes, if you're name is Salieri, you most certainly are! We can imagine Salieri standing at the back of the line, stewing in bitterness.

The way that Jesus teaches the parable forces the listeners to imagine themselves at the end of the line as well. All of us watch together as those who worked less hours than we did get paid the same exact wage that we were promised.

My friend and mentor Patrick Willson, a retired Presbyterian pastor, speculates that Jesus told the parable this way because Jesus wants us to view the action from the back of the line, so that we can see what is happening with everyone else. (see comments by Patrick J. Willson in Feasting on the Gospels. I am also indebted to Patrick for the reference to Peter Shaffer's play "Amadeus").

We all have a tendency to be too wrapped up in ourselves, to see everything that we receive as something we're entitled to. This is true even in the church, even among those of us who ought to know that we have received we have received through mercy and not merit. But even in the church we often look through the lens of entitlement. In one of the churches I served there was a dear saint of the church who had been a part of that congregation for forty years, and one day she confided in me that she still felt like the new kid on the block. With seniority comes entitlement, those of us who have stood around a little longer, who have been in this line a little or even a lot longer, expect more.

But as we watch from the end of the line as everyone else gets paid first, when we have honest conversations with one another, we can begin to see the goodness and mercy of God toward others.

That question, are you envious because I am generous, could be translated, "Is your eye evil because I am good?" Earlier in the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus has said that the eye is the lamp of the body. We know, of course, that our eyes are receptors of light, which falls on the retina, which sends signals to the brain via the optic nerve, and then the brain interprets what the eyes see. But in the ancient world, in Jesus' day, the eye was understood to be a lamp that emits light. Thus, what you would see would depend entirely on what was already inside of you. (see comments by Thomas G. Long in Matthew, Westminster Bible Companion series).

"The eye is the lamp of the body"

Oil lamp typical of the first century.

To the extent that you are full of bitterness, you will see people and situations that make you feel even more bitter.

To the extent that you are full of gratitude, you will see people and situations that make you feel even more grateful.

So, what do we see from our vantage point at the end of the line? Perhaps we still see the fundamental unfairness of paying everyone the same wage for different amounts of work. But, if we look carefully from our vantage point, we can see signs of God's goodness and mercy.

We might see, for instance, that some of those who worked only one hour had spent the entire day in the marketplace worried sick that no had hired them. The twelve-hour workers were quick to point out that they had worked all that time in the hot sun, but which is worse?: to toil the entire time in the vineyard knowing that you're assured the usual daily wage at the end, or to spend the entire day in the marketplace, also under a hot sun, fretting that you won't find any work and won't have any pay at the end of the day? And if you had spent most of the day in the marketplace, imagine your relief when someone finally does hire you for that last hour, and to your utter amazement, you end up receiving the full, usual daily wage, which you desperately need to provide for your family. Surely, that would be an example of God's goodness and mercy.

Yet from our vantage point at the end of the line we might also see that some of the others who were hred last had indeed fritted the whole day away and didn't show up at the marketplace until the very last minute. In that instance we might insist that they don't deserve the full daily wage, but from our vantage point we can see other situations in which people have received mercy that they did not deserve. And if we look especially carefully, we will see how we ourselves have received mercies that we did not deserve.

If we begrudge others the mercies they have received which they did not deserve, then what should we say about the mercies that we have received which we did not deserve?

Preacher and writer Tom Long has a wonderful image that helped me unlock the riddle of this parable. Imagine that you, along with everyone else, are standing in a downpour, getting utterly drenched in God's mercy. Rivers of peace are flowing down your cheeks and everyone else's cheeks as well. Do you then complain that you're not getting your fair share of the rain? (from Thomas G. Long's Matthew commentary).

A friend of mine went to a very competitive medical school. The air was thick with spirit of competition. One day, as it neared the time that residencies would be announced and the anxiety about how everyone measured up seemed particularly acute, one of their professors interrupted his own lecture, looked out over the class, and asked, "Do you know what they call the person who graduates dead last in this program?"

"Doctor!"

Well, what do you suppose they call the person who is dead last in the kingdom of heaven?

A beloved child of God.

All glory and praise be to our God. Amen.

Daydreaming During Communion

This blog post is based on my sermon from March 3, 2019, which was titled, "Daydreaming During Communion."

This is all that's showing of the sermon title after Sunday night's snowfall. 

Katonah, NY, morning of Monday, March 4, 2019

Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him. Then Peter said to Jesus, "Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah." While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, "This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!" When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome with fear. But Jesus came and touched them, saying, "Get up and do not be afraid." And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone.                                       --Matthew 17:1-8, New Revised Standard Version

I have an honest, soul-searching question for you. Have you ever daydreamed during communion?

I'll answer that question honestly. There have been moments when I've been sitting in that chair in the chancel, doing my best to think devotional thoughts, and then the next thing I know I'm in the mountains, sitting on an Adirondack chair, and I can see four figures in the distance. Are they lost hikers, perhaps? And then I realize that those four figures are the four elders who have been serving communion to the congregation, and they are standing at the back of the sanctuary, looking at me expectantly and most likely wondering why I haven't given them the signal to come forward yet.

Perhaps you've had moments like that. You're seated in your chair, doing your best to think devotional thoughts, but you end up wondering whether you remembered to make those brunch reservations, or you're wondering if your dentist appointment is tomorrow or the next day, or perhaps you've opened the wardrobe door to peek into Narnia, and then suddenly you look around to your left and to the right, and standing on opposite ends of your row are Moses and Elijah themselves, waiting for you to hurry up already and take a piece of bread and pass the tray.

(thank you to Sue Kravits for the meme)

When I was young I was warned of the consequences of daydreaming during communion. My grandmother would quote 1 Corinthians 11:29 in the King James Version: "For he that eateth and drinketh unworthily, eateth and drinketh damnation to himself." 

That was a frightening verse to a ten-year-old, and it quite literally scared the hell into me. Years later I learned that the Apostle Paul was actually speaking of those who indulged in the Lord's Supper while excluding others. 

Nowadays I have an entirely different take on daydreaming during communion. Now I believe that our daydreams and visions help us to understand that there is always so much more to communion than what we can observe with our eyes or taste with our tongues.

My friend and mentor Roland Perdue is a retired Presbyterian pastor, a gifted preacher, and a wonderful storyteller. He tells the story of walking by the church his family attended when he was in high school in College Park, Georgia. The door to the church was open--an unusual occurrence on a Friday afternoon. Roland started up the steps to close the door, but something caught his eye. He walked into the sanctuary and noticed that the communion table was completely bathed in red. Roland said it looked as if all the communions ever celebrated in that sanctuary had been gathered up and poured over the table, splattered on the legs, and splashed on the floors and the walls. Roland thought of the connection between the red colors of communion and the life of a man from the past, dying for him, rising in glory, and inviting him to eat with him the next time the table was spread.

And then, suddenly, the communion table was bathed in green light. It stayed green for a while, and then everything briefly turned to yellow before turning red again, and Roland realized that the entire visual effect was being caused by the traffic light outside. Common sense told him that. But he also believed that he saw the extraordinary radiance of God shimmering in the ordinary and reflected lights from the street. (from a sermon by Roland Perdue, "Painted Bunting")

I am becoming more convinced that we need dreams and visions and wild imaginations to appreciate everything that happens at this table.

(Oh, the visions we'll see when the traffic light shines through the church windows!)

We often say that the communion meal is a memorial meal reminding us of Jesus' suffering and death. But we also say that the Lord's Supper is the joyful feast of the people of God. How can it be both at the same time? 

Perhaps we need a dream or a vision to help us make the connection.

When the Transfiguration scene takes place in Matthew's Gospel, Jesus has just told the disciples that he must suffer and die. Matthew goes on to narrate how Jesus is eventually arrested and put to death, describing the crucifixion in gruesome detail. But before Matthew tells us the story of the crucifixion he tells us another story--the story of Transfiguration--a story which discloses to us who Jesus is and what his ministry means. (I'm in debt to Thomas G. Long, Matthew, Westminster Bible Companion, p. 94, for the insight into the juxtaposition of the Transfiguration and Crucifixion stories).

So when Matthew later tells us how the soldiers gambled over Jesus' clothing, he wants us to remember that in the moment of Transfiguration Jesus' clothes were shining with glimmering brilliance.

When Jesus on the cross is surrounded by two criminals, one on his left and one on his right, Matthew wants us to remember how in the Transfiguration Jesus was flanked by both Moses and Elijah.

On the cross Jesus is taunted by people crying out, "If you're really the Son of God, take yourself down from that cross!," but in the moment of Transfiguration, there was a voice from heaven which proclaimed, "This is my beloved Son!"

In the crucifixion scene Jesus dies in humiliation with the crowds waiting to see whether Elijah will come to save him, and in the Transfiguration scene Moses and Elijah depart the scene at the end, leaving Jesus alone to shine in glory.

So, how can this meal be both a memorial of Jesus' death and the joyful feast of the people of God? It is both because whenever we think of Jesus' suffering and death we can also think of Jesus' shining splendor and glory. We can hear and understand one story in the light of the other.

When you and I daydream during communion, 

when our minds wander from one thing to another, 

when we sit in our rows passing the trays 

but our minds are racing and our hearts are grieving 

because we've just heard some devastating family news 

or received an unexpected and frightening medical diagnosis, 

even in those moments, 

when our minds are a million miles away and definitely not thinking devotional thoughts, 

all it takes is a little bit of bread and a cup to connect us with the Jesus who gently touches us on the shoulder and tells us not to be afraid.

Joanna Adams is a Presbyterian pastor who served churches in Atlanta. She tells the story of a pastoral visit she paid to a retired minister in her congregation whose mind and memory had been ravaged by Alzheimer's disease. She went to take him communion. She read some scripture, and finally set the elements before him. In a momentary fit of rage he said, "What is this?" Then he shouted, "WHAT IS THIS?!" Joanna said she was searching her mind for some way of calming him down, when suddenly he answered his own question: "This is the joyful feast of the people of God," he said, and then lifting his eyes to the heavens, he prayed, "Almighty God, we thank You for this supper shared in the Spirit with your son Jesus." And for a few moments, he was reconnected with grace and standing in the presence of glory. (from a sermon preached by Joanna Adams, when she was pastor of Atlanta's Trinity Presbyterian Church)

In a few minutes we will pass the trays. We will share the bread of heaven and the cup of blessing. 

And who knows what dreams may come.

All glory and praise be to our God. Amen.

For discussion: what do you often think about during communion? Is there a particular vision or thought that has helped you connect the sacrament to your own life?

Two Sermons on the Feeding of the Five Thousand

This blog post is based on my February 24th, 2019 sermon, which was originally titled, "The Church Is Always in the Desert."

Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns. When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick. When it was evening, the disciples came to him and said, "This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves." Jesus said to them, "They need not go away; you give them something to eat." They replied, "We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish." And he said, "Bring them here to me." Then he ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. And all ate and were filled; and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full. And those who ate were about five thousand men, beside women and children.   --Matthew 14:13-21, New Revised Standard Version

Years ago I preached a sermon on this text, and after the worship service a worshipper grabbed me by the arm and started jabbing me in the chest with the index finger of his right hand, all the while exclaiming, "I can tell you exactly what happened. There was no need for a supernatural miracle. The people had all brought food with them, but they were afraid to take it out because they didn't know whether the others had brought food or not. But once they realized that others had brought food as well, then they relaxed and were able to share as the disciples and Jesus had shared. That's what really happened."

I replied, "I think you make a very persuasive case, now will you please stop poking me!" Later I told a friend about this man's very emphatic explanation of the loaves and fishes, and he said, "Well, either way it makes a great story."

Either way, it makes a great story, and either way it could make for a powerful sermon. All last week I wondered which sermon I should preach this morning. Should I preach the we-all-need-to-share sermon, or should I preach the we-need-a-miracle sermon? Which sermon did Katonah Presbyterian Church most need to hear this morning?

I wasn't sure, so then I wondered whether I could preach both sermons on the same Sunday. After all, if the four Gospel writers had included the loaves and fishes story a total of six times, then surely I wouldn't be out of line to preach two sermons on this text on the same Sunday!

Now, the compromise I'll make with you is that each of these sermons could be about five minutes, so that with a brief wrap-up, plus the time I've already been speaking, the total sermon length should still be just under fifteen minutes.

So, here's the first sermon: We All Need to Share!

Years ago the Quaker theologian and author Parker Palmer was on a flight from Chicago's O'Hare airport to Denver's Stapleton airport, which was the old Denver airport. Now, this took place in that long ago time when there were no security lines at airports, no electronic screening, and you could carry pretty much whatever you wanted in your carryon baggage.

The plane pulled away from the gate, taxied for a very long time, and then came to a stop at a remote corner of the airport next to a chain-link perimeter fence. The captain's voice could be heard on the intercom, "I have some bad news. There is a storm front in the west, exactly where we are headed. Denver is socked in and shut down. There are no alternatives. So, we'll be staying here for a few hours. That's the bad news. The really bad news is that we have no food on board." (Now again, I should mention that this story took place in that long ago time when when people looked forward to a delicious meal on the airplane, complete with silverware and cloth napkins. I don't remember such a time myself, but I've read about it in books.) Thus, when the captain announced that there was no food onboard, everybody groaned. Some passengers became angry.

(In the days of old, when passengers feasted on airplanes)

But then, Palmer said, one of the flight attendants stood up in the aisle and took the microphone. "We're really sorry here, folks. We didn't plan it this way, and we can't do anything about it. We know that for some of you this is a big deal. You're hungry and were looking forward to a nice lunch. Some of you have a medical condition and really need to eat. Some of you may not care. So I have an idea. We have a couple of empty bread baskets up here, and we're going to pass them around. Everybody put something in the basket. I know some of you have brought a little snack along, just in case--peanut butter crackers, candy bars. Some of you have Rolaids, Life Savers, chewing gum. And if you don't happen to have anything edible, you have a business card or a picture of your kids or a bookmark. The thing is, I hope everybody puts something in the basket. And then we'll reverse the process. We'll pick the baskets up at the back of the plane and pass them around again and everybody can take out what he or she needs."

"Well," Palmer said, "what happened next was amazing. First, the complaining and griping stopped. People started to root around in pockets and handbags and briefcases. Some stood up and retrieved luggage from the overhead racks and got out boxes of candy, a salami, Italian sausage, cheese, crackers, a bottle of wine (again, this was in the long ago days when this was permissible!). Now people were laughing and talking. The flight attendant had transformed a group of anxious people focused on their need, deprivation, and scarcity into a gracious community."

The flight eventually took off from Chicago and landed in Denver, and as he stepped off the plane, Palmer found the flight attendant and said, "You know there's a story in the Bible about what you did." She said, "I know the story. That's why I did it" (as quoted in a sermon by John Buchanan, "In Remembrance of Him," preached at Chicago's Fourth Presbyterian Church, October 2, 2011).

This first sermon focuses not so much on the miracle, but on what happens to us when we are motivated to share graciously with one another. As Barbara Brown Taylor explained in a sermon that she preached on this text:

The problem with miracles is that we tend to get mesmerized by them, focusing on God's responsibility and forgetting our own. Miracles let us off the hook. They appeal to the part of us that is all too happy to let God feed the crowd, save the world, do it all. We do not have what it takes, after all. What we have to offer is not enough to make any difference at all, so we hold back and wait for a miracle, looking after our own needs and looking for God to help those who cannot help themselves (from Barbara Brown Taylor, "The Problem with Miracles," in The Seeds of Heaven).

Those who preach this first sermon emphasize the fact that Jesus told the disciples: "You give them something to eat," putting the responsibility squarely on the disciples' shoulders. That's the first sermon: we-all-need-to-share.

In contrast, the second sermon is We-do-need-the-miracle.

Three years ago last summer, another one of my favorite preachers, Nadia Bolz Weber, was speaking at a conference of Lutheran pastors and musicians. She was preaching on the Feeding of the Five Thousand. She knew that Lutheran bishops and seminary professors would be present. She wanted to be sure that she delivered a wise, funny, and learned sermon that did justice to the Lutheran theology of the Eucharist. She struggled to write the sermon. She felt like she was too much in her head. She woke up at two in the morning on the day that she was supposed to preach and rewrote her entire sermon. She decided to write the sermon that she needed to hear and not the one that she thought that the bishops and the professors were expecting.

In her sermon Nadia confessed,

I just couldn't preach a Jesus wants you to be nice and share your juice box sermon to you today . . . Not that thousands of human beings sharing with their neighbors isn't a little miraculous, it is, it's just that . . . maybe this story is too important for it to be [primarily] about people sharing their lunches.

Because miracles, and not lessons about sharing, are what we really need. So as crazy as it is--I believe in miracles--not because I think I'm supposed to but because I need to. I need to believe that God does what we cannot do (from a sermon by Nadia Bolz Weber on the Feeding of the Five Thousand, July 25, 2015, from her blog , the emphasized bold text is her own).

The disciples themselves were just as hungry and just as weary as anyone else in the crowd. They were grieving the death of John the Baptist, how he had been beheaded because the king had been so entranced by a dancing girl that the king promised to give her whatever she asked for, and the girl's mother told her to ask for the head of John the Baptist. That's a grisly story, and I'm struck by the contrast between that lavish, drunken royal banquet and the desert feeding with five loaves and two fish.

The disciples were grieving and hungry and depleted and worn out. They were in need of a miracle. As Nadia Bolz Weber said, "the most important resources that day was not the fried chicken and potato salad that people had hidden in their tunics, but the need of humanity for a God that can do miracles."

Those who preach this second sermon, the we-need-a-miracle sermon, are quick to point out that right after Jesus says, "You give them something to eat," Jesus says, "Bring them here to me."

All of you who are exhausted caregivers, any of you who feel hopelessly overwhelmed the moment that Jesus says, "You give them something to eat," can take heart in the fact that "Jesus includes you in the category of the hungry and himself in the category of bread" (Nadia Bolz Weber).

Which of these two sermons do you most need to hear this morning? The we-all-need-to-share sermon or the we-all-need-a-miracle sermon?

I suspect that some of you probably do resonate a little more with one sermon than the other, and that you may well resonate more with one sermon on one Sunday and with the other sermon on another Sunday.

What I know is that all of us--the we-need-to-share crowd and the we-need-a-miracle crowd--are here in this desert wilderness together and it is time to eat.

(thank you to Sue Kravits for the meme)

As Tom Long writes in the quote that is printed on your bulletin cover:

Indeed, the church is always in the desert, the place where it cannot rely upon its own resources, which are few. The church is hungry itself and is surrounded by a world of deep cravings, people who are lonely, disoriented, and poor in many different ways. Against the savage realities of human need, the church sees only small numbers on the membership rolls and even smaller ones in the mission budget. It is no wonder, then, that the church joins the disciples in crying, this is a desert. Send the crowds away to fend for themselves. Jesus is still the teacher, though, and there is a lesson for the disciples--and the church--to learn: God is abundantly able to provide (from Thomas G. Long, Matthew, Westminster Bible Companion series).

At the end of the day, I don't believe that these two sermons are contradictory at all. To the extent that we know ourselves as hungry and in need of God's grace and miracle-working power, we will be surprised again and again by what happens when we pass the baskets and share what we have.

All glory and praise be to our God. Amen.

With which of these two sermons do you most resonate, and why?: The We-All-Need-to-Share sermon or the We-All-Need-a-Miracle sermon? Please feel free to use the space below to post your comments and questions.