Daily Archives: September 8, 2024

Where do you come from? A sermon for Proper 16B, 2024

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Catching up on posting sermons…

August 25, 2024

Where do you come from?

Proper 16B

August 25, 2024

         Corrie and I lived in the upstate of South Carolina for ten years, five in Spartanburg, five in Greenville. Though it has its charms, it’s a very conservative area both politically and religiously. Greenville is the home of Bob Jones University, a fundamentalist Christian university, the center of a network of people and independent churches that is diffused across the nation and world. We bought our house in Greenville from Bob Jones alumni, and when we took possession of it, the first thing we did was paint over a ed stenciled bible verse prominently displayed in the dining area: “But as for me and my house, we will serve the LORD.”

You may think nothing of this verse, you may even be inclined to appreciate it as an expression of pious sentiment, but it is suffused with patriarchy—individuals, wife, children, have no agency in this statement. Joshua is speaking for everyone in his household, declaring that they will serve the Lord, whether they want to or not. And although that was almost twenty years ago now, we can see clearly where such statements and sentiments have morphed into a religion that doubles down on sexism and misogyny, prioritizing procreation and denigrating “childless cat ladies” and the like, not to mention demonizing relationships and families that express themselves in ways other than heteronormativity.

The verse is part of a larger narrative, what is called a covenant ceremony that comes at the very end of the book of Joshua. These past few weeks, we’ve heard a few snippets from the book of Exodus: the story of the Passover, the gift of manna in the wilderness for example. Now, we’re catching up with the narrative after the Israelites have entered the land of Canaan. The book of Joshua consists of stories of the conquest: the defeat and destruction of the residents of the land. And now at the end of the book, as Joshua, who succeeded Moses as the leader of the Israelites, is near the end of his life and wants the Israelites to renew their covenant, their commitment to the God who brought them out of the land of Egypt.

Coincidentally, in the daily office, the book of Joshua was the appointed old testament text earlier this summer. I found it jarring to read alongside the daily reminders in the press of Israel’s military operations in Gaza, the killings of thousands and the destruction of homes, and hospitals. The book of Joshua with its brutal tales of violence and destruction has had a pernicious legacy through the centuries, as Christians have justified colonial conquests in North America, and radical Israelis have seen in it justification for the expulsion and murder of Palestinians.

In fact, I was a bit puzzled why the lectionary editors chose this particular passage to couple with today’s gospel reading. I noticed one troubling connection that I doubt the editors had in mind. At the beginning of the reading, Jesus refers to God as Father, something he does throughout the Gospel of John and in the synoptics as well. It underscores the intimacy of the relationship between Jesus and God and at times, even their identity. At the same time, to twenty-first century ears, it can be as jarring as the words spoken by Joshua. It, too, evokes images of patriarchy and male supremacy, and listeners who may have broken relationships with their fathers, or suffered abuse from them, it may resurface trauma. It’s important for us, even those of us who find thinking of God as Father to be life-giving, that others have different responses to such language.

Truth be told, my hunch is that the choice of the Joshua text has to do with them seeing a connection between the question Joshua asks the assembled Israelites, and the question Jesus asks the twelve after the crowds have dispersed: “Do you also wish to go away?”

The chapter begins with the feeding of the five thousand. Following that miracle, Jesus withdraws from the crowd because he realized they were going to proclaim him king. Then he and the disciples cross the lake. This is when Jesus is seen walking on water. Eventually they make their way to Capernaum, where Jesus engages in a lengthy dialogue and discourse, during which opposition to his words escalates. The discourse culminates with Jesus saying, “I am the bread of life.” He continues, verses we hear last week:

‘Very truly, I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. 54Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day; 55for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink. 56Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them.

This is the hard saying that the disciples have trouble hearing. To us, they sound fairly innocuous. Jesus wasn’t speaking literally. He was referring to the Eucharist and whatever he meant, he didn’t meant that we are literally eating his body and blood. 

But there’s more for us to think about here. Jesus is not speaking only of the Eucharist. He is also speaking of himself. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood, abide in me and I in them. Discipleship in the Gospel of John is about relationship with Jesus. Throughout the gospel, from the very first chapter, those who follow Jesus are invited to abide with him, to be with him. 

In today’s gospel, Jesus’ listeners are presented with a choice. They can turn away or reject him, or they can listen to him, hear his words, and follow him. After some of those who had followed him walk away, Jesus asks those who remain, “Do you also wish to go away?” 

Peter’s answer isn’t yes or no. Having walked with Jesus thus far, he can’t imagine life without him. “To whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life.” Peter has already experienced relationship with Jesus, abiding with him, and the prospect of life without him is incomprehensible. Jesus’ words are eternal life; his words are spirit, all else seems empty in comparison.

Now the Gospel of John has the characteristic that simple ideas, words, concepts can suddenly seem to be remotely abstract, foreign to our experience and lives. Spending time in the gospel of John can be disorienting and alienating. The words wash over us. We have, after all, been spending five weeks hearing this chapter from John’s gospel. If you read it through in one sitting, it comes across as repetitive, to some, even nonsensical. Many of us, including your preacher, will be happy to return to Mark next week, whose language and message is much clearer, though perhaps equally difficult to make one’s own.

What matters above all in John, once we cut through the verbiage, is relationship. What matters is the life-giving relationship with Jesus Christ, offered by Christ. What matters is the experience of abiding with him as he abides with us. John is trying to help us understand, but more importantly to experience, the life that he experienced with Jesus Christ. All of the language, all of the discourses, all of Jesus’ miracles, are directed toward this.

Most of us struggle with our faith. Most of us wonder at times, if God exists, whether Jesus was the Son of God, or whether he truly was raised from the dead. We wonder about heaven and hell. We have lots of questions, doubts, uncertainties. Some of us probably aren’t even sure why we bother coming to church. Does any of it matter? Is any of it true?

But there is something that draws us here, something that speaks to our deepest yearnings and hopes. We might not even be able to articulate or name what it is. We come here and find something. For the Gospel of John, what we find here is relationship, life. We experience in the community gathered, in the bread and wine, in the word read and proclaimed, in all of that, we experience life. Jesus offers us that life. He invites us to stay, to abide with him, to live in him as he lives in us. When we say yes to him, we are not proving an argument or saying yes to a proposition. We are inviting and experiencing relationship. When say yes to him, we say yes to life.

Maybe crumbs are enough: A Sermon for Proper 18B, 2024

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Proper 18B

September 8, 2024

Are you puzzled by today’s gospel reading? Are you struggling to make sense of what’s going on? Are you offended by the exchange between Jesus and the woman who approaches him, begging him to help her daughter who’s possessed by a demon? Do Jesus’ actions and words seem out of line with your image of a loving and compassionate Jesus? If you answered any of those questions with a “yes,” you’re not alone. This gospel text has challenged preachers, scholars, and faithful Christians for centuries, and perhaps most of all in recent decades as we have sought to be more welcoming and inclusive and appealed to Jesus, whom we say “welcomed all to his table.”

Well, not in this case. The dogs, whoever they may be, remained under the table, fighting for the scraps that have fallen to the ground.

Before digging into the text, let me throw out a few interpretations that have gained sway over the years. One theory is that Jesus isn’t using “dog” as a derogatory term but an affectionate one: puppies, let’s say. Another is that this encounter constitutes something of a transformative moment—that Jesus has seen his mission so far as being exclusively for the Jewish community, but that this woman causes him to think more broadly, to include the Gentiles in his mission. There are those who see in the woman a proto-feminist, standing up to Jesus on behalf of her daughter. Whatever.

We might ask another question. Why does Mark tell the story in this way? What is he trying to get across? Remember, the Gospel of Mark is not a biography of Jesus—it’s the good news. He’s writing to share something crucial about his understanding of Jesus—that he is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that Jesus is ushering a new age: the reign of God. And he’s telling this story in this way because he thinks it says important about the coming reign of God.

The first thing I want to point out is the importance of geography. To this point, Jesus has largely been active in his home territory, Galilee, Capernaum seems to have served as something of a base. Now he has traveled outside of traditionally Jewish territory to the seacoast to Tyre. 

There’s a spatial element to this as well. In Mark, Jesus seems to move back and forth between public areas—synagogues, places where crowds might gather, and intimate areas, private homes. In this case he is in a private home and he has gone there seeking rest and solitude. We don’t even know if the disciples are with him.

A third thing that should help us make sense of these two stories is that there is a striking parallel a couple of chapters earlier. Earlier this summer we heard the story of Jesus healing the woman with an issue of blood and Jairus’ daughter. One important element in those two earlier stories is Jesus’ response to the woman and to Jairus: each time he mentions faith, “Daughter, your faith has made you well.” Mark uses the technique of the doubled story to emphasize something new and different. 

One important difference between the characters in the two sets of stories is that in the first, we can assume they are both Jewish. In the case of the synagogue ruler, we know that for sure. He is the consummate insider. In the case of the woman with the issue of blood, we can assume she’s Jewish because of the location and the way the story is told. In the stories we have before us, we know the woman is not Jewish, she’s “Syro-Phoenician.” While his ethnic and religious identity is not mentioned, we can presume that the deaf-mute man is Gentile as well, because of where the story takes place. 

Faith is not mentioned in our two healing stories. In the first, Jesus tells the woman her daughter has been healed because of what she said—her argument, or logic was responsible for the healing. If there is faith involved, it’s implicit in that the woman returns home with faith that her daughter has been restored to health and wholeness. In the other healing, there’s no mention of why he was healed, neither the faith of the man nor that of those who brought him to Jesus is mentioned.

But as I’ve reflected on these stories over the years, my focus has shifted. The questions of how the Jesus depicted in this story may challenge our assumptions about him are important to think about but they may not be the most important. Often we bring our agendas to the texts, like a desire to be inclusive and welcoming, and those agendas may distort or narrow our reading of the stories, leading us to overlook other important themes.

I’m not saying that inclusion isn’t important  But what strikes me is that when the woman accepts Jesus’ categorization of her, she is doing something else. She is admitting her unworthiness to receive his help, and that, I think deserves our closer attention. 

I wonder whether any of you have felt that you don’t deserve God’s grace and mercy. I wonder how many of you have struggled to receive Jesus’ promise to love and forgive you. We are taught in our professional and personal lives to stand up for ourselves, to demand our rights, our fair share, our due. But that face or persona we present to the world can often feel fake or unreal. We may feel like a fraud. That may also be true in our spiritual journeys—our doubts, uncertainties, our sins and shortcomings may make us feel unworthy of God’s grace and mercy.

In our Rite I Eucharist, there’s a prayer called the Prayer of Humble Access, we say it together just before we receive communion: In it are the following words:

We are not worthy so much as to gather
up the crumbs under thy Table. But thou art the same Lord
whose property is always to have mercy. 

Sometimes, we need to admit who we are, in all of our doubts, uncertainties, brokenness and sin, for when we do, we open ourselves to the wonderful expanse of God’s mercy, which is more than we deserve, more than we can imagine. Sometimes, crumbs are more than enough. They can fill our hearts and heal us, body and soul.