Sermon on Lent 5C- March 21, 2010

The Holy Gospel According to John 12:1-8…

Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. ²There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. ³Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus' feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. ⁴But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, ⁵Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor? ⁶(He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.) ⁷Jesus said, "Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. ⁸You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me."

The Gospel of the Lord…

Have you ever stood on a threshold? I remember when I ate my breakfast on the very first day I was going to be in the office here at IPLC. I was completely terrified, and at the very same time, so excited I was barely able to make it through an entire meal sitting down. I was ready to do the work I had been training for years to do, I wanted to stretch my legs and run right into the work of ministry, and at the same time, I was pretty sure I was going to fall all over myself at every turn.

How many of us have waited for that first day- the first day of a new job, a new marriage, a new move. How many of us have stood on the threshold of retirement, a brand new ministry, or a calling to work that seems beyond our capabilities? These thresholds carry every emotion you can imagine with them- excitement, but fear, hope, but sadness, dreams and visions, but perhaps a nightmare as well.

Today, we stand on a threshold, and we stand here with our ancestors of faith through time. This is the last Sunday of our Lenten season, and so on this day, we say goodbye to the season of repentance and renewal, and look forward to journey to the cross. It is both exciting and scary, standing here. But we don’t stand here alone.

We hear the story of our ancestors as they waited in exile in Babylon. They were not home, and yearned for a new thing- and the prophet Isaiah reminded them of their history- of their journey through the red sea, as they stood at the edge of water, seeing its depth spread before them and heard at their heels the gallop of pharaoh’s army. God brought them through that sea, rescued them from their oppression, led them to the Promised Land- led them home. But now, many years later, they wait in exile, captured by and army and brought out to a place that is not their own. So they stand on the threshold of a new future, a new thing that God is doing, a thing that they can barely perceive, let alone trust. A path is going to be made in the wilderness, a river is about to flow in the desert. And they stand on the threshold of a future so unbelievable that it is almost a dream.

But it isn’t just these wandering Israelites who stand on a threshold, our very Savior waits in that place before the wheels begin turning and death comes closer than any of his friends ever could have imagined. We find him this day at his friends’ house, dining with Martha and Mary. We know these sisters, and we most certainly know their brother. Lazarus dines at the table with them, lest we imagine that death does not fill the room. Lazarus, the friend Jesus wept over, shares this meal with him, Lazarus who is barely out of the tomb in which he was buried, Lazarus who lives because Jesus called him out of death, sits at the table with Jesus, the one who will soon be in his own tomb. The air must have been heavy.

Standing a threshold can make you do crazy things. Sometimes when I find myself in this palce, see something opening in front of me, everything makes me cry. I’ll hear a song, sing a hymn, get an email or hear a kind word, and I just start crying. The edginess of a threshold makes us so vulnerable, so open to feeling the in-breaking of the kingdom that we often find ourselves tearing up. Martha, the sister who plans, finds herself on this threshold preparing another meal. She’s done this before, and she’s complained about it. My guess is, she serves by feeding. But her sister, well, Mary has always been the wild card, in our text for today, she is how she always has been. The meal is interrupted, because this sister Mary comes into the dining room, carrying with her a bottle of perfume that would have cost a year’s wages from an average person, and she breaks it open, uncorks it and pours it on the feet of Jesus. We don’t know if she does it because she is so thankful her brother is alive again, we don’t know if she can see a death that is already being planned for Jesus in Jerusalem, we don’t know if she is just so amazed at who Jesus is that she decides to go all the way down the road of vulnerability and show her love for him the most extravagant of ways. But, in that room with her brother only one foot of out of the grave, Mary pours a year’s worth of wages on the feet of her savior, undoes her long hair, and wipes his feet tenderly with each strand. And the entire house is filled with the fragrance of Mary’s sacrifice.

Standing on the threshold of what is unfolding before them, Mary does what Jesus will soon do over a meal with his friends, tying a towel around his waist and washing their feet. He will remind them that when we love each other, we serve each other. We’ve been told to love one another, because Jesus loved us.

There is a profound weightiness to both of these texts, and a choice. In Isaiah we hear the story of what God has already done, how God has already set the people free, led them through the wilderness, saved them from the oppression and the army of Pharaoh. God has made a path for these wanderers where there never was a path before, and now, as they struggle in exile in Babylon, God says that they ain’t seen nothing yet. You ain’t seen nothing yet. Because a new thing is unfolding, and standing on that threshold, these faithful people can decide to cling desperately to the past, remembering only what God has done, or they can walk boldly into the future, trusting that this new thing is so far beyond their wildest dreams that they can’t even imagine what God has in store for them.

And at the dinner table with a man who is hardly back from the grave, with his two sisters, Jesus says the very same thing. As oil is poured over his feet, and his feet are caressed by the hair of a woman who loved him and whom he loved, Jesus reminds us that we ain’t seen nothing yet. Death is coming, Jesus’ burial is coming, faster than we can imagine, but we ain’t seen nothing yet. Because this is going to be a different kind of death. A death that is beyond our wildest dreams, because God is doing a new thing.

We confront these thresholds all the time. And we get to see the past- the stories of the people of faith who have gone before us, the stories of Mary and Martha and Lazarus, the stories of the Israelites, but also, the stories of the people who used to sit next to us in this very sanctuary, the faithful departed- our mothers and fathers, sisters, brothers and friends. We get to hold on to that past, to the way we have seen God’s hand moving among us and through us, and we stare faithfully into the future, a future that we can barely dream of because God is doing a new thing, here among us, in the midst of us, making ways in the wilderness, making streams in the desert.

Sometimes it seems to get worse before it gets better, and in the next weeks we’ll experience that together. We’ll hear the cries of Hosanna as Jesus comes into Jerusalem, but we’ll also hear the cries of crucify him. We’ll see the joy and the hope and feel the fear and the anger.

And in all of it, in the unfolding on Jesus’ passion, in the unfolding of spring, in the movement of our lives, we remember that the threshold of a new season, a new place, a new future, is grounded firmly in what God has already done. In God’s unfailing love and grace. We are grounded in a past faithfulness and look toward a future that is so full of life it is like a dream. A future where paths become clear, even in the wilderness. A future where water flows like rivers, even in a desert. The past, the future, the faithfulness and the promises of our God all find us in this present moment. Right here, people with a past and people with a future, who have the gift to live in the midst of both of these things today. And as the psalmist says, then, on the thresholds of this life, then was our mouth filled with laughter and our tongue with shouts of joy, they said among the nations, the Lord has done, is doing and will do great things for them. Amen, and thanks be to God.

Sermon on Lent 4C- March 14, 2010

The Holy Gospel According to Luke 15: 1-3, 11b-32…
Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to him. ²And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, "This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them."
³So he told them this parable: ^11b"There was a man who had two sons. ¹²The younger of them said to his father, 'Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.' So he divided his property between them. ¹³A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and traveled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living. ¹⁴When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that country, and he began to be in need. ¹⁵So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. ¹⁶He would gladly have filled himself with the pods that the pigs were eating; and no one gave him anything. ¹⁷But when he came to himself he said, 'How many of my father's hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! ¹⁸I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; ¹⁹I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands." ' ²⁰So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. ²¹Then the son said to him, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.' ²²But the father said to his slaves, 'Quickly, bring out a robe — the best one — and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. ²³And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; ²⁴for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!' And they began to celebrate.
²⁵Now his elder son was in the field; and when he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. ²⁶He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. ²⁷He replied, 'Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he has got him back safe and sound.' ²⁸Then he became angry and refused to go in. His father came out and began to plead with him. ²⁹But he answered his father, 'Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. ³⁰But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!' ³¹Then the father said to him, 'Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. ³²But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.'"

The Gospel of the Lord…

Last week we heard a parable with three characters- a vineyard owner, a gardener and his fig tree. It was supposed to surprise us, wake us up, cause us to scratch our heads and ask, is that what Jesus was trying to say? This morning is no different, but perhaps a little harder. Because this morning we confront one of the most well-known and beloved parables found in our holy texts. The parable of the prodigal son.

It is a parable of grace, a parable of forgiveness. It is a parable of homecoming, where fathers hike up their robes and run down the block in order to wrap their arms around their children. We’ve seen it in pictures, most of us have heard it or even taught it in a Sunday School lesson. Which, I must tell you, makes this quite a parable to preach. I’ve heard more than a few sermons on it, and some preachers have gotten a little caught up in presenting this parable as something bright shiny and new, because we just know it too well. They preach it from every angle, from the older brother’s perspective, from the younger brother, from the father, from the other hired hands. One writer even suggested preaching from the perspective of the fatted calf!

I’m not going to try and be that creative with you today. I’m just going to tell you some stories, because what I am most struck by is the way this parable lives among us. So today, we will begin with some modern day parables.

I was called to jury duty this week. I spent most of Monday cramped up in a chair waiting to be called to a courtroom. It was tedious. I was bored. And then, they called panel 21. Along with many others, we filed through the criminal court building and into a courtroom. It was there I saw him. The defendant. He looked like he could be a child. Young. Too young, really. His suit didn’t fit well. It was too big, just like his crime. Accused of murder with a deadly weapon. I made an audible gasp when the judge read the charges, and then I couldn’t stop staring. What happened to you, I thought? What happened to you that brought you here, in a suit that is too big, accused of murdering someone? Don’t you just want to go home? Do you feel so lost, sitting there? Can you even imagine that someone might run down the road, hike up their skirts and flat out run to envelope you in their arms?

Then a chaplain friend of mine called me this week, shook up by a new case. It was the case of a young man, only our age, who had suffered his fair share of depression, who couldn’t go on even one more day. So he took a bottle of pills, and left a note. But not just one note, another handwritten note stuck to his bedroom door to make sure that the hospital knew he had a do not resuscitate order. But what he couldn’t see in the midst of his pain was who was going to be left behind, that his own father would find him and would hold his hand as he lay in a coma and beg him to open his eyes and come home. Perhaps there was no one to help him come to himself, no one to remind him that there was one more place to go as he sat in the midst of the muck and the mire that was all he could see in this life.

I think this is why this parable sticks with us. We can see ourselves and our neighbors in everyone in the text. We have been lost, lost like all of these characters. We have been lost in giving everything away, in being extravagant and lavish in our love and our trust only to face the disappointment of someone we love squandering all we have in dissolute living. We have woken up one day only to find ourselves living among the pigs, so far gone that we don’t know what happened to the grand lives we had planned. And, we have all been standing outside the door, watching the feast and celebration wondering if there really was a place for us, or if the party was always going to be about someone else.

What is supposed to surprise us about this parable? Perhaps that it lives among us, even now. We know what is like to see ourselves and each other lost in the midst of this world, and we know what it means to be found and captured by grace and mercy. Sometimes I am utterly overwhelmed by how much is lost in this world, how many people walk around like the living dead, wishing that someone would even offer them even the pods that the pigs were eating in order to help them feel alive again. Sometimes I am utterly overwhelmed by how often we are so sure that we have gotten where we are all on our own, and the idea of helping one another, of trying to offer a hand to someone in need seems like it somehow throws off the balance of the world, it is just too unfair. But most of all, I am utterly overwhelmed that the father keeps on running down the road, keeps on sharing his inheritance, keeps on giving us the means to try it all on our own, knowing full well that the deepest life is always at home, in relationship with him and with one another.

When we open our eyes to see God’s word living among us, it makes it even harder to remember the beginning of this story. Because our text for today begins as the answer to a question. Jesus is welcoming and eating with some sinners, and so the gathered crowd of religious leaders starts to grumble. And so he tells them three parables- one about a lost sheep, that the shepherd cares so deeply for he is willing to leave all the other 99 sheep out in the pasture in order to find this one. And then he tells the parable of a lost coin, one woman’s tiny coin when she already has nine others, a little coin that she turns her entire household upside down to find. And finally, he tells this story, our parable for today, about three people, and I think more than just one brother who is lost.

And, I wonder, if Jesus sat among us now, if he would tell us other stories. Perhaps a story about how somewhere in this city there sits a man who is young and broken and facing the possibility of a conviction for murder. Or perhaps the story of somewhere in this city where a father is leaning over the bed of his son, wishing that he had the chance to come home again. But it doesn’t end with just the lostness of this life, in our biblical parables or in the world around us.

Because each one of these stories ends with a celebration, a shepherd that rejoices when he finds his sheep, a woman who throws a party for all her neighbors when she shakes out the cushions and finds her coin, a father who kills the fatted calf, invites his hired hands and his friends to celebrate because life has come out of death, what was lost has been found.

We don’t know how this story ends, the best parables never tell us. We don’t know if that older brother waits outside with a scowl on his face and envy in his heart. We don’t know if that younger son becomes a different man because he has been wrapped in this kind of lavish love. I don’t know what will happen to a boy on trail or a family who has lost a son. But we do know that God is a God who searches diligently for us, who will find us no matter how far away we have gone, who will find us even when we are dead in order that we might have life. And we know that our God keeps on throwing parties, keeps on running down the road even when we are far off, keeps on inviting us to the table, because there is always room, there is always a place, there is always abundant grace and mercy to be shared. We had to celebrate and rejoice, he says, because the one who once was dead has found life, the one who was lost, has been found. Amen, and thanks be to God.

Sermon on Lent 3C- March 7, 2010

The Holy Gospel According to Luke 13:1-9…
At that very time there were some present who told him about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. ²He asked them, "Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? ³No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did. ⁴Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them — do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem? ⁵No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did."
⁶Then he told this parable: "A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. ⁷So he said to the gardener, 'See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?' ⁸He replied, 'Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. ⁹If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.'"

The Gospel of the Lord…

Several weeks ago I had one of those moments, that I am sure has afflicted many who listen to the radio in their car. I listen to the radio nearly every time I am in my car, and as most of us know, for many days in the last months pretty much all we heard about what the earthquake and tragedies in Haiti. It was disturbing. I heard reporters start crying as they attempted to describe the devastation. I heard the desperate voices of Haitian Americans describing their numerous and often unfruitful attempts to contact loved ones. But, my moment came a few days after the earthquake as I heard reports about the response of religious leaders. Churches, including ours, jumped to the forefront of providing relief. We, as Lutherans raised millions of dollars to help the efforts of disaster relief. We joined with Catholics, Methodists, Episcopalians, and others in responding to the crisis with our efforts. But our response was not the only response. Which leads to my moment. I’m driving along, and I hear that there are some religious leaders out there who are explaining the earthquake as a direct consequence and God’s condemnation for Haiti and Haitians. Their religious practices, which are surely devil worship and voodoo, led to this earthquake, God’s wrath has come down on them. These leaders proclaimed that the Haitians got what they deserved because they made a pact with the devil a long time ago.

I had to pull my car over and pray. I was ashamed that this voice was rising above the proclamation of grace in action provided by so many people of faith. Having heard the cries of children searching for parents, having seen the pictures of bodies lying on bodies, I was angry. You don’t get to put these words of condemnation in the mouth of God.

But this isn’t a new question, because we hear it in the mouths of the crowd gathered around Jesus in our text for this morning. We don’t know much about the events they are describing, but we know that they were both jarring and tragic. Pilate has apparently ordered the death of some Galileans, mingling their blood with sacrifice. And, a tower has fallen, killing 18 people unexpectedly. It is hard to make sense of the why questions. Why were these innocent people murdered? Why did a tower fall on that day at that time? Why did some survive and not others? We heard it in the news reports and the cries coming out of Haiti. Why did some die and others live? Why were there aid workers and missionaries killed, aren’t they good people? What did they do to make this happen to them?

It is when we start coming up with answers that we often end up doing more harm than good. It is when we see the tragic pictures of homes destroyed and people in pain and wonder what they did to bring this destruction upon themselves, and forget that God is sitting in that rubble with them, with a heart that was the first to break. It might be human nature to wonder why bad things happen, and it is probably equally our nature to seek to blame each other rather than live in the pain and the suffering with our brothers and sisters who struggle.

But, Jesus doesn’t give us answers to these great questions. Instead, he asks us to consider our own lives, are they worse sinners, those that have experienced deep pain and tragedy in this life? The answer is no. But, if you don’t repent, you will die as they did.

I read these words about a million times this week. I read them backward and forward, because I wanted to hear promise. And it just sounded like a harsh warning. Unless you repent, you will perish. Ouch.

Tragedy has a way of making us think about our own mortality. I was in college in Michigan when the twin towers fell on 9/11, but within minutes both of my parents were calling me, wanting to make sure I was okay. Hundreds of miles away, seeing those buildings crumble made most of us wonder how long our lives will last. Churches, including mine, were packed that day, as people of faith gathered to pray. Repent or not, the one thing we try to get comfortable talking about here in this sanctuary is that we know we are going to die. None of us can live forever, and sometimes death comes too soon. And it is scary, and it makes us think about how we live today.

So, Jesus tells a parable. Every time that we confront a parable in our gospels, we should be prepared for a shock and surprise, because these stories aren’t fables. When we hear them we are often meant to think that we are one person in the story only realize that who we thought we were doesn’t always end up garnering favor. These parables are supposed to wake us up.

The parable is about a vineyard owner, his gardener and a tree. The landowner goes out to the tree, looking for figs, and finds none. Not a one. He calls over the gardener, cut it down, I have waited for three years, and still nothing- why does it waste the soil? Cut it down! The gardener, quick to reply, asks for just one more year. One more year of putting manure on the roots, one more year of tending, one more year of making sure this little tree gets plenty of water and sun. And the parable ends. We don’t know what happened after that one more year.

It sounds like Jesus is giving a little shout out to his old cousin John the Baptist, the one who lived on the riverbank and ate locusts and honey calling people to repentance. John warned those gathered crowds that if they didn’t get their lives in order, the coming messiah was going to take an ax to their root system. There were also a few tough lines about unquenchable fire. This might be what makes us read this parable and think it is all about judgment. Repent, or die.

But I don’t think that is what this is about at all, and I think that is the most surprising part. I don’t think this is about threats, I think this is about promise. One more year, the gardener says. One more year, and I refuse to give up. One more year, and I am going to do everything in my power to give this fig tree life. One more year.

It isn’t a threat, repent or die, it is a promise, repentance leads to life. Letting go of the sin and the sorrow that drag us down, being generous of spirit and heart, speaking peace and doing justice, reaching out hands of mercy to brothers and sisters who experience tragedy in this sanctuary and around the world, these are the beginnings of life that bears fruit. These are the signs that this is a good year for figs.

I have been approached on several occasions by street evangelists. Every so often I’ll be walking around, minding my own business, and suddenly there will be someone in front of me, thrusting tracts into my hands with some serious worry about my salvation. If you die tonight, what will happen to your soul? They look at me afraid and concerned.

Perhaps they don’t know that it isn’t fear that will keep me awake at night wondering what will happen. What should be keeping us awake at night is the sheer promise of the gift of life, one more day, one more minute, one more second to proclaim love and forgiveness to the world. One more minute to love boldly. One more second to say we’re sorry. One more moment to choose life, real life, in grace of God. One more hour to spend telling the story of what that gardener has done for us. Amen.