Jesus knew the transformative power of a meal.
He knew how intimately connected the link was
between food and fellowship and the kingdom of God.
The joy of God’s presence
came upon the crowds that day
in the sharing of supper together.
Not only did Jesus have compassion
for the crowds and heal their sick,
but he goes beyond expectations and offers the crowds
friendship and hospitality in the form of a feast.
Think of the hundreds of ways
in which we use food in order to connect
with friends and family.
We arrange our lives around food-
whether it’s dinner together as a family,
meeting a coworker for lunch,
or the simple joy of meeting a close friend for supper.
Our bonds with each other are structured
around the meals we eat together.
The smells and tastes and satisfaction
we gain from a great meal
is interwoven with the sense of intimacy we share
with those we love and care about.
Meals strengthen the bonds we share with one another.
And food even helps us connect with strangers.
Think of how the meals we eat
cause us to interact with strangers.
My wife and I sometimes eat at
a little breakfast place in Madison.
And I mean ‘little.’
The building itself is tiny
and throngs of people pack the place on the weekends
and it’s hard to move around.
It’s so small, in fact,
that you have to sit with other diners.
There are no private tables.
I’m not used to this.
I like to have the privacy of my own table,
away from everyone else.
Yet, sitting with other diners forces you to enter into
conversation with people you normally wouldn’t talk to.
It allows you to get to know them.
And the delicious taste of the food is so enjoyable
that it sparks something from within
that opens you up to fellowship
with people you’ve never met before.
So the delight of food opens us to others
in ways that would otherwise be closed.
Our central aspect of worship together
takes place in the form of a meal.
At this table we celebrate
Christ’s real presence in the bread and wine.
The Eucharist is the place of radical hospitality.
In it we are offered a glimpse of the kingdom to come.
We literally taste the transformative power of Christ in bread and wine,
and participate in fellowship with him and each other.
Transformation happens within the context of a meal.
And there are other tables here at church
that are signs of Christ’s hospitality.
After worship on Sundays
I’ve noticed that you serve
doughnuts and coffee in the hallway.
And I like doughnuts.
If you ever want to find me after worship on Sunday,
you need look no further
than the doughnut and coffee table in back.
I find the doughnuts so creamy and so delicious
that I am often tempted to take two,
and sometimes I even try to take a second doughnut,
but my wife stops me,
so I only have one doughnut.
But this is an important ministry at Lake Edge.
By offering food for each other
and for the visitors in your midst,
you show the hospitality of Christ.
My wife and I have gotten to know
some of you better through conversation
over a doughnut and coffee.
And we are grateful for it.
Food opens pockets of space
for fellowship, hospitality and transformation to occur.
One of my favorite movies, Babette’s Feast,
shows how fellowship and a great meal
can transform lives.
The movie is set in the nineteenth century
and tells the story of a French woman, Babette,
who comes into the lives of two sisters
living in a rural community in Denmark.
Babette is a refugee who has fled to Denmark
and works as a servant for the sisters.
The sisters’ father was the founder
of a strict, pious Lutheran sect
and the congregation flourished while he was alive.
But the movie takes place many decades later
when the sisters are old,
the father has died,
and the congregation has dwindled
to a few embittered parishioners.
Babette works for the sisters for fourteen years as a servant,
but she finds out that she has won
10,000 francs in a lottery in France.
But instead of going back to France,
she spends her entire winnings
on a feast for the sisters and the small congregation.
The congregation is bitter and cranky
and they hold many petty grudges and resentments
towards one another.
And being a strict community,
they are suspicious
of the feast that Babette has planned.
They have always eaten rather bland food,
and they think there is something rather sinful
about indulging the appetite
in such a sensuous and exotic meal.
But they decide to go ahead and eat the meal,
but they promise one another
that they will not enjoy it.
Some of the characters in the movie have regrets.
An old general comes back to the village for this feast
and sees for the first time in many years
one of the sisters whom he loved.
One of the most poignant scenes of the movie
shows him getting dressed for dinner
and looking into a mirror.
He is old and melancholy
and dressed pompously in his uniform.
But in the mirror he sees his younger self
in the reflection staring back at him-
a reflection of him when he was a young officer.
He had his arms crossed,
and looked so stubborn and ambitious.
I don’t remember what exactly the actor said,
but his eyes were mournful
as he looked at his younger self.
‘What for?’ he seemed to be saying
as he looked back at that young man.
‘What for?’
He was in deep regret
for the way his life turned out.
The old general had achieved the success
he desired in life,
but at a great cost.
He lost a life with the woman that he loved.
At the dinner Babette serves dish after sumptuous dish-
thin pancakes and caviar,
quail smothered with delicious sauces.
Wine and champaign and chesses and cakes.
The actors’ faces magically light up
after each bite of food.
As the meal progresses,
grudges melt away.
Petty rivalries are dismissed.
Resentments are overcome.
The General stands up
and delivers a moving speech.
He says that “mercy is infinite,”
and declares that “righteousness and bliss shall kiss one another
and the love of Christ will illuminate the world.”
In the feast fellowship happens.
Transformation happens.
The dinner guests come to not even regret the past,
seeing their lives in the larger,
more magnificent framework of God’s grace.
I like to think that this is what Jesus had in mind
in the feeding of the crowds.
He wasn’t just going to cure people of sickness
and send them away.
He was going to transform them
through the power of a meal together.
It was not just a meal,
but a feast that transcended itself,
developing higher and wider
and lower and deeper circles
of friendship and fellowship.
The kingdom of God was happening
in that meal between
Jesus and the disciples and the people.
And the miracle happens today.
The Holy Spirit works in the spaces between the meal-
in fellowship with one another,
in the actual smell and taste of the food,
in laughter and friendship and grace.
All these elements of a meal come together
and transformation happens through them.
So when we offer hospitality to one another
and to the stranger through the sharing of a meal,
remember that it is not just a meal we share.
We are sharing the hospitality, love and presence of Christ.
And as we hunger this Lenten season
for the presence and righteousness of God,
let us recognize the mysterious presence of Christ
among us in our shared meals.
Trust in the One who transforms
our merger scraps of bread and fish
into something much larger
than we could ever hope for or imagine.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
lenten devotion
Mark 8:31-38 Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again. 32 He said all this quite openly. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. 33 But turning and looking at his disciples, he rebuked Peter and said, "Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things." 34 He called the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, "If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. 35 For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it. 36 For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life? 37 Indeed, what can they give in return for their life? 38 Those who are ashamed of me and of my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of them the Son of Man will also be ashamed when he comes in the glory of his Father with the angels.
Meditation: This lonely band of outlaws, the disciples, huddled together around Jesus. They were so optimistic about their future ministry and ambitions. They were going to Jerusalem, and (who knows!) maybe change the world. Yet, now they were confronted with this stark, almost fatalistic, message about suffering and the cross- and any message that diverted Jesus from the way of the cross was not only a misunderstanding, but a satanic temptation. Surely the disciples now worried about their own safety, not to mention Jesus' mental stability- A religious fanatic with a death wish.
In our context Jesus' message of the cross has become a spiritual metaphor for inward suffering, or as the means by which we surrender heart and mind to God. Yet, the disciples didn’t have the luxury of considering the cross metaphorically. They weren’t taught by brilliant exegetes- all they had were Jesus' own words. And Jesus himself. Peter was shown that there was to be no pragmatic compromise with the satanic powers in the world. Only a lonely journey to the cross, one frightful step at a time, would transform history. A broken God, who in the humiliation of crucifixion wasn't afforded the dignity by which he could cover the shame in his face with his hands, willed our salvation.
Prayer: Forgive us God, when we treat our callings as career opportunities. Forgive us when we are tempted to forfeit our souls for the sake of approval. This is not what drew us to ministry. But you, O Lord, called us to witness to the power of your cross and resurrection. Teach us anew the cost of discipleship, for our neighbor's sake, and for the sake of the eternal and living beauty of your kingdom come. Amen.
Meditation: This lonely band of outlaws, the disciples, huddled together around Jesus. They were so optimistic about their future ministry and ambitions. They were going to Jerusalem, and (who knows!) maybe change the world. Yet, now they were confronted with this stark, almost fatalistic, message about suffering and the cross- and any message that diverted Jesus from the way of the cross was not only a misunderstanding, but a satanic temptation. Surely the disciples now worried about their own safety, not to mention Jesus' mental stability- A religious fanatic with a death wish.
In our context Jesus' message of the cross has become a spiritual metaphor for inward suffering, or as the means by which we surrender heart and mind to God. Yet, the disciples didn’t have the luxury of considering the cross metaphorically. They weren’t taught by brilliant exegetes- all they had were Jesus' own words. And Jesus himself. Peter was shown that there was to be no pragmatic compromise with the satanic powers in the world. Only a lonely journey to the cross, one frightful step at a time, would transform history. A broken God, who in the humiliation of crucifixion wasn't afforded the dignity by which he could cover the shame in his face with his hands, willed our salvation.
Prayer: Forgive us God, when we treat our callings as career opportunities. Forgive us when we are tempted to forfeit our souls for the sake of approval. This is not what drew us to ministry. But you, O Lord, called us to witness to the power of your cross and resurrection. Teach us anew the cost of discipleship, for our neighbor's sake, and for the sake of the eternal and living beauty of your kingdom come. Amen.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
hitchhiking
Feeling a little bored in my Ohio hometown, I decided to hitchhike across the country. So I threw a copy of Jack Kerouac’s On The Road in my backpack along with a few extra clothes, made a Bruce Springsteen playlist on cassette tapes, and left. The freedom of the road was exhilarating. Yet there were days when things got a little tight.
One day in particular I was stranded in the rain on a deserted stretch of I-74 in Illinois. I looked at the drenched fields that surrounded me as I held out my fist and thumb to the passing traffic. I didn’t see any sign of a town or truck stop that would offer shelter from the rain. I thought of home when I packed my bag. At the time of my exuberance, taking Springsteen and Kerouac along with me seemed much more important than packing weather appropriate clothing. I felt the rain soak through my hooded jacket and thought, “You are so screwed, Rick.”
However, I didn’t walk too long before a car passed me slowly and pulled over and stopped. Some people say grace is the unmerited love and favor of God. This is true, but grace is also the broken glory of standing in the rain and seeing a beat up car with its right blinker on, pulled off the side of the road to rescue. I ran up to the car and got in.
It was a lone woman driver, which surprised me since most of the time it was men who picked me up. As she pulled back onto the interstate I thanked her profusely for stopping. “No problem,” she told me. “I hate seeing people stranded in the rain like that.” She said her name was Mary, and asked me where I was going. I told her I was headed to a small town in Nebraska that I used to live in when I was nineteen, and then to Arizona to see my cousin. These things were true, but I was too embarrassed to tell her I had no real destination in mind. The larger truth was I really had no idea where the hell I was going, that I was a lost and desperate young man drifting across the country without any sense of direction in life, searching for something I couldn’t name.
I noticed Mary was wearing sunglasses. I thought this was odd considering it was a rainy day, but I didn’t say anything. We talked for a long time and the conversation turned in many different directions, as conversations with strangers on the road always do. We eventually talked about her husband. She told me he was unstable. That’s when she looked over at me and raised her sunglasses. I saw that her left eye was black and blue and swollen. I was startled. She told me that her husband was in Vietnam and had PTSD. He had nightmares and hit her in bed. I didn’t know what to make of that. I felt the urge to say something that would help her, but I didn’t know what to say, so we talked about other things. Mary told me she was on her way to see her son at college. She asked me if I wanted to come with her. She said she had to drop some things off for him, and it would only take a few minutes. I was in no hurry so we drove to the town where her son lived.
It was an awkward meeting, at least for me. She introduced us and I felt like saying, “Hi, I’m the complete stranger your mother picked up on the side of the road.” But he didn’t show any signs of suspicion. He seemed as kind and generous as his mother.
When we left we got something to eat at a fast food restaurant. Mary tried to look at the menu above the counter but couldn’t see it through her sunglasses, so she lifted them from her eyes for a brief moment and read the sign. There were two employees behind the counter, and when they saw her black eye, they both snuck a quick glance at me.
After we ate, Mary went out of her way to drop me off in a larger town. But before I got out of the car she wrote her phone number on a small scrap of paper. She said, “Now when you get to a safe place tonight I want you to call me and let me know that you’re all right. Please Rick, call me.” She expressed many times during the trip how dangerous it was to hitchhike, and she was genuinely worried for my well being. I grabbed the number and assured her I would call. I thanked her again and said good-bye. It rained off and on as I caught a few more rides that day. I eventually made it to Galesburg where I split a cheap room that evening with a guy who had picked me up. Something was bothering me that night. I don’t remember what it was. I hastily looked through my belongings for Mary’s number, but couldn’t find it. It was written on a tiny piece of paper, but I think if I would’ve looked hard enough, I probably would have found it. But I didn’t feel like looking very hard. The next morning I continued hitchhiking west towards Nebraska. I never found her number.
One day in particular I was stranded in the rain on a deserted stretch of I-74 in Illinois. I looked at the drenched fields that surrounded me as I held out my fist and thumb to the passing traffic. I didn’t see any sign of a town or truck stop that would offer shelter from the rain. I thought of home when I packed my bag. At the time of my exuberance, taking Springsteen and Kerouac along with me seemed much more important than packing weather appropriate clothing. I felt the rain soak through my hooded jacket and thought, “You are so screwed, Rick.”
However, I didn’t walk too long before a car passed me slowly and pulled over and stopped. Some people say grace is the unmerited love and favor of God. This is true, but grace is also the broken glory of standing in the rain and seeing a beat up car with its right blinker on, pulled off the side of the road to rescue. I ran up to the car and got in.
It was a lone woman driver, which surprised me since most of the time it was men who picked me up. As she pulled back onto the interstate I thanked her profusely for stopping. “No problem,” she told me. “I hate seeing people stranded in the rain like that.” She said her name was Mary, and asked me where I was going. I told her I was headed to a small town in Nebraska that I used to live in when I was nineteen, and then to Arizona to see my cousin. These things were true, but I was too embarrassed to tell her I had no real destination in mind. The larger truth was I really had no idea where the hell I was going, that I was a lost and desperate young man drifting across the country without any sense of direction in life, searching for something I couldn’t name.
I noticed Mary was wearing sunglasses. I thought this was odd considering it was a rainy day, but I didn’t say anything. We talked for a long time and the conversation turned in many different directions, as conversations with strangers on the road always do. We eventually talked about her husband. She told me he was unstable. That’s when she looked over at me and raised her sunglasses. I saw that her left eye was black and blue and swollen. I was startled. She told me that her husband was in Vietnam and had PTSD. He had nightmares and hit her in bed. I didn’t know what to make of that. I felt the urge to say something that would help her, but I didn’t know what to say, so we talked about other things. Mary told me she was on her way to see her son at college. She asked me if I wanted to come with her. She said she had to drop some things off for him, and it would only take a few minutes. I was in no hurry so we drove to the town where her son lived.
It was an awkward meeting, at least for me. She introduced us and I felt like saying, “Hi, I’m the complete stranger your mother picked up on the side of the road.” But he didn’t show any signs of suspicion. He seemed as kind and generous as his mother.
When we left we got something to eat at a fast food restaurant. Mary tried to look at the menu above the counter but couldn’t see it through her sunglasses, so she lifted them from her eyes for a brief moment and read the sign. There were two employees behind the counter, and when they saw her black eye, they both snuck a quick glance at me.
After we ate, Mary went out of her way to drop me off in a larger town. But before I got out of the car she wrote her phone number on a small scrap of paper. She said, “Now when you get to a safe place tonight I want you to call me and let me know that you’re all right. Please Rick, call me.” She expressed many times during the trip how dangerous it was to hitchhike, and she was genuinely worried for my well being. I grabbed the number and assured her I would call. I thanked her again and said good-bye. It rained off and on as I caught a few more rides that day. I eventually made it to Galesburg where I split a cheap room that evening with a guy who had picked me up. Something was bothering me that night. I don’t remember what it was. I hastily looked through my belongings for Mary’s number, but couldn’t find it. It was written on a tiny piece of paper, but I think if I would’ve looked hard enough, I probably would have found it. But I didn’t feel like looking very hard. The next morning I continued hitchhiking west towards Nebraska. I never found her number.
Friday, December 10, 2010
advent devotion
But, in accordance with his promise, we wait for new heavens and a new earth, where righteousness is at home. 2 Peter 3:13
The title of a U2 song illustrates an important theme of Advent- I still haven’t found what I’m looking for. This song gives a mature voice to our spiritual yearnings. We experience God, and yet there’s something we still long for, a thirst that has yet to be quenched. In this sense Advent humbles us. It reminds us of our incompleteness. Although we’ve experienced the grace and power of God through Christ, we still long for the full realization of salvation and wholeness in solidarity with the rest of creation. Yet, we are seized by hope even in our incompleteness. In the night of our longing hope possess us as “we wait for new heavens and a new earth.”
O God of depth, touch the place inside us that longs for that which we cannot name. Huddle with those crushed by poverty, the widows and orphans, the prisoners who stand in shadows. Let those who have turned their faces to the wall gaze upon your light and hear your cry. Break down the walls, Lord, and may the rubble become the foundation of the New Jerusalem. May the hope we have in you illuminate every soul. And may the Holy Spirit wrap around our heads and kiss our eyes, that we may awaken to the living beauty of the new heaven and new earth to come. Amen.
The title of a U2 song illustrates an important theme of Advent- I still haven’t found what I’m looking for. This song gives a mature voice to our spiritual yearnings. We experience God, and yet there’s something we still long for, a thirst that has yet to be quenched. In this sense Advent humbles us. It reminds us of our incompleteness. Although we’ve experienced the grace and power of God through Christ, we still long for the full realization of salvation and wholeness in solidarity with the rest of creation. Yet, we are seized by hope even in our incompleteness. In the night of our longing hope possess us as “we wait for new heavens and a new earth.”
O God of depth, touch the place inside us that longs for that which we cannot name. Huddle with those crushed by poverty, the widows and orphans, the prisoners who stand in shadows. Let those who have turned their faces to the wall gaze upon your light and hear your cry. Break down the walls, Lord, and may the rubble become the foundation of the New Jerusalem. May the hope we have in you illuminate every soul. And may the Holy Spirit wrap around our heads and kiss our eyes, that we may awaken to the living beauty of the new heaven and new earth to come. Amen.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
a narrative of hope- a true story from when I hitchhiked
Feeling a little bored in my Ohio hometown, I decided to hitchhike across the country. So I threw a copy of Jack Kerouac’s ON THE ROAD in my backpack along with a few extra clothes and a Bruce Springsteen playlist, and left. The freedom of the road was exhilarating. Yet there were days when things got a little tight.
One day in particular I was stranded in the rain on a deserted stretch of I-74 in Illinois. I looked at the drenched fields that surrounded me as I held out my fist and thumb to the passing traffic. I didn’t see any sign of a town or truck stop that would offer shelter from the rain. I thought, “You are so screwed, Rick.”
However, I didn’t walk too long before a car passed me slowly and pulled over and stopped. Some people say grace is the unmerited love and favor of God. This is truth, but grace is also the broken glory of standing in the rain and seeing a beat up car with its right blinker on, pulled off the side of the road to rescue. I ran up to the car and got in.
It was a lone woman driver, which surprised me since most of the time it was men who picked me up. As she pulled back onto the interstate I thanked her profusely for stopping. “No problem,” the woman told me. “I hate seeing people stranded in the rain like that.” She said her name was Mary, and asked me where I was going. I told her I was headed to a small town in Nebraska that I used to live in when I was nineteen, and then to Arizona to see my cousin. These things were true, but I was too embarrassed to tell her I had no real destination in mind. The larger truth was I really had no idea where the hell I was going, that I was a lost and desperate young man drifting across the country without any sense of direction in life, searching for something I couldn't name.
I noticed Mary was wearing sunglasses. I thought this was odd considering it was a rainy day, but I didn’t say anything. We talked about her son and about her husband. She told me her husband was unstable. That’s when she looked over at me and lowered her sunglasses. I saw that her left eye was black and blue and swollen. I was startled. She told me that her husband was in Vietnam and had PTSD. He had nightmares and hit her in bed. I didn’t know what to make of that. I felt the urge to say something that would help her. But I didn’t know what to say, so we talked about other things. Mary told me she was on her way to see her son at college. She asked me if I wanted to come with her. She said she had to drop some things off for him, and it would only take a few minutes. I was in no hurry so we drove to the town where her son lived.
It was an awkward meeting, at least for me. She introduced us and I felt like saying, “Hi, I’m the complete stranger your mother picked up on the side of the road.” But he didn’t show any signs of suspicion. He seemed as kind and generous as his mother.
When we left we got something to eat at a fast food restaurant. Mary tried to look at the menu above the counter but couldn’t see it through her sunglasses, so she lifted them from her eyes for a brief moment and read the sign. There were two employees behind the counter, and when they saw her black eye, they both snuck a quick glance at me. I felt very self-conscious as I placed my order.
After we ate, Mary went out of her way to drop me off at a larger town. But before I got out of the car she wrote her phone number on a small scrap of paper. She said, “Now when you get to a safe place tonight I want you to call me and let me know that you’re all right. Please Rick, call me.” She expressed many times during the trip how dangerous it was to hitchhike, and she was genuinely worried for my well being. I grabbed the number and assured her I would call. I thanked her again. It rained off and on as I caught a few more rides that day and eventually made it to Galesburg where I split a cheap room with a fellow traveler that evening.
Something was bothering me. I don’t remember what it was. I hastily looked through my belongings for Mary’s number, but couldn’t find it. It was written on a tiny piece of paper, but I think if I would’ve looked hard enough, I probably would have found it. But I didn’t feel like looking very hard. The next morning I continued hitchhiking west towards Nebraska. I never found her number.
One day in particular I was stranded in the rain on a deserted stretch of I-74 in Illinois. I looked at the drenched fields that surrounded me as I held out my fist and thumb to the passing traffic. I didn’t see any sign of a town or truck stop that would offer shelter from the rain. I thought, “You are so screwed, Rick.”
However, I didn’t walk too long before a car passed me slowly and pulled over and stopped. Some people say grace is the unmerited love and favor of God. This is truth, but grace is also the broken glory of standing in the rain and seeing a beat up car with its right blinker on, pulled off the side of the road to rescue. I ran up to the car and got in.
It was a lone woman driver, which surprised me since most of the time it was men who picked me up. As she pulled back onto the interstate I thanked her profusely for stopping. “No problem,” the woman told me. “I hate seeing people stranded in the rain like that.” She said her name was Mary, and asked me where I was going. I told her I was headed to a small town in Nebraska that I used to live in when I was nineteen, and then to Arizona to see my cousin. These things were true, but I was too embarrassed to tell her I had no real destination in mind. The larger truth was I really had no idea where the hell I was going, that I was a lost and desperate young man drifting across the country without any sense of direction in life, searching for something I couldn't name.
I noticed Mary was wearing sunglasses. I thought this was odd considering it was a rainy day, but I didn’t say anything. We talked about her son and about her husband. She told me her husband was unstable. That’s when she looked over at me and lowered her sunglasses. I saw that her left eye was black and blue and swollen. I was startled. She told me that her husband was in Vietnam and had PTSD. He had nightmares and hit her in bed. I didn’t know what to make of that. I felt the urge to say something that would help her. But I didn’t know what to say, so we talked about other things. Mary told me she was on her way to see her son at college. She asked me if I wanted to come with her. She said she had to drop some things off for him, and it would only take a few minutes. I was in no hurry so we drove to the town where her son lived.
It was an awkward meeting, at least for me. She introduced us and I felt like saying, “Hi, I’m the complete stranger your mother picked up on the side of the road.” But he didn’t show any signs of suspicion. He seemed as kind and generous as his mother.
When we left we got something to eat at a fast food restaurant. Mary tried to look at the menu above the counter but couldn’t see it through her sunglasses, so she lifted them from her eyes for a brief moment and read the sign. There were two employees behind the counter, and when they saw her black eye, they both snuck a quick glance at me. I felt very self-conscious as I placed my order.
After we ate, Mary went out of her way to drop me off at a larger town. But before I got out of the car she wrote her phone number on a small scrap of paper. She said, “Now when you get to a safe place tonight I want you to call me and let me know that you’re all right. Please Rick, call me.” She expressed many times during the trip how dangerous it was to hitchhike, and she was genuinely worried for my well being. I grabbed the number and assured her I would call. I thanked her again. It rained off and on as I caught a few more rides that day and eventually made it to Galesburg where I split a cheap room with a fellow traveler that evening.
Something was bothering me. I don’t remember what it was. I hastily looked through my belongings for Mary’s number, but couldn’t find it. It was written on a tiny piece of paper, but I think if I would’ve looked hard enough, I probably would have found it. But I didn’t feel like looking very hard. The next morning I continued hitchhiking west towards Nebraska. I never found her number.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
sermon
Sermon from Matthew 3: 13-17 and Isaiah 42: 1-9
John the Baptist never did play to society’s comfortable sensibilities. He doesn’t ascribe to easy middle class values. No, the Baptist sweated it out with the people down by the muddy banks of the Jordon. He was captivated in a trance from God, an ecstasy of prophetic vision. His sermons were barnburners. He talked about winnowing forks, separating wheat from chaff, unquenchable fires and so forth. The people were alarmed when John preached, scared straight into repentance. They came to him to be baptized, hoping to be saved from the storm clouds of the apocalypse, from the highly charged atmosphere that surrounded them. Baptism may have been the most intense point of contact between the cosmic forces of good and evil. Drown the demons and get on the right side of God. People were wailing, bodies thrashed around in the water. Baptism wasn’t tame, sentimental or pedestrian. It was a spiritual rite of passage you hoped to survive.
Yet, this fiery preacher himself was shocked as Jesus came along and made his request. Jesus requested that he be baptized by John. There was something about this Jesus that caught even John, in all his zealousness, off guard. “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?” But Jesus answered him, “Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.”
John, who proclaimed Jesus with such power and authority, now felt so unworthy to baptize him. He felt a sense of powerlessness and defenselessness as he looked down at Jesus’ head resting in the crux of his arm. This was too much to fathom. How small and insignificant he felt, yet how loved and respected also, that such a man as he would chosen to baptize the very Messiah of God. John, the preacher of repentance, had to reevaluate and repent himself. Even his most fiery pronouncements turned on themselves in light of the vulnerability of Jesus who lay in his arms. These pronouncements devoured themselves and left ashes on the tongue of the Baptist as he immersed the Son of God under the water and lifted him out. Jesus was doing the unexpected. Or rather, he was allowing the unexpected to happen, to come to life. He allowed John to baptize him. The powerful end times figure made himself vulnerable for the sake of all righteousness.
We Lutherans who use a baptismal font may have a harder time grasping the baptism of Jesus than traditions that baptize in a river. I have a friend who grew up in a fundamentalist rural church. He was baptized in a river one cold spring afternoon after church. The two pastors were standing waist-deep in the middle of the river. My friend waded out towards them. The current was cold and he could feel it pressing against his legs as he made his way to the preachers, trying to keep his balance. It was a lonely journey to the pastors, with the congregation standing on the banks behind him, and the pastors in front. He made it to them and they took his hand and stood on either side of him. They said a prayer and my friend surrendered himself to their care and lay back in their arms and allowed them take him under the water. He was plunged underneath the cold water and was lifted out to the shouts of Amen and Halleluiah! He waded back to the shoreline and was greeted by the hugs and kisses of sisters and brothers and given a towel to drape over his shoulders.
My friend noted the trust he had to give to the pastors as he was baptized, to allow himself to lay back in their arms and take him under the water. He also noted the very ‘earthiness’ of his baptism. He felt the water, the mud, the sun and the cold air. He saw the trees and rocks. All this connected baptism with the beauty and untamed elements of God’s creation. It made him feel more vulnerable and also more alive and aware of God’s world.
My friend had to give himself to another to be baptized, and so did Jesus. Jesus fulfills all righteousness with his baptism through his self-giving and solidarity with humanity. “Calvin wrote that Jesus ‘undertook baptism with us that the faithful might be more surely persuaded that they are engrafted into his body, buried with him in baptism, that they might rise again to newness of life.’” (89 Allison, New Proclamation 01-02). Thus Calvin shows Jesus’ solidarity with us through baptism. Jesus gave himself in baptism not for himself, or for John’s sake, but for all of us, to bind himself with us, to make our salvation his own cause.
This reveals Jesus’ vulnerability as he gives himself over into the arms of another. The vulnerability that he showed as he laid back into John’s arms is a foreshadowing of the kind of radical self-giving he demonstrated on the cross. Jesus’ giving himself into the hands of another characterizes both the beginning and the end of his ministry. He fell into the strong arms of John in his baptism at the beginning, and he fell into the arms of the Roman authorities at the end. This self-giving at the beginning and end of his ministry are like bookends in the story of our salvation.
Through baptism we are given to the One who gave himself to us. We are marked by the cross of Christ, sealed with the Spirit, and become children of God. We are adopted into God’s family and made daughters and sons of God, beloved women and men. In the waters of baptism, we die and rise to new life in Christ (Romans 6:4). We become a new creation. In baptism we have a new identity, we belong to him who loved us and gave himself for us. This new identity is a blessed gift from God.
And with the gift comes discipleship. The adoption into God’s family is also a calling. The new life in Christ is an initiation into the ministry of the kingdom. It is our calling to live out the radical vulnerability and self-giving ministry of Christ for the sake of the other. This is a joyful but difficult call. It’s so much easier to remain anonymous in a comfortable middle class neighborhood, easing our way into a nice retirement where we blend in easily with the world. It’s easier to stay on the sidelines of life, letting others risk their reputation, even their lives, for the sake of the kingdom. Sometimes we’re afraid of the consequences of acting out on behalf of God’s kingdom, so we withdraw. We worry what others might think of us, or what will become of us.
This is all easier than to step out on a limb and feel the sharp edges of our individuality, to hear our name before God, and risk something for the sake of Jesus. When we take this call seriously it is powerful. Jesus was unsettled. And his self-giving unsettles us and our values today. He had a passion and thirst for justice, for the new rule of God’s kingdom. This passion made him vulnerable to the forces that opposed him. Yet, in spite of the danger he gave himself completely for the sake of the kingdom, for those most vulnerable, for the poor, sick, lonely, and deranged. His vulnerable was for the sake of the vulnerable, and in this way he showed solidarity with them. This uncompromising compassion for those most neglected lead to his ultimate act of self-giving on the cross. The early church perceived Jesus to be the one described in the servant songs of Isaiah, “He will not grow faint or be crushed until he has established justice in the earth” (Isaiah 42:3). Jesus was and still is “a light to the nations, to open the eyes that are blind, to bring out the prisoners from the dungeon, from the prison those who sit in darkness” (6-7).
Jesus showed solidarity with us in his baptism. And Jesus gives himself to us again and again, falling into our arms and embracing us. Our own pain and loneliness is matched and overwhelmed by the love of the one who gives himself to us, “a bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench,” (42:3). The ever self-giving Christ who is present among us today in faith gives us the courage to work in mission anew. It’s a difficult call, but it’s a joyful call because we know we’re not alone. In baptism we are claimed by him who loved us. The self-giving love that shook John now shakes us.
Jesus’ self-giving through his baptism demonstrates the things that are yet to come. This radical self-giving marks the beginning of the new age and points to its fullness when justice will be established. As we carry Jesus’ mission into the world, we give ourselves for the sake of our neighbor as Jesus gave himself to us. We teach, heal, unsettle, and however falteringly, point to God’s kingdom come, when we will praise God as the former things have passed and new things have come into existence. Amen.
John the Baptist never did play to society’s comfortable sensibilities. He doesn’t ascribe to easy middle class values. No, the Baptist sweated it out with the people down by the muddy banks of the Jordon. He was captivated in a trance from God, an ecstasy of prophetic vision. His sermons were barnburners. He talked about winnowing forks, separating wheat from chaff, unquenchable fires and so forth. The people were alarmed when John preached, scared straight into repentance. They came to him to be baptized, hoping to be saved from the storm clouds of the apocalypse, from the highly charged atmosphere that surrounded them. Baptism may have been the most intense point of contact between the cosmic forces of good and evil. Drown the demons and get on the right side of God. People were wailing, bodies thrashed around in the water. Baptism wasn’t tame, sentimental or pedestrian. It was a spiritual rite of passage you hoped to survive.
Yet, this fiery preacher himself was shocked as Jesus came along and made his request. Jesus requested that he be baptized by John. There was something about this Jesus that caught even John, in all his zealousness, off guard. “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?” But Jesus answered him, “Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.”
John, who proclaimed Jesus with such power and authority, now felt so unworthy to baptize him. He felt a sense of powerlessness and defenselessness as he looked down at Jesus’ head resting in the crux of his arm. This was too much to fathom. How small and insignificant he felt, yet how loved and respected also, that such a man as he would chosen to baptize the very Messiah of God. John, the preacher of repentance, had to reevaluate and repent himself. Even his most fiery pronouncements turned on themselves in light of the vulnerability of Jesus who lay in his arms. These pronouncements devoured themselves and left ashes on the tongue of the Baptist as he immersed the Son of God under the water and lifted him out. Jesus was doing the unexpected. Or rather, he was allowing the unexpected to happen, to come to life. He allowed John to baptize him. The powerful end times figure made himself vulnerable for the sake of all righteousness.
We Lutherans who use a baptismal font may have a harder time grasping the baptism of Jesus than traditions that baptize in a river. I have a friend who grew up in a fundamentalist rural church. He was baptized in a river one cold spring afternoon after church. The two pastors were standing waist-deep in the middle of the river. My friend waded out towards them. The current was cold and he could feel it pressing against his legs as he made his way to the preachers, trying to keep his balance. It was a lonely journey to the pastors, with the congregation standing on the banks behind him, and the pastors in front. He made it to them and they took his hand and stood on either side of him. They said a prayer and my friend surrendered himself to their care and lay back in their arms and allowed them take him under the water. He was plunged underneath the cold water and was lifted out to the shouts of Amen and Halleluiah! He waded back to the shoreline and was greeted by the hugs and kisses of sisters and brothers and given a towel to drape over his shoulders.
My friend noted the trust he had to give to the pastors as he was baptized, to allow himself to lay back in their arms and take him under the water. He also noted the very ‘earthiness’ of his baptism. He felt the water, the mud, the sun and the cold air. He saw the trees and rocks. All this connected baptism with the beauty and untamed elements of God’s creation. It made him feel more vulnerable and also more alive and aware of God’s world.
My friend had to give himself to another to be baptized, and so did Jesus. Jesus fulfills all righteousness with his baptism through his self-giving and solidarity with humanity. “Calvin wrote that Jesus ‘undertook baptism with us that the faithful might be more surely persuaded that they are engrafted into his body, buried with him in baptism, that they might rise again to newness of life.’” (89 Allison, New Proclamation 01-02). Thus Calvin shows Jesus’ solidarity with us through baptism. Jesus gave himself in baptism not for himself, or for John’s sake, but for all of us, to bind himself with us, to make our salvation his own cause.
This reveals Jesus’ vulnerability as he gives himself over into the arms of another. The vulnerability that he showed as he laid back into John’s arms is a foreshadowing of the kind of radical self-giving he demonstrated on the cross. Jesus’ giving himself into the hands of another characterizes both the beginning and the end of his ministry. He fell into the strong arms of John in his baptism at the beginning, and he fell into the arms of the Roman authorities at the end. This self-giving at the beginning and end of his ministry are like bookends in the story of our salvation.
Through baptism we are given to the One who gave himself to us. We are marked by the cross of Christ, sealed with the Spirit, and become children of God. We are adopted into God’s family and made daughters and sons of God, beloved women and men. In the waters of baptism, we die and rise to new life in Christ (Romans 6:4). We become a new creation. In baptism we have a new identity, we belong to him who loved us and gave himself for us. This new identity is a blessed gift from God.
And with the gift comes discipleship. The adoption into God’s family is also a calling. The new life in Christ is an initiation into the ministry of the kingdom. It is our calling to live out the radical vulnerability and self-giving ministry of Christ for the sake of the other. This is a joyful but difficult call. It’s so much easier to remain anonymous in a comfortable middle class neighborhood, easing our way into a nice retirement where we blend in easily with the world. It’s easier to stay on the sidelines of life, letting others risk their reputation, even their lives, for the sake of the kingdom. Sometimes we’re afraid of the consequences of acting out on behalf of God’s kingdom, so we withdraw. We worry what others might think of us, or what will become of us.
This is all easier than to step out on a limb and feel the sharp edges of our individuality, to hear our name before God, and risk something for the sake of Jesus. When we take this call seriously it is powerful. Jesus was unsettled. And his self-giving unsettles us and our values today. He had a passion and thirst for justice, for the new rule of God’s kingdom. This passion made him vulnerable to the forces that opposed him. Yet, in spite of the danger he gave himself completely for the sake of the kingdom, for those most vulnerable, for the poor, sick, lonely, and deranged. His vulnerable was for the sake of the vulnerable, and in this way he showed solidarity with them. This uncompromising compassion for those most neglected lead to his ultimate act of self-giving on the cross. The early church perceived Jesus to be the one described in the servant songs of Isaiah, “He will not grow faint or be crushed until he has established justice in the earth” (Isaiah 42:3). Jesus was and still is “a light to the nations, to open the eyes that are blind, to bring out the prisoners from the dungeon, from the prison those who sit in darkness” (6-7).
Jesus showed solidarity with us in his baptism. And Jesus gives himself to us again and again, falling into our arms and embracing us. Our own pain and loneliness is matched and overwhelmed by the love of the one who gives himself to us, “a bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench,” (42:3). The ever self-giving Christ who is present among us today in faith gives us the courage to work in mission anew. It’s a difficult call, but it’s a joyful call because we know we’re not alone. In baptism we are claimed by him who loved us. The self-giving love that shook John now shakes us.
Jesus’ self-giving through his baptism demonstrates the things that are yet to come. This radical self-giving marks the beginning of the new age and points to its fullness when justice will be established. As we carry Jesus’ mission into the world, we give ourselves for the sake of our neighbor as Jesus gave himself to us. We teach, heal, unsettle, and however falteringly, point to God’s kingdom come, when we will praise God as the former things have passed and new things have come into existence. Amen.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
sermon at faith in christ lutheran in ohio
Sermon from Matthew 22: 34-40 and Acts 4:32-5:11
It was a hot and dusty afternoon in Jerusalem
as the scholars and theologians gathered together
near the Temple to test this charismatic newcomer.
He’d been wandering around Galilee and Judea,
disturbing the peace with his teachings.
Now here he was in Jerusalem.
Everyone had been raising a fuss over him.
He was asked many, many questions
and he often gave shocking and daring answers
to these questions concerning the Torah.
So these theologians and experts of the law
prepared their questions in advance.
Some had bad motives,
hoping to trap and humiliate this young teacher,
yet others had good motives,
truly hoping to better understand the Torah
and the Lord their God.
So when Jesus arrived
they peppered him with various questions.
They asked him about the lawfulness of paying taxes,
and about the resurrection of the dead.
Jesus answered these questions skillfully.
Some thought he was some kind of whiz kid.
He seemed to have
an instinctive mind for these debates.
Or better yet,
he was intimately in-tune with the Torah,
with the living Word of God.
So then another young Jewish scholar
comes up and asks Jesus,
‘Okay, Rabbi, out of all the commandments in the Torah,
out of all of them,
which of these commandments is the greatest?’
Wow, this was like the ultimate question.
This question certainly cut to the chase.
The large crowd of curious spectators
who had gathered around leaned in close
and held their collective breath.
You could have heard a pin drop
as all eyes of the townspeople
and scholars gazed upon Jesus,
waiting for the answer to this big question…
Which commandment in the law is greatest?
In our reading today Jesus gives the answer
to this awesome question.
‘You shall love the Lord your God
with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’
This is the greatest and first commandment.
And the second is like it,
‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’
Many times when Jesus
was asked a question in these forums
he would tell a parable rather than give a direct answer,
or he’d pose a counter-question
that stymied the questioner.
But this time he gives a simple,
straight-forward answer-
Astonishingly simple, really.
Yet, to truly understand this greatest commandment,
we need to realize the love of the one who uttered it.
One theologian noted that,
“The command to love
can only come from the mouth of the lover” (Rosenzweig).
This means that only a God
who loves us with his whole heart, soul, and mind
can command us to love him with our whole heart, soul and mind.
Only a Savior who loves us and holds us in a higher regard
than he does his own life and wellbeing,
could command that we love our neighbor as ourselves.
An impersonal deity, one that is neutral and does not love,
or is full of anger and wrath,
cannot command love.
God does not issue commands
that he does not keep himself.
No, only a God who loves us with his whole heart, soul and mind
could command us to love him that way in return.
And because God loves us so much,
the greatest commandment must necessarily
be a two-part commandment
in which the love of God and love neighbor
are intimately linked.
We cannot love God without loving our neighbor.
We cannot love our neighbor without loving God.
Our Christian faith makes every relationship
into a God relationship.
Every encounter with our neighbor
is an encounter with a beloved of God.
Even the people whom we dislike or disagree with-
they are God’s people too.
They are people for whom Christ loved and died on the cross for.
This ups the ante significantly.
It raises the stakes in the way we treat God and others.
In light of the fact that God himself loves us
with his whole heart, soul, and mind,
in light of the fact that our lives
are so valuable to God that he sent us Christ,
now a Christian love ethic is raised
to an infinitely higher standard
than the world’s standard of love.
No longer can we inquire
as to what is reasonably asked of us
in any given situation.
Questions of reasonableness
don’t arise for the one who lives by this commandment.
Neither do questions
of the likeability of the other arise.
This is because God loves us
with his whole heart, soul and mind,
even as we are sinners and, at times, unlikable.
To grasp even a glimpse of this awesome love
makes us feel infinitely indebted to it.
We feel indebted and can do no other
than respond in love to the one who loved us first.
“The commandment of love is mild and merciful,
but ‘there is rigor in it.’” (Kierkegaard).
It is not a coddling, sentimental love of warm feelings,
but a mature love that takes action
and seeks the ultimate well-being of the neighbor.
It’s a constant striving to look out for the neighbor,
going beyond what is reasonably asked of us or fair,
just as God’s love goes beyond what is reasonable or fair.
Our actions of love may not seem like a big deal,
but they are a big deal to the people they touch.
It may even change their life.
In my seminary journey,
someone cared about me in a way that changed me.
At seminary many students are ardent followers of Martin Luther,
not only in his teachings but also in his love of beer.
Many gatherings and social events around the seminary
are celebrated with beer or wine.
And while few if any go overboard in their consumption,
I sometimes felt like an outsider.
I don’t drink anymore.
And I attended these events,
but sometimes I would feel a little out of place
being one of the only people not to drink.
One day I was talking
to a friend of mine in the library,
and I told her about my feelings
of self-consciousness and awkwardness
at these gatherings.
She listened to me and was sympathetic to my problems.
A few days later I found out
that there was going to be a birthday party
at a friend’s apartment coming up
and I planned on attending.
But something happened that really floored me.
A day or two before the party
I received an e-mail from my friend.
She wrote,
‘Hey Rick I’m going to the party too,
and if it will make you feel better about it
I won’t drink either.
We could hang out and drink Pepsi together!
Let me know what you think.’
After I read the e-mail I was like,
‘Wow, that was one of the coolest things
anyone has ever done for me.’
Here was a friend who was willing
to refrain from drinking at a birthday party
in order to show solidarity with me
and make me feel more welcome.
My friend’s very caring and thoughtful gesture
made me feel like I was cared for and accepted.
It was hard for me to believe that someone
would care so much for me
and make me feel so welcome.
I responded and thanked her for her consideration,
but told her I’d be okay
and that she didn’t have to change because of me.
And I went and saw her there
and we had a good time.
My friend was living out her faith
in a way that transformed me.
And living the faith today
is living out this greatest commandment.
Because God loves us
with all his heart and all his soul and all his mind,
we can do the same for our neighbor.
And when even one individual or group of people takes seriously
the awesome reality that they are a beloved woman or man of God,
it is very powerful and becomes the life-giving source
from which they draw from to do incredible things
for the sake of their neighbor.
We will be amazed at the power and love of God in our life
when we live by this faith.
The early church took this greatest command seriously.
We see in our reading in Acts today
the early church acting in one accord.
They were so captivated by the power and love
of the crucified and resurrected Christ
that they all acted as one.
But over the centuries and today churches
have been marked by division.
And when division happens among churches
there’s no chance of the unity
that Acts speaks of in today’s reading.
There’s no chance of being of one heart and soul
when there is division.
And to the outside observer,
to the world we are to be a witness to,
the church looks like any other worldly organization.
Our ability to demonstrate the love of God,
and to live out the greatest commandment,
is diminished when we are divided.
God does not issue commandments
that he does not keep himself.
God loves us with his whole heart, mind and soul.
And that love is larger than our thoughts and belief systems,
it is larger than our fears,
it is larger than our lives.
We worry about our job security
or our government
or the health of a family member.
We worry about our children and grandchildren.
We wonder about their future.
We worry about a lot of things.
Today the world
is a rapidly changing place
and it’s sometimes scary.
But God’s love sustains us through the storm.
It’s a love that sustains
and yet pushes us beyond our anxiety,
and pushes us beyond our desire to turn inward.
It’s a love that turns us outward
to serve and love our neighbor as ourselves.
Sometimes this turning outward
is a painful and scary thing.
It’s so much more comfortable
to turn inward and not face the world.
But precisely because God loves us heart, mind and soul,
that love will sometimes lead us
where we don’t want to go,
but to places where we need to go
for our sake and for the sake of God’s kingdom.
God’s love leads us to help and shelter those
who are being trampled by
the fast moving stampede of our times.
This love may mean going into prisons
or hospice nursing homes,
or helping some kid out whose family has given up on him. This love allows us to hang in there
with people we disagree with or don’t like.
It allows us to love even our enemies
and see them as people in whom Christ died for too.
No matter what happens to our lives or our families’ lives,
this love of God goes on and on.
It picks us up and carries us along
ever deepening channels of mercy and grace,
taking us to unexpected and surprising places.
It is a joyful, generous love.
A love that burns bright in us
and bears witness
to the burning light of Christ’s own love.
It was a hot and dusty afternoon in Jerusalem
as the scholars and theologians gathered together
near the Temple to test this charismatic newcomer.
He’d been wandering around Galilee and Judea,
disturbing the peace with his teachings.
Now here he was in Jerusalem.
Everyone had been raising a fuss over him.
He was asked many, many questions
and he often gave shocking and daring answers
to these questions concerning the Torah.
So these theologians and experts of the law
prepared their questions in advance.
Some had bad motives,
hoping to trap and humiliate this young teacher,
yet others had good motives,
truly hoping to better understand the Torah
and the Lord their God.
So when Jesus arrived
they peppered him with various questions.
They asked him about the lawfulness of paying taxes,
and about the resurrection of the dead.
Jesus answered these questions skillfully.
Some thought he was some kind of whiz kid.
He seemed to have
an instinctive mind for these debates.
Or better yet,
he was intimately in-tune with the Torah,
with the living Word of God.
So then another young Jewish scholar
comes up and asks Jesus,
‘Okay, Rabbi, out of all the commandments in the Torah,
out of all of them,
which of these commandments is the greatest?’
Wow, this was like the ultimate question.
This question certainly cut to the chase.
The large crowd of curious spectators
who had gathered around leaned in close
and held their collective breath.
You could have heard a pin drop
as all eyes of the townspeople
and scholars gazed upon Jesus,
waiting for the answer to this big question…
Which commandment in the law is greatest?
In our reading today Jesus gives the answer
to this awesome question.
‘You shall love the Lord your God
with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’
This is the greatest and first commandment.
And the second is like it,
‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’
Many times when Jesus
was asked a question in these forums
he would tell a parable rather than give a direct answer,
or he’d pose a counter-question
that stymied the questioner.
But this time he gives a simple,
straight-forward answer-
Astonishingly simple, really.
Yet, to truly understand this greatest commandment,
we need to realize the love of the one who uttered it.
One theologian noted that,
“The command to love
can only come from the mouth of the lover” (Rosenzweig).
This means that only a God
who loves us with his whole heart, soul, and mind
can command us to love him with our whole heart, soul and mind.
Only a Savior who loves us and holds us in a higher regard
than he does his own life and wellbeing,
could command that we love our neighbor as ourselves.
An impersonal deity, one that is neutral and does not love,
or is full of anger and wrath,
cannot command love.
God does not issue commands
that he does not keep himself.
No, only a God who loves us with his whole heart, soul and mind
could command us to love him that way in return.
And because God loves us so much,
the greatest commandment must necessarily
be a two-part commandment
in which the love of God and love neighbor
are intimately linked.
We cannot love God without loving our neighbor.
We cannot love our neighbor without loving God.
Our Christian faith makes every relationship
into a God relationship.
Every encounter with our neighbor
is an encounter with a beloved of God.
Even the people whom we dislike or disagree with-
they are God’s people too.
They are people for whom Christ loved and died on the cross for.
This ups the ante significantly.
It raises the stakes in the way we treat God and others.
In light of the fact that God himself loves us
with his whole heart, soul, and mind,
in light of the fact that our lives
are so valuable to God that he sent us Christ,
now a Christian love ethic is raised
to an infinitely higher standard
than the world’s standard of love.
No longer can we inquire
as to what is reasonably asked of us
in any given situation.
Questions of reasonableness
don’t arise for the one who lives by this commandment.
Neither do questions
of the likeability of the other arise.
This is because God loves us
with his whole heart, soul and mind,
even as we are sinners and, at times, unlikable.
To grasp even a glimpse of this awesome love
makes us feel infinitely indebted to it.
We feel indebted and can do no other
than respond in love to the one who loved us first.
“The commandment of love is mild and merciful,
but ‘there is rigor in it.’” (Kierkegaard).
It is not a coddling, sentimental love of warm feelings,
but a mature love that takes action
and seeks the ultimate well-being of the neighbor.
It’s a constant striving to look out for the neighbor,
going beyond what is reasonably asked of us or fair,
just as God’s love goes beyond what is reasonable or fair.
Our actions of love may not seem like a big deal,
but they are a big deal to the people they touch.
It may even change their life.
In my seminary journey,
someone cared about me in a way that changed me.
At seminary many students are ardent followers of Martin Luther,
not only in his teachings but also in his love of beer.
Many gatherings and social events around the seminary
are celebrated with beer or wine.
And while few if any go overboard in their consumption,
I sometimes felt like an outsider.
I don’t drink anymore.
And I attended these events,
but sometimes I would feel a little out of place
being one of the only people not to drink.
One day I was talking
to a friend of mine in the library,
and I told her about my feelings
of self-consciousness and awkwardness
at these gatherings.
She listened to me and was sympathetic to my problems.
A few days later I found out
that there was going to be a birthday party
at a friend’s apartment coming up
and I planned on attending.
But something happened that really floored me.
A day or two before the party
I received an e-mail from my friend.
She wrote,
‘Hey Rick I’m going to the party too,
and if it will make you feel better about it
I won’t drink either.
We could hang out and drink Pepsi together!
Let me know what you think.’
After I read the e-mail I was like,
‘Wow, that was one of the coolest things
anyone has ever done for me.’
Here was a friend who was willing
to refrain from drinking at a birthday party
in order to show solidarity with me
and make me feel more welcome.
My friend’s very caring and thoughtful gesture
made me feel like I was cared for and accepted.
It was hard for me to believe that someone
would care so much for me
and make me feel so welcome.
I responded and thanked her for her consideration,
but told her I’d be okay
and that she didn’t have to change because of me.
And I went and saw her there
and we had a good time.
My friend was living out her faith
in a way that transformed me.
And living the faith today
is living out this greatest commandment.
Because God loves us
with all his heart and all his soul and all his mind,
we can do the same for our neighbor.
And when even one individual or group of people takes seriously
the awesome reality that they are a beloved woman or man of God,
it is very powerful and becomes the life-giving source
from which they draw from to do incredible things
for the sake of their neighbor.
We will be amazed at the power and love of God in our life
when we live by this faith.
The early church took this greatest command seriously.
We see in our reading in Acts today
the early church acting in one accord.
They were so captivated by the power and love
of the crucified and resurrected Christ
that they all acted as one.
But over the centuries and today churches
have been marked by division.
And when division happens among churches
there’s no chance of the unity
that Acts speaks of in today’s reading.
There’s no chance of being of one heart and soul
when there is division.
And to the outside observer,
to the world we are to be a witness to,
the church looks like any other worldly organization.
Our ability to demonstrate the love of God,
and to live out the greatest commandment,
is diminished when we are divided.
God does not issue commandments
that he does not keep himself.
God loves us with his whole heart, mind and soul.
And that love is larger than our thoughts and belief systems,
it is larger than our fears,
it is larger than our lives.
We worry about our job security
or our government
or the health of a family member.
We worry about our children and grandchildren.
We wonder about their future.
We worry about a lot of things.
Today the world
is a rapidly changing place
and it’s sometimes scary.
But God’s love sustains us through the storm.
It’s a love that sustains
and yet pushes us beyond our anxiety,
and pushes us beyond our desire to turn inward.
It’s a love that turns us outward
to serve and love our neighbor as ourselves.
Sometimes this turning outward
is a painful and scary thing.
It’s so much more comfortable
to turn inward and not face the world.
But precisely because God loves us heart, mind and soul,
that love will sometimes lead us
where we don’t want to go,
but to places where we need to go
for our sake and for the sake of God’s kingdom.
God’s love leads us to help and shelter those
who are being trampled by
the fast moving stampede of our times.
This love may mean going into prisons
or hospice nursing homes,
or helping some kid out whose family has given up on him. This love allows us to hang in there
with people we disagree with or don’t like.
It allows us to love even our enemies
and see them as people in whom Christ died for too.
No matter what happens to our lives or our families’ lives,
this love of God goes on and on.
It picks us up and carries us along
ever deepening channels of mercy and grace,
taking us to unexpected and surprising places.
It is a joyful, generous love.
A love that burns bright in us
and bears witness
to the burning light of Christ’s own love.
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