Lost in the Details
During and after the second World War, there were two main schools of thought that emerged in Europe regarding how to rebuild the numerous cities that were being leveled. In some cities, such as Warsaw in Poland, city planners emerged from the destruction of the war bent on rebuilding the city, largely as it had been. They used paintings from the 1700s for reference, and reconstructed walls, churches, and castles as they would have existed prior to the war. Today, the “Old Town” portion of Warsaw, a city that has existed for hundreds of years, is really less than a century old. Elsewhere in Europe, especially in the United Kingdom, there were city planners who welcomed the opportunity to wipe the slate clean and start from scratch. The city of Coventry in particular jumped at the chance to completely redesign their medieval layout, in favor of one that would be better suited to twentieth-century commercial interests. Whatever buildings were destroyed by bombs in the war merely saved the time and money it would later cost to tear them down.
In either case, these rebuilding efforts were just that: rebuilding. Each method sought to return to something familiar and comfortable, even if the architectural style was somewhat different. The designs still reinforced inequality, refused to become more accessible, and remained focused on efficiency and meeting basic human needs, regardless of how that impacted the rest of Creation. The only real innovation that was made, and that is shared by each of these methods, is that cars were factored into the plans, pushing pedestrians to the sides and making communities less walkable and, therefore, more disconnected. Each was praised for its vision, its architectural ingenuity, the ways in which they furthered European progress and revitalization following the war. But when the opportunity had presented itself for these numerous European cities, and indeed nations around the world, to fundamentally re-order themselves, to reimagine what their cities, their nations, the world could look like and what purposes they could serve—by and large they chose to maintain their flawed economic systems, their disjointed relationship with Creation, and their social hierarchies. They chose not to build something new, but to rebuild what was, even when it had a new facade.
The prophet Haggai was writing at the end of the period of Jewish history known as the “exilic period.” This was the period of time in which the inhabitants of the Kingdom of Judah, or at least the inhabitants of the city of Jerusalem, were forcefully removed from the kingdom and made to live in Babylon. It was during this period that prophets such as Jeremiah and Ezekiel addressed the Judeans. It was also in this period that the Temple of Solomon was destroyed in Jerusalem. For decades, Judeans were made to live in a place not of their choosing, cut off from their customs, from their people, and from the dwelling place of God. This period of exile is what prompted the prophet Jeremiah to advise the Judeans to make the best of their circumstances, to plant gardens and live their lives. It’s what prompted the writing of Psalms about sitting down and weeping by the rivers of Babylon. It was a period of despair, a time that caused the Judeans to question how they had ended up in such a situation. It was enough to make them examine how they must have angered God, for God to leave them to exile and ruin.
Haggai’s voice chimes in as the Judeans are returning to Jerusalem. After Babylon fell to Persia, the Judeans were allowed to return from their exile, though when they returned, they still had to contend with a city—and especially the Temple—laid to waste. It was a time of destruction, of despair, of hopelessness. There were those still alive who could remember the house of the Lord “in its former glory.” They could remember times of stability, of comfort, of peace. Times when wages were better suited to meeting needs, when benefits made retirement a guarantee, when home prices were more reasonable. They returned to their home, and the grief must have been overwhelming. Everything they had once known was gone. And what’s more, many of the wealthier Judeans had not returned with them, as there was more money to be made in exile than at home. So who would fund the restoration? How could the poor rebuild the Temple, the city, and the kingdom? There were no corporations or billionaires who could pitch in towards this construction project. Even so, the memory remains of the former glory, and the question remains: how do we get back to that?
Times of destruction, though, are also times of building. In the sorrow of grieving what was, there is an opportunity to build again—and to build something new. Oftentimes in situations such as these, we mortals are limited by what we know, or what we have known. We might fall into the same inclination as the Sadducees, whose argument against the resurrection is that it can’t be reconciled with the law—when the law is pushed to its logical extreme. They place the mystery of resurrection in the context of what they know, leaning on what’s familiar, what’s safe. Surely this Jesus, with his apocalyptic resurrection preaching, can explain how marriage laws might fit into this version of reality. That should be a simple enough question, and an important logistical concern for the son of man. Maybe there are no dumb questions, but sometimes—oftentimes—we ask the wrong questions. I had a seminary professor who was a psychologist, who would get quite frustrated at times when we would ask questions that weren’t going to get us the answers we needed. Dr. Pressley would be very disappointed with the Sadducees, I think.
Jesus turns this line of questioning on its head in just one sentence. “Those who belong to this age marry and are given in marriage, but those who are considered worthy of a place in that age and in the resurrection from the dead neither marry nor are given in marriage.” Bad news for those of us who might be planning weddings at the moment. For Jesus, the Sadducees are asking the wrong questions. They are working within the framework, the institutions, the systems, the boundaries of the society they know. They carry this idea that what is now is what will be carried through the resurrection, as though resurrection is simply a matter of replacing what was. But resurrection inherently follows destruction, and times of destruction are times of building. Not all building is resurrection, though. Some building is just resuscitation or reanimation. There is no new life, no blazing phoenix spirit. Just the same oppressive institutions looking the same as they always have—or with a fresh coat of paint.
We live in a time of destruction. The bombs continue to fall in Ukraine. The ceasefire in Gaza was unsurprisingly brief. SNAP benefits continue to go unpaid as the billionaires—and soon-to-be trillionaires—certainly do not. Healthcare funding is being cut to many of the most vulnerable in our communities. Drought, hunger, illness, war, climate disasters, loneliness, inflation, despotism. We live in a time of destruction. That means we live in a time of building. That means that we have the opportunity to rebuild and to build differently. We live in a time of destruction. That means we have the opportunity to break free from the limitations of what we have known—the systems of marginalization and exploitation, the physical ways of building that are inaccessible and cause us to disengage from community, the ideologies of patriarchy and queerphobia and misogyny and ableism and white supremacy and Christian nationalism and dominion over Creation. We have the chance, the opportunity, the obligation to dream—and to live into a community that looks and loves differently. We live in a time of destruction. That means we live in a time of building, a time of co-laboring with God.
So take courage. Take courage, O Zerubbabel, take courage, O Joshua. Take courage, all you people of the land. Work, for God is with us, and God has plenty of work for us to do. That work begins with envisioning what can be. It begins with getting to know your neighbors, getting to know—really know—your fellow co-laborers beside you. So take courage, because it takes courage to have hope. As a community of faith, we are called to be a place of building amid times of destruction. Not to pray for destruction, to speed things along, or to trigger the end times. But to recognize that we live in a time of destruction, and to see that something comes after it all. This is the resurrection hope to which we are called. May we not be ensnared by what is familiar, by what serves our own interests, and by the urge to hedge our bets. May we build a household that reflects God’s abounding grace, just economics, and radical inversion of the hierarchies we have come to know. May we be bold in seeking justice, practicing mercy, and humbly walking with God into the resurrection. Amen.
How We Remember
One of our favorite idols in this country is innovation. We like new things, even when most of us would probably say that change is scary and we like things the way they are—at least on the personal level. While individuals might try and keep their own habits as consistent as possible, there is still this cultural drive to try the next big thing. It’s that good old model of American progress that has us chasing the most efficient, the cheapest, the most productive way of doing whatever it is that we do. Even in the church, efficiency and ingenuity are driving factors that leave us looking for the next big thing that will spark a revival. I was at a gathering for clergy from around the Upper New York Conference this past Thursday, at which a pastor insisted that our churches would be doing much better if we pastors more readily embraced things like social media and podcasting. Ah yes, because I’m sure that the people would just come flocking if they could only hear every thought that pops into my head, right from their phones each week.
In our common quest for the future, for efficiency and productivity, looking backwards can seem more like a burden than a worthwhile responsibility. It’s a distraction, time that could be better spent looking forward in anticipation of the next thing that will drive our lives, our careers, our society into the next stage of development. We mourn, we move on. Lingering on death, on misfortune, on loss can prolong any pain that went along with those experiences. Why would we want to re-live suffering? Why would we want to remember? It doesn’t make any sense to stop, to look behind us, and to allow our rhythms to be disrupted. Anytime we pause, we’re doing something that goes against our instincts. Nevertheless, each year we set aside time to stop, to look around at where we are, and to look backwards at where we’ve come from.
If you spend any time at all around United Methodist Archives and History folks, you’re bound to hear the phrase “ministry of memory” thrown around once in a while. It’s a tagline, a catchy piece of marketing, a compact little phrase that tells you exactly what the Commission on Archives and History does…without actually telling you anything about what we do. I suppose that’s what makes it good marketing. When we talk about memory, though, we’re not talking about nostalgia, or dwelling on the glory days. We’re not just talking about recalling the numbers of old records about attendance and finance. The ministry of memory is the act of keeping in front of us the people, places, and events that have made us who we are. It’s not about shame, though it is often about the need for repentance. It’s not about glorification or idolatry, though there is much to celebrate. It’s not about longing for a return to a mythologized past, though there are things that we can reclaim. It is about knowing where we come from, knowing who we come from, and allowing that knowledge to shape how we move through the world.
In just a few moments, we’re going to sing one of my favorite hymns: “Lift Every Voice and Sing.” Lift Every Voice and Sing was written in celebration of Abraham Lincoln’s birthday in 1900, and quickly grew in popularity. In Black churches and community spaces in particular, it was a means of recognizing shared identity and common struggle. It’s a hymn that looks backwards, that remembers violence endured, that seeks to recognize the places in which God was at work along the way. But it’s also a hymn that looks to the present and even the future, that calls for us to look towards the rising sun, towards the hope of a new day, standing presently where the white gleam of that bright star is cast. As communities, it’s important to remember where we have come from, who we have come from, and what struggles we have endured to get to where we are now. It’s why we gather, each year, to pause and say the names of those we have lost. But it’s also important for us to pair our remembrances with hope for the present and the promise of tomorrow. We don’t live in our remembrances—we are grounded and united by them.
Each time we gather at the table together, we practice our common memory together. Each time, we share the same old story—nothing new. Anyone who was at Bike Trip this year can tell you that this storytelling part of Communion, the part when we recall the events of the Last Supper, is what’s known as the anamnesis. Now you all know one more Greek word than you did when you woke up this morning. Anamnesis, in its simplest sense, is about remembering. In the context of Communion, though, it becomes so much more. It’s not just a memory, a recollection of the events that led up to the suffering, death, and resurrection of Jesus. It is the bringing forward of all those events into the present time. It’s a statement, a practice that calls the events of the past into the present time. The barriers that we put up between now and then come crashing down. The violence of imperial occupation, the voices of the hungry and the oppressed crying out, the groans of Creation longing to be set free—those are no longer confined to the past. But neither is the grace of God, which was offered to the disciples in the form of bread and cup.
When we gather at the table, when we bring these memories to the present, we bring with them the memories of all those who have said these words before us. All our saints, all our ancestors of faith, become present at this table with us, say these words and sing these hymns with us. We remember—we re-member—the body of Christ. As in, we put it back together. In this act, and in the act of remembering the saints that are a part of who we are, we embody the spirits of those who have come before us. We embody these spirits, too, when we live into the shared purpose to which we are called—the purpose which unites us with saints whether we share biology or not. Anamnesis must become more than just words we say or tired old liturgy—it must be lived out. We must live as those who recall the dark past of struggle. We must live as those who have known sorrow and loss. We must live as those who not only remember, but refuse to forget the suffering, death, and resurrection of the one whose call has brought us together. In the planting and tending of gardens; in our refusal to conform to society; in our welcoming of strangers; in our senses of humor; and in our cries for justice. This is our anamnesis, our recollection—our refusal to forget what has been, our refusal to lose hope in what might be.
So come, let us remember. Even though it doesn’t seem to make sense. Even when our urge is to simply move on with our lives and look to the future. Let us remember in word and thought, and let us remember in the ways we live and move. May we honor the saints of our lives and our communities, not in a way that puts them beyond reproach or polishes them to perfection, but that acknowledges who they were, and are, to us. In rising from the grave, Christ showed us that death does not have the final say. In setting the table to dine with his friends, Christ called us to remember, and to refuse to forget that which has come before. So come, let us remember, let us refuse to forget, the saints who have blessed our lives. Let us remember, let us refuse to forget, the common struggles and common purpose that binds us to one another through the ages. Let us remember, let us refuse to forget, the resurrection call that carries us through the present and into the future. In our living, in our remembering, and in our hope for the future, may we bear that resurrection promise in the company of all the saints. Amen.
Save All You Can
John Wesley: The Use of Money
This may be a big ask, but I’d like us to remember back to the first week of October. I introduced the closest thing I have done to a sermon series: three sermons on John Wesley’s sermon on “The Use of Money.” In this sermon, Wesley talks about how we, as Christians, should relate to money. He presents us with three guiding principles for us to keep in our pockets and consult when we think about money. Let’s see if you all remember what they are. The first is…gain all you can. The second is…save all you can. That should be easy, it’s right there in your bulletin today. And the last one is give all you can. But you’ll have to wait for next week for that one. The idea that we ought to save all we can seems like it should be pretty straight-forward. It seems, like the idea of gaining all we can, to be a part of conventional wisdom. Some here might remember the Great Depression, or might have grown up hearing stories from parents, grandparents, or even great grandparents about what that was like. Subsequent generations have seen their own share of economic downturn, and so the values of frugality and stretching resources have been passed down as part of this generational trauma.
It might be too late, but before anyone thinks “waste not, want not,” I want us to banish that from our heads for at least the remainder of this sermon. As we think of saving all we can, and how Wesley puts forward this idea, it’s important for us to think about context. Wesley worked extensively and even lived with the poor. He had a lot to say about how poor people should live, but even more to say about how the affluent should live in relation to the poor. This whole sermon, but especially this part about saving, is very explicitly directed at the wealthy—or at least the comfortable. We know this for a couple of reasons. First, this sermon wasn’t meant to be preached. Wesley was not a manuscript preacher, unless he was preaching in Latin, and thought that the standard of preaching should be extemporaneous. Since this sermon was meant to be read, and literacy rates were significantly lower than they are today, the primary audience would have been people who at least knew how to read. Since Wesley would have been well-aware of literacy rates among his followers, Wesley would have known to write for the audience that would be consuming his sermons.
The other way that we know that this is directed at the wealthy, or the comfortable, is by looking at the kinds of things Wesley tells the audience not to waste their money on. I don’t think that the coal miners and the dock workers and the seamstresses would have needed Wesley’s voice urging them not to spend their money on gold jewelry, fine clothing, and gourmet cuisine. I do think that the folks who had the money to spend on these things, and who generally wouldn’t think twice about doing so, would be exactly the kind of people Wesley would want to speak to. After all, it’s not the working class and the poor who need to be told to “despise delicacy and variety, and be content with what plain nature requires.” It’s hard to despise something that isn’t even a part of your day-to-day living, or to be tempted by something that is so completely out of the realm of possibility. Finally, Wesley also talks about long-term savings and passing wealth down to the next generation, things that only his more affluent audience would have been worried about. In case you’re wondering, Wesley says that it’s ok to put aside money for the next generation, as long as you think the next generation won’t waste it. So as you think about inheritance, or institutional endowments, or estate planning, know that Wesley was thinking about that, too, and would have supported those things as long as those involved stuck to his principles.
So, as Wesley is admonishing his readers not to fall into the trap of trying to impress others by showing off our wealth through flashy dress and other ostentatiousness, let’s remember who he’s talking to: those with money to spend not just on necessities, but also on luxuries.
This section of the sermon, the ethic of saving all we can, is the first part of Wesley’s argument about what we should do with our money once we’ve gained all we can. “Save all you can” is, primarily, about what we should not do with our money—what we should do comes next week. So, what shouldn’t we do with our money? I’ve already mentioned that Wesley wouldn’t have us seek out the designer brands and the finest foods, and that partly comes from his very strict, pietistic, almost puritanical upbringing. But Wesley isn’t concerned with total self- deprivation to the point of us not caring for ourselves. He was very concerned with healthy living, and starving ourselves or going without adequate clothing would not be something that Wesley would advocate for. If we think back to the week we talked about gaining all we can, we might remember that the general guiding principles are to gain all we can without harming our own bodies, minds, and spirits, and without harming our neighbors’ bodies, minds, and spirits. This same guidance can be applied to our saving, as well.
What we buy is a moral decision. The products we engage with, the corporations we support, and the ways in which those corporations use our money all ought to be considered in what we do with what we have gained. For those who have the economic freedom to choose where they shop, consider the consequences of supporting particular industries. Fast fashion, single-use products, gambling. I know JB Pritzker went to Vegas and won $1.4 million, but odds are, you won’t. What politicians are supported by the businesses we patronize? What governments are? Are we supporting union-busting, monopolizing, tax loophole-exploiting, environment-destroying, poverty-producing businesses? Is it necessary to? For those who have the choice, the ability to divest, the ability to shop elsewhere or nowhere at all, we are called to save all we can. And that means spending less, and spending more intentionally. It’s not about clipping coupons and grocery store rewards to save more than we spend, although I know how exciting it is when we’re able to do that. It is about being aware of how our spending impacts our own bodies, minds, and spirits, as well as the bodies, minds, and spirits of our neighbors.
Wesley’s idea of saving all we can is not just a personal finance aspiration or sound advice for making our dollars have the most impact. It’s certainly not an endorsement of lower wages, cutting corners, or seeking to rid ourselves of our financial obligations to one another. It’s about rejecting the culture that would have us constantly buy the newest piece of technology, flashiest clothes, and bigger and better everything year after year. Does that mean you can’t go on vacation or have a nice dinner to celebrate a birthday or an anniversary? Absolutely not! But the Kingdom economics of Wesley call us to spend mindfully and with reservation—not out of scarcity or an obligation to hoard what we have and keep it to ourselves, but so that we might do the least harm to ourselves and our neighbors, and so that we might not lose sight of what really matters. The economics of the Kingdom would have us see that each of us, and indeed all of Creation, gets what we need before any of us go back for seconds. May we live out this Kingdom economic in our own lives and in the lives of the community, ensuring that the way we spend does not harm ourselves or our neighbors. May we save all that we can, not out of scarcity, not out of self-deprivation, not out of greed or a need to hoard what we have. But so that we might do the most good and the least harm. May it be so. Amen.
Earn All You Can
John Wesley: The Use of Money
It’s no secret that October is the month that we talk about money. All throughout this month, we will be talking about stewardship and pledging and trying to make sure we can get a decent sense of our financial picture as a church so that we can properly plan for doing ministry in the coming year. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that most of us probably don’t like talking about money very much. Which makes sense. It’s not really a part of our culture to talk about how much money we make, how much money we have, and what we do with our money. Sure, there are times when we’ll speak vaguely about money—when we announce that we got a raise, or a promotion, or that we finished paying off our student loans, car loans, or mortgages. Sometimes we speak a little more openly about money, like when discussing how much houses cost, although websites like Zillow also make it kind of pointless to try and hide how much our houses cost. As much as we might not like to talk about it, though, it is important for us to do so. And it’s important for us to be transparent here about how much it costs to do what we do, and to think theologically about how our spending reflects our values, and whether it does.
As we move through this month, thinking about money and stewardship and all that fun stuff, I’d like for us to keep in mind, and maybe hear for the first time, what John Wesley thought about money. He wasn’t shy about money, and was probably such a successful fundraiser, in part, because he talked very openly about what he was doing with the money entrusted to him. He also wrote extensively about how Christian values should inform our relationship with money. One of Wesley’s best-known sermons, as a matter of fact, is his sermon on “The Use of Money.” In this sermon, Wesley offers us three overarching pieces of advice pertaining to how we ought to relate to money. Which is perfect, because I will be preaching three times this month. These three pieces of advice are: Gain all you can; Save all you can; Give all you can. Sounds simple enough, right? Sounds like things we already aspire to, like things that fit neatly with our run of the mill, capitalist values…right? Come on now, if that were the case, could I really squeeze three whole sermons out of one of Wesley’s?
The first of these guidelines, gain all you can, is where we are going to direct our attention this week. For Wesley, this is the principle that should be the easiest for us to understand, as this is what we’re told to do by the conventional wisdom of the world. It shouldn’t be surprising, though, that this piece of advice comes with a long list of terms that apply. The first of these caveats is that we are to gain all we can, without sacrificing our own life or health. Wesley is largely concerned about things like attending to the sabbath and not sitting in the same position for an extended period of time. I think he would have been a big fan of the standing desk. But he was also very clear that some lines of work are simply not worth the risk. Back in 1760, when this sermon was written, things like lead, arsenic, and coal dust were at the front of many people’s minds. Today, some of the most dangerous jobs are in agriculture, roofing, construction, and sanitation. Many healthcare workers, home health aides, and others working 12 or 24-hour shifts often don’t get adequate opportunity to rest, and often aren’t really gaining all that much. And it is women, people of color, and migrant workers who bear the brunt of the physically dangerous and demanding labor.
But it isn’t just our physical health that Wesley is concerned about us risking as we seek to gain all we can. He also urges us not to sacrifice our mental and spiritual health. Our work ought to be fulfilling, to engage our intellect and help us to grow and use our gifts. Our ability to gain, to prosper, shouldn’t come at the cost of our happiness, our connection to community, or our convictions. These could simply be lines of work that we personally find soul-crushing. Wesley calls out the study of math as an occupation that would really shake his faith and make his spirit unwell—and I tend to agree with him on that. He also specifically calls out trades that are predatory as being detrimental to our spiritual and mental health. Any means of gaining all we can at the expense of another or the expense of our own conscience, does harm, and is not the sort of relationship to money that Wesley would have us emulate. I would argue that this idea of exploitation extends, also, to our non-human neighbors—to the air, the water, the trees, and the soil. We ought to gain all we can, but not at the expense of our connection to one another, our sense of interdependence, and our understanding of the inherent value of Creation that transcends what it can offer to us.
Wesley takes this line of thinking even further. He argues that, if we really do love our neighbors as ourselves, as we are commanded to do, then all of that concern about not harming our own bodies, minds, and spirits—that all applies to our neighbors, too. If we gain all we can at the expense of our neighbors’ health or life, that does not put us in right relationship with God. If we gain all we can by exploiting our neighbors, or by causing harm to their minds, their spirits, or their faith, that does not put us in right relationship with God. This culture we live in, that would have us see the value of others extending only as far as they are useful to our own economic gains—that is not the economics of the Kingdom, and it certainly does not put us in right relationship with God. Even in such a culture, even in such a system that prizes ruthlessness and elevates those willing to exploit and oppress their neighbors, we are called to do the least harm and the most good. We are called to gain all we can, all while loving ourselves and our neighbors. That doesn’t always pay the best. But what good is it to gain everything, at the expense of our souls, our community, and the world?
One of the first Weekly Update notes I wrote after I became your pastor included a quote from Bible scholar Jane Schaberg, which read: “the heart of resurrection faith is a belief in God’s ultimate concern with justice for the whole person, the whole body, and for the whole human community.” This is John Wesley’s Kingdom economics. Even as we live and move within unjust systems that draw us into engagement with immoral and unethical means of amassing wealth, even as we focus on simply putting food on the table and sheltering our families—still, we are called to share God’s ultimate concern with justice for the whole person, the whole body, and the whole community of Creation. We are called to be stewards of money as a resource, and to gain all we can without losing sight of this call. To gain all we can, not at the expense of ourselves and our neighbors, but so that bodies might be made whole, communities might be restored, and we might care for one another and for all of Creation. This is how we ought to gain all we can. May it be so. Amen.
Bridging the Divide
My first exposure to the Rochester area was in 2011 or 2012, I think. It was whichever year we had Annual Conference, our big yearly gathering of Methodists from across Upstate New York, in Rochester. I don’t really remember being in the city. I do remember that whichever hotel we stayed in was tall, and we had some great views of the surrounding area. I remember feeling like I was in the Big City, which I was, since Rochester is about 3 times the size of Schenectady, the city I was born in and grew up around. It wasn’t until I met Anna, my fiancee, though, that I really started to spend time around Rochester and get a feel for what it’s like as a place. I didn’t have a car back then, so I would ride the train out—which was fine for me, since I love the train. Anna would pick me up, and we’d spend our time taking trips into the city, when we weren’t poking around in the village here or wandering around Powder Mills or Mendon Ponds. We went to some of the places that were important to her—the Mad Hatter in the Park Ave neighborhood, the Memorial Art Gallery, Highland Park. She did a great job selling me on the city. Such a great job, in fact, that that’s where I live now.
Each time I visited, though, I was struck by how disjointed so many parts of the city felt. Going from the center of Rochester to many of the surrounding neighborhoods felt like going to the next town over. Neighborhoods like Corn Hill or the South Wedge, where I live now (not far from Cheesy Eddie’s) feel sectioned off from Downtown, with its tall buildings and abundance of parking lots. I remember one time walking from the train station to a coffee shop downtown when I was going to have to wait a little while for my ride. That was when I really got a sense of the partitioning of Rochester. On that walk, I had to cross over the Inner Loop—a literal chasm that has been fixed between Downtown and the surrounding neighborhoods. That same chasm contains interstate 490, which is what splits my neighborhood off from Downtown. I-490, which was designed to rush commuters from the suburbs right into the heart of the city, and get them out as quickly as possible. Freeways, sprawling surface parking lots, isolated train stations that are not well-connected with other modes of public transportation—these are symptoms and drivers of urban decay. These are the things that divide communities, that make connection more difficult, and that, no matter how many prophets we’ve had throughout the generations telling us it is so, we never seem to take seriously. After all, who wants to take 31 F all the way from Fairport to downtown Rochester?
The chasms that we, the collective human society, create are not always as dramatic or tangible as the chasms that scar the City of Rochester. If we look for just a moment, we can see the chasms of privilege that turn many of us into the wealthy man, clad in purple, who take for granted the workers who prop up our lifestyles. We take for granted the urban tax revenue that subsidises rural and suburban infrastructure, the migrant workers who feed us, though they often don’t make enough to feed their own families. We leave our gates locked to disabled people, who are too inconvenient to include. And sure, we can take the scraps, the leftovers from our table, and pass them through the bars of the gate or send them across the chasm. But doing so does not truly bridge the divide. It still leaves an “us” and a “them.” It doesn’t force us to actually draw our circle wider, to look into the eyes of God in our neighbors, or to be in any real type of relationship with those who are suffering, whom we keep on the other side of the chasm, behind the locked gate. Clearly, this is not all that we are called to.
But what, then, is the point of this parable? Are the poor, the marginalized, the vulnerable, the sick, and the hungry supposed to take comfort in the idea that when they die they’ll have comfort then? Is Jesus, as portrayed by the gospel writer, banking on the wealthy and the privileged being so scared of eternal torment that they would make things right?
We really ought to look at this parable not as a cautionary tale, but as an observation of reality. The great chasm isn’t something that’s coming—it’s already here. It’s in Rochester. It’s between here and the city. It’s at the Southern border. It’s in our neighborhoods, in our churches, and in our hearts. We’re deeply disconnected, and it only seems to be getting worse. Polarization, political violence, and so on and so forth. A great chasm has, in fact, been fixed between us. But it wasn’t God who put it there as a form of punishment. We built the chasm—or paid someone else to build it. We dug trenches in our hearts, put up walls and barriers to keep those people out. If you want to know how I would define sin, it’s that. Sin is anything that separates us from one another and from the rest of Creation. It’s what happens when we do not honor the divinity in one another, when we stew division, when we reject community. When we see ourselves as more worthy than others, and see others only for what they can do for us. Our work then, in not sinning, is to address these divisions, these disconnections in our hearts and our world.
It also matters how we do the work of bridging the divide. Christ, through the character of Abraham, doesn’t seem satisfied with the rich man demanding that Lazarus cool his tongue. Bridging the divide is not just about getting over things. It’s certainly not about recognizing the value in others simply when it serves us. It demands that we become repairers of the breach, as the prophet Isaiah described. That’s not superficial work. It’s not passive work or temporary work. It is the work of revealing the Kingdom, of seeing God in one another and ourselves. Not erasing our identities, but uplifting and celebrating that which is different and that which is common. It means knowing one another—knowing each other’s stories, pain, struggles, needs, desires. That task is not mine alone. It is the work of this community. It can start right here, because there are chasms even here. But it needs to extend outside, as well. Where are the chasms between us and Fairport? Where are the chasms between Fairport and Rochester? How are we going to be true repairers of the breach?
These are not simply rhetorical questions. I want to know. John Wesley (or it could have been Charles, it’s not really clear) once wrote that “the Gospel of Christ knows no religion but social; no holiness but social holiness.” Oftentimes when we think of social holiness, we tend to think of social justice or works of mercy. But it really means that our faith, as Christians and especially as Methodists, is about how we interact with others. Everything we do, from our private prayer life to our public worship to our engaging with the sacraments, must relate back to how we live together with one another and all of Creation. We are called, not to be doomed to the chasm and to accept this as our unavoidable state of being, but to be repairers of the breach. May all that we do be done for the repairing of the breach. May this be our sign of loving well and loving right. May it be so. Amen.
God Who Weeps
God is good (all the time). All the time (God is good). But it doesn't always feel like that, does it? I want to read the first scripture again, the one we heard earlier from the prophet Jeremiah so that we can hear it with fresh ears and dig into that one to wrestle this morning. Here it is:
My joy is gone; grief is upon me; my heart is sick. Listen! The cry of the daughter of my people from far and wide in the land: "Is the LORD not in Zion? Is her King not in her?" ("Why have they provoked me to anger with their images, with their foreign idols?") "The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved." For the brokenness of the daughter of my people I am broken, I mourn, and horror has seized me. Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there? Why then has the health of the daughter of my people not been restored? O that my head were a spring of water and my eyes a fountain of tears, so that I might weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people!
This is God’s word for God’s people. Thanks be to God.
Oftentimes in our prayer and sacred music traditions, we love to focus on praise. Which makes sense. In our lives, we love to focus on the good things, on the happy times, on our joys. On our celebrations. Last night I went and had a great time at a grape harvesting party in Troy. And it was a time of joy, of celebration, of making jelly and eating good food and being with fun people and having a good time. We love to capture those moments to feel those over and over and over again. And to thank God for them when we think of it. We also love to lift up the good things about God. Even when we acknowledge the brokenness of our own mortality. When we acknowledge the brokenness of the world around us. Still we sing of the goodness of God. And that's not necessarily a bad thing. But there are entire musical traditions in the church, in particular what’s known as contemporary Christian music, that fixate entirely on this one element of prayer and sacred music at the expense of all else.
There's a tendency towards toxic positivity. This idea that we always need to focus on the good things and that we can sort of manifest goodness by only focusing on the good things. Seldom do we voice our frustrations and really talk about the things that we find challenging. Sure, in our silent prayers and our prayer concerns that we lift up, oftentimes, yes, we do talk about suffering, about sickness, about loss. But so many of our songs, so many of our prayers are just us talking about how wonderful God is. How wonderful we want to present our lives. And it’s not simply an issue with today’s prayer habits or contemporary music. My favorite hymn has long been oh for a thousand tongues to sing. That's a praise hymn. Oh four a thousand tongues to sing. My great redeemer's praise. The glories of my God and king. The triumphs of his grace. That's a praise hymn, more than anything. And yes it does talk about the brokenness of the world. The brokenness of our humanity. But even in the midst of that it reverts back to the goodness. The glory of God in the midst of it all.
But in this passage from Jeremiah, we're reminded that there are multiple kinds of prayers. There are multiple ways that our ancestors of faith have talked about God, have talked with God throughout the generations. I’ve already spoken about prayer as a form of protest, as demands that we make of God as God calls us to be advocates for one another in the world. But we're reminded in this passage and throughout the Psalms, and in the Book of Lamentations, that when we talk to and about God, we don't just praise. We don’t just make concrete demands. Sometimes we just complain. Sometimes we just need to express our sorrow, our frustration, our hurting—and God is the one we trust will listen. There's a genre of Psalms called plaint psalms, which are about voicing our anger or dissatisfaction and lifting up the things that we might blame God for. In his dying moments, some of Jesus' last words are a quotation from the book of Psalms. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Something else I love about this passage from Jeremiah though is that there's some ambiguity about who exactly is speaking here. The section title in the New Revised Standard Version, Updated Edition, is “The prophet mourns for the people,” but it’s not always clear with the prophets when they’re sharing their own words or messages from the divine. Are these the words of the prophet Jeremiah or are these the words of God? Is it Jeremiah whose heart is sick, whose joy is gone? Is it Jeremiah who feels the pain and the despair of the people around him? Or is it God? Is this the word of God whose heart breaks, whose body breaks, when ours do?
Last week, my sermon more than anything else was about empathy. It was about feeling the pain of others and allowing our hearts to be broken when we see suffering. It was about feeling the pain of another and being moved by it. But empathy doesn't necessarily mean action. You know sometimes when people come to us and bring their anxieties, their brokenness, their complaints they're not necessarily looking for a solution. Sometimes what's best is to simply sit with another, to offer presence, to be a tangible witness. I think of the book of Job—which I’ve designed a pretty cool study around, if you’d all be interested in that sometime. Job who experienced immense suffering, who had his entire life—his livestock, his family, his wealth—stripped away from him in an excruciating fashion. And when his friends came to offer their assistance, before they ruined everything by offering their two cents, before they voiced their opinions about why this might have happened and how Job might make it right with God. They find the weeping Job lying in the dust and they sit with him in silence.
Our God is a God of solidarity. A God of radical empathy. A God who not only calls us to be moved by the suffering of others, to have our hearts broken, but who themselves is moved by the suffering of others, who has their own heart broken. This idea has been echoed throughout the ages. The black theologian James Cone identifies Jesus with those who are lynched throughout America, even today. This idea that God suffers, whether through Christ or as communicated through the prophets. These words from Jeremiah, and indeed the climax of the gospel narrative, point to our God as one who suffers with us. Who hears our cries not only of joy and of praise and of pleasure. But our cries of despair, of loss, of loneliness. Who moves us to sit with one another in our loss, in our pain, in our discomfort if that's what we need. Who moves us also to action when action is needed. Our God weeps with us. Feels our pain. Bleeds and dies with us.
These are the places where God makes Godself known to us in the times when we wish God would do something to make it all better. And so this is how we are to love. Feeling the pain of our neighbors as if we were one body, as if there were not two. Trusting that in the times when we feel we have run out of praises and don’t want to force any more from our lips, God still hears us and remains present with us. And God responds, lamenting, praying for us, that we might be moved as well. May we be God’s presence, God’s breaking heart, God’s radical solidarity for one another. May this be the Kingdom in our midst. May it be so. Amen.
Revolution of the Heart
Jeremiah 4:11-12, 22-28
Luke 15:1-10
Jesus is many things, but I’m not sure it would be fair to refer to him as a Jack-of-all-trades. We know that he’s a carpenter, or at least that he was brought up by a carpenter. We shouldn’t assume that he necessarily picked anything up from Joseph, since we’re told he was the kind of kid who liked to wander off and read instead of doing what he was supposed to be doing. So, at best he had the skills of a carpenter. But the words of this parable betray a lack of understanding of what would have been considered conventional wisdom amongst shepherds, on Jesus’ part. According to classics and Bible scholar Sarah Ruden, to leave the ninety-nine sheep in the wilderness to go and look for a lost sheep would have been nonsensical. What shepherd would leave the vast majority of their flock exposed to thieves and wolves and the sheeps’ own propensity to wander, just for a single wayward sheep. For any reasonable shepherd, the right thing to do would be to protect the rest of the assets, to cut their losses and leave the one for the sake of the rest. Especially since shepherds were typically hired hands, the best thing to do would be to keep as many sheep safe as possible—not risk everything turning their attention towards the lost sheep.
That conventional wisdom isn’t limited to the shepherds of two millennia ago, though. This mentality persists, telling us that some loss is necessary in order to preserve the greater profit margin, the security of the nation, our comfort, our desires. In order to give us some semblance of safety in a world that loves to remind us of all the potential for danger out there. Why would we risk everything for a small piece of the community, when there are wolves and thieves everywhere we turn out here in the wilderness? This conventional wisdom shames any sense of empathy, any urge to feel the pain of another and be moved by suffering. This conventional wisdom sees it not only as practical to leave the one sheep, but as a necessary sacrifice if we are to enjoy the freedoms and fullness of life that we ought to enjoy. This conventional wisdom deplores empathy and lifts up not mere apathy, but a conscious hard-heartedness with regards to those who suffer, those on the margins, and those in greatest need of the shepherd’s touch. And still it persists, even though it is not the way that Jesus shepherds, and it is certainly not the way we are meant to keep one another.
The news this week was heavy, though not anything out of the ordinary. This past week, a truly staggering number of shootings took place in the United States. More newsworthy shootings, such as those that took place in Evergreen, Colorado, Orem, Utah, and South St. Paul, Minnesota were not isolated incidents, but three of dozens. From right here in Rochester to the middle of nowhere Washington, in red states and blue states, big cities and small towns. Motivated by ideologies of violence, personal conflicts, fear, greed, and who knows what else. The responses to these acts of violence have been just as varied. Some have responded with calls for vengeance, both in the form of the death penalty and by vigilante means. Others have responded with broader calls for violence against political enemies. Others still, have met violence with apathy, ignoring the inconvenient or the unremarkable stories in the name of protecting our peace or preserving the political narrative. We exist in a culture that continues to see guns as irreproachable, gun violence as unavoidable, and those who say disagree as anti-freedom. And it’s not just a gun problem. It’s a problem of violence, which has become normalized in so many aspects of our lives. Those who encourage and justify violence against women, immigrants, and transgender people are themselves victimized by violence.
Throughout Creation, cries for justice—true justice—fall silently, unheard. The city streets are barren, too overwhelmed and too hopeless to bear the weight of marches and rallies and protests. Or…are they?
In the midst of story after story of despair, in the midst of apathy and hard-heartedness, we saw a sign this week that God is not done with us yet just down the road in Rochester. This past Tuesday, as three men were in the middle of a roofing job in the Park Avenue neighborhood, ICE rolled in to take them into custody. Instead of leaving these behind, instead of casting sheep from our flock out into the wilderness to be fed to the wolves or taken by thieves, over a hundred neighbors from around Rochester showed up to the work site and put themselves between the workers and ICE. They used their voices, their bodies, and their numbers to successfully get ICE to turn away, though one of the three men was taken into custody. This was not the response of apathy. It was not the response of those who couldn’t be bothered to care what happened to their neighbors. It was an acknowledgement of the need to stand against systems of violence, even if it means putting everything on the line. It’s a rejection of convention, and an expression of empathy—not a sign of weakness, but proof that in our connectedness we are more capable of resisting evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves.
In the midst of a world where the habit is hardheartedness and empathy is a weakness, we need to hear the words again and again of Dorothy Day, founder of the Catholic Worker Movement. She wrote that “the greatest challenge of the day is: how to bring about a revolution of the heart.” This revolution, she writes, starts with each one of us. It starts with allowing our hearts of stone to be broken. It starts with showing up for one another, for our neighbors, for those afflicted by violence. It means looking internally, at our own ways of thinking, our own families, our own communities. It means examining our policies around guns through a lens of compassion and a concern for life, and it means voicing criticism of those who prey on primarily young white men and lead them towards right-wing extremism. We need a revolution of the heart, a revolution more focused on helping our neighbors to live than helping our neighbors to die. A revolution that does not build up walls and fortifications but tears down divisions that we create. A revolution that recognizes that until the most vulnerable among us—each child, each unhoused person, each migrant, each queer person—are pursued, are kept, are raised up, are made free, none of us is free. A non-violent revolution to oppose systems built and maintained by violence. This is our call as members of the body of Christ—to be a part of the revolution of the heart that began with the prophets’ song. To be a part of Christ’s non-violent revolution.
The prophet tells us that there shall be desolation—and boy, is there desolation. We can witness, without a doubt, to the desolation around us. But this is not the end, Jeremiah says. And we can witness to that, too. Because God does not turn God’s back on us, even when we are foolish, even when we worship other gods. The God we worship, who shepherds us through the wilderness and beyond all fear, has no use for apathy, no interest in turning away from the humanity of our violence. Our God allows their heart to be broken, sees their body broken alongside those who suffer, and dies the deaths we inflict on one another. We are called to shepherd one another, to see each sheep as beloved, and to risk it all for the sake of the one. Not for the sake of guns or gold, but so that more and more might find their place in the kingdom of God. May we have the strength to step into this revolution of the heart, to have our hearts broken, and to shepherd one another in solidarity. We need a revolution of the heart, one that starts with each one of us. May it be so. Amen.
Whose Are We
I swear I don’t really do sermon series. But I’m starting to feel like I’m repeating myself over and over again when I say that there is a lot of really uncomfortable stuff in the Bible. I’ve only spent about two months in this pulpit, and already we’ve looked at passages in which God massacres whole cities, Jesus comes across as a mansplainer, and which have been used to prop up oppressive ideologies. And now we come to today’s gospel, in which we are told that we must hate our parents, our spouse, our children, and our siblings if we want to be disciples of Jesus Christ. We’re told that we must hate our own lives, and that we must give away everything that we have. Oof. Luke’s gospel really packs a punch here. Maybe we’d prefer the version of this passage we can find in Matthew’s gospel, which doesn't say that we must hate our family, just that we ought to love Jesus more than them. That’s just a little bit easier to swallow, I think. Even so, it can be hard for us to take in these words from Jesus, when we generally think of hatred as antithetical to our Christian faith, and when our families—especially the nuclear families described in this passage—are generally the centers of our lives.
I spent the second half of this week travelling down to New Jersey and back for a continuing education opportunity at the theological school from which I just graduated this year. When I told the staff this, Kevin’s response was “but you just finished your education! What more is there?” I went down for the matriculation service, the initial rite of passage for students at Drew Theological School, during which each student signs their name in a great big book. The book was the original registrar’s ledger when the seminary opened back in 1867, and they’ve just kept up the tradition of having students add their names to the book each year—it’s a whole thing. Part of the service is a lecture. Not a sermon, a lecture. I then stayed the night at my uncles’ house and went to two worship services on Thursday, for a grand total of three worship services in two days—definitely my idea of a good time. Going back to my seminary was easy for me. I saw classmates and professors, people I had worked with and come to trust. I fell right back into the rhythm of things, taking notes during the lectures and picking right up where I left off with the people I left behind. You probably already know that I visited the United Methodist Archives while I was down there, too, since that’s another place that’s important to me. When I was leaving the archives Mark, the head archivist there, thanked me for visiting, gave me a hug, and said “this place is your home. Stop by any time.”
I ended up visiting several different homes of mine this past week—places where I’ve become part of an extended family that embraces without regard for markers of genetics, lineage, or origin. Places where I am known, where I am welcome, where my spirit is restored. Places where I most certainly belong.
The call to hate our nuclear families does not stand on its own. It is a part of this greater passage about weighing the cost of discipleship. At the core of this passage is a reimagining of our sense of belonging, our sense of obligation. I don’t believe that when we see “hate” in this passage, we are meant to stop loving. I see this as Jesus trying to add some shock value to what he’s saying so that these large crowds might listen more closely to what he has to say. I can’t believe that Christ would demand that we abuse, neglect, reject those whom we love, simply for the sake of claiming the title of “disciple.” I can believe that the cost of being a disciple is that we no longer belong simply to those biologically closest to us, but to something greater. Not that the connections we have to our parents, children, and siblings are going to be cancelled out, invalidated, or dissolved, but that our biological and legal understandings of who falls into those categories will be expanded. We no longer simply belong to a good old-fashioned family values Norman Rockwell unit. We no longer belong simply to ourselves, to our own needs, wants, and desires.
The cost of discipleship is not hatred, it’s not self harm, it’s not isolation—the cost of discipleship is claiming our place in something larger than ourselves. It means thinking about whose we are, and recognizing that when we choose to be part of the community of God, we are no longer our own. We are still unique, beautiful, individually-created children of the living God. But, in love, we are accountable to others in the community, we are accountable to those who have come before us, and we are most certainly accountable to those who will come after us. Are we living into this call, to see ourselves not as individuals, not as mere members of idyllic nuclear families, not as needing to live for our own self-interest, but as a part of the story of Creation? Are we willing to sacrifice our allegiance to the status quo, our commitment to preserving our present reality, our acceptance of the way that we think things have always been? Will we dare to build something that honors our call to see ourselves as part of a larger story, one that does not end with us—one that has no room for arrogance or self interest?
Perhaps the greatest cost of discipleship is embracing the hands of the potter. Allowing our lives to be transformed, reshaped, merged with others into something new is scary. Letting go of the mentalities we cling to that tell us our lives, our families, our church should be a certain way—that’s scary. But this cost, the price of which we are being warned, is not new to all of us. Some have embraced it willingly, becoming part of families and communities and finding belonging amongst something greater. Others—our queer and transgender siblings, our immigrant and refugee neighbors—have been forced to find new places to belong. This call to find new places of belonging, to find new family and new community, is not always a choice. But for those of us who do have the choice, who can decide to see ourselves and others as a part of the vision of God’s Kingdom, the cost of discipleship is making that choice. The cost is claiming our place in the story, and making the space for others to do the same. That means truly knowing others, and truly being known by others.
As we are called to see ourselves differently, to open ourselves to transformation in our own hearts and in the world around us, we live into this broader vision by gathering in community. We live into this vision by meeting at this table of grace. May we build a home where all might find a place to belong, where all might be welcomed in radical solidarity, and where all might take their seat at Christ’s table. There, we will find the Kingdom of God. Amen.
The Ancestral Dinner Party
Jeremiah 2:4-13
Luke 14:1, 7-14
Imagine, if you would, that you’re at a dinner party. You can imagine a dinner party like the ones that you might be used to, whether they be potlucks at church or with your loved ones. You could imagine a black or white tie affair, if that’s what you’re more comfortable with. You could even imagine yourself reclining on cushions on the floor around a low table, as would have been customary in Jesus’ context. If you’d like, you could also picture the food that you’d have at this imaginary dinner party, although that’s not quite as important to me. Maybe it’s some iteration of the biblical Mediterranean diet that would blend in with a contemporary potluck or a restaurant that has a dress code. What is important to me is the guest list. Before you let your imaginations run too wild, I should tell you—this isn’t some fantasy dinner party where you get to choose which figures from history or which modern celebrities you’d like to have dinner with. You can hang onto those lists for another time.
No, this dinner party will be attended by our ancestors, by the people who came before us and that we don’t really get to choose. Maybe you don’t know your biological ancestors. That’s fine. Ancestors in this context will also mean our ancestors of faith, those who came before us in this church or in the church universal. You’ve all heard me mention John Wesley. He’s there. So are his mother, Susannah, and his brother, Charles. Francis Asbury, the bishop who organized Methodists in America is there. So are Freeborn Garrettson, Mary Bosanquet Fletcher, Richard Allen, Barabra Heck, Philip Embury, and countless others. If you’re the kind of person who gets stressed out around large groups, or if you’re thinking about how much work it would be to host all of these people, I’m right there with you, don’t worry. It’s a big dinner party: and those are just the folks from the Methodist branch of the family from a couple generations. The guest list gets much, much longer. It stretches on and on, all the way back to the earliest of ancestors, however we determine that.
What would that conversation look like? What would you talk about with all those people? Perhaps there are family mysteries or secrets you’d like clearer answers on, or any answers at all. Would conversation flow easily? Or would we have a hard time getting along with the folks who set up a legacy that got us to where we are now? Would we fall into the tendency to mythologize, as we often do, looking only at the good parts and deleting, erasing, covering up any of the misdeeds? Would we be tempted to?
As much as I love to lift up the really cool parts of our history as Methodists, it’s also important to recognize that our legacy includes a lot of harm. While it’s worth celebrating the fact that John Wesley and Francis Asbury licensed women and People of Color to preach, we can’t pretend that that means we Methodists don’t carry a legacy of white supremacy and misogyny. It’s important to know the stories of those like Richard Allen, the founder of the African Methodist Episcopal Church, who had to split off from the white Methodists because of the horrible segregation inflicted on Black Methodists. Because while we may gladly welcome Richard Allen at our dinner party, we have to reckon with the fact that the white pastor in Philadelphia, who made Allen and the other Black congregants sit in the balcony, is also a part of this gathering. William Apess, the first indigenous North American licensed to preach by the Methodists, would be there. But so would Colonel John Milton Chivington, the Methodist preacher who led the Massacre at Sand Creek in which 300 Cheyenne and Arapaho innocents were slaughtered. We have to reckon with the fact that, while we would welcome both Sarah Mallet and Sojourner Truth, two early Methodist preachers, we would also be sharing a table with the men who restricted women only to teaching Sunday School.
This list could go on and on, from the ancestors who fought for LGBTQ inclusion and the ancestors who opposed them, to those who used Methodism to colonize parts of Africa and the indigenous African Methodists who fought for sovereignty and independence. The table is wide. It’s varied. It’s uncomfortable how much tension and history exists among the guests. But these are all people who have a place in our past, who have contributed to where we are, and who we are, today. We are tasked, burdened even, with holding these ancestors in tension— whether we see them as pioneers or as pure evil. Either way, they are a part of our story. The decisions that they made in their time, decisions that placed them in seats of honor and pushed others to the margins, continue to impact how we live our lives today and how we strive to be the church. This inherited thirst for power tells us that we are to have the most of scarce resources. It tells us that we ought to have the biggest church, the most activities, the newest everything. It tells us as individuals that we ought to amass the greatest wealth, get close with the highest level of society we can, and do everything in our power to preserve and grow our own standing.
While we may want to leave the power-hungry, conformist parts of our story in the past, we can’t. One of my key takeaways from this exchange between Jeremiah and God that we read this morning is that we need to recognize the ways in which our ancestors have strayed, and we need to confront those ways head on. Even when it’s embarrassing, even when we might fear a loss of credibility, even when hiding certain parts of our story seems far more convenient and far more comfortable. We can’t pretend that they didn’t happen—and we can’t pretend like they don’t still have an impact on us today. Whether their example is one we choose to emulate or one we choose to intentionally counteract, our actions can trace their origins back to those who came before us. How much of our energy is spent just trying to clean up messes from the past? Messes of climate change and ecological degradation, messes of colonialism and war, messes of inaccessible spaces, white supremacy, misogyny, and all sorts of oppression. Messes of sexual abuse, which remains pervasive in many of our institutions.
All of this isn’t to say that we can pass all of the blame for what’s wrong with the world off on half of our guests seated around the table. But we can’t let them off the hook either. Their story is part of our own, and to tell our story without mentioning them is a good way to not actually make any meaningful change. They still exist—we encounter them each time we gather at the communion table, an open table from which none are turned away. Some of you may be sitting there with the adage “those who don’t know history are doomed to repeat it” going through your heads. As much as I love to roll my eyes at that cliche, there is some truth to it. But what I’m talking about goes far beyond just knowing our history. We need to talk about it, to wrestle with it, to confront it head on—and seek reconciliation. Those ancestors who came before us, the ones we’re ashamed of, are a part of our story and they are a part of the story of God’s saving love. The love that stays with us, no matter what. The love that touched even those whom we would not believe. The same love that calls each of us and all of us to take our seat at that table and look each person present right in the face, knowing that they are a part of us, and we are a part of them.
We are called to break the old habits that hold us back from revealing the Kingdom of God in our midst. We are called to look at our ancestors, in all their brokenness and beauty, and find hope for tomorrow. We are called to face the past with honesty so that we—as individuals, as a church, as the Body of Christ—might seek true, transformative reconciliation. May we do this work not for ourselves alone, but for those who will come after us. Amen.
Sabbath is for Liberation
One of the uncomfortable truths that we, as Christians, need to wrestle with on a regular basis is that our faith has long been used and continues to be used to support anti-semitism. Hopefully we have not been ignorant of the ways in which the gospel message of liberation has been twisted and abused to justify bigotry, forced conversion, and genocide against our Jewish siblings. Each time a passage comes up in the lectionary in which Jesus is seen going head to head with the Pharisees, this history of anti-semitism floats to the surface of my mind, and I get defensive. Remember we’ve talked in weeks prior about how it’s ok to not be entirely comfortable with what we read in the Bible. But, as I’ve said before, the solution to our discomfort is not to ignore or simply discard the parts that seem harmful or that give us the ick. Rather, we ought to wrestle with them, to be in dialogue with them, and to re-examine them through different lenses to see if we can find grace in their midst. So, how can we find grace in this passage, which appears to show Jesus casting aside the Jewish laws regarding the Sabbath, the day of rest?
I don’t think Jesus in this passage is going out of his way to break a rule, a part of Jewish law, simply for the sake of breaking a rule. It’s pretty clear, I think, that he breaks this rule for a particular reason—to unburden a woman who is bent over. What isn’t entirely clear, though, is why this particular act is apparently so offensive to the leader of the synagogue, who grumbles to everyone BUT Jesus about what Jesus has done. In her new translation of the gospels, scholar Sarah Ruden points out that it would have been permissible in Jewish law to break the Sabbath in order to save a life—though she does point out that this exception would not extend to non-humans. So why not offer that same exception to the woman in this story? Perhaps the religious leaders preferred to ignore her. Perhaps they didn’t see her as worthy of help, or as in need as others. Perhaps the Sabbath was their excuse for not helping, for keeping her on the outside of the life of the community. Maybe they had another excuse for each day of the week, so that they would never run the risk of feeling obligated to welcome her into the center.
Or who knows, maybe the synagogue leader was just looking for something to complain about when it came to Jesus.
I certainly don’t claim to be an expert in Jewish law, or in rabbinic teaching for that matter. But it seems to me that Jesus might have been trying to make a point about how we use the Sabbath, and what the Sabbath ought to mean. It seems to me that the very concept of Sabbath is inextricably linked to the idea of liberation. It becomes a part of Jewish law during the exodus from Egypt, the narrative that epitomizes the idea of liberation in biblical tradition. Sabbath came down the mountain with Moses, a commandment that would have God’s people imitate God, the Creator. It was a recognition of the image of God that the Israelites bore, a recognition of the body’s need to rest, and a recognition of the inherent worth of humanity. Sabbath was a radical shift from the slavery from which they had just been delivered, and a sign that God places greater value on people than on endless productivity and ever-increasing profits. Sabbath is a part of the liberation story of Exodus, an act of resistance against dehumanizing economic systems, and an affirmation of the image of God which rests within each of us.
When Jesus sees this woman in the temple, he sees someone who had not been allowed to partake in the liberative aspects of the Sabbath because of her disability, and so he takes it upon himself to offer her liberation. Now, a more traditional—what some might call “plain” reading of the text—might take the position that liberation from disability means returning to the default or the correct state that our bodies should be in. And perhaps for many disabled people, liberation would mean not being disabled anymore. But it also means having access to healthcare to treat chronic illness and pain. It means having spaces and infrastructure that are accessible, and that don’t push people with disabilities to the edge of society. For this woman at the synagogue, it was not her disability alone that prevented her from partaking in the fullness of sabbath rest and the life of the community, but also the passive and active rejection of her disabled body by the worshiping community. Christ calls out this rejection, and continues to call us to examine the ways in which our spaces, our worship, our community of faith are inaccessible.
There are others, too, who are excluded from Sabbath rest. There are workers for whom Sabbath means fewer meals on the table, a missed rent payment, or no heat. There are caregivers, disproportionately women, for whom Sabbath means that no one is looking after children or parents. What does Sabbath look like for them? What does Sabbath mean for the unhoused, for those living in fear of deportation, for queer and trans folks constantly looking over their shoulders? For our Jewish and Muslim siblings living in fear of targeted attacks? In this world where it seems like evil never tires, never takes a day off, never slows down, it is more important than ever that we remove as many yokes from the burdened as we can, and it is especially important that we not contribute even more to one another’s burdens. True, liberative Sabbath can take place only when we recognize the ways in which others are barred from experiencing rest, and choose to do something about it.
All this isn’t to say that we shouldn’t take time to rest. I hope you’ve learned by now that I highly value taking time to rest and not work. What I am saying is that the ability to rest is a part of God’s liberating vision. You may notice that this story is nestled amongst Jesus’ series of mini explanations of the nature of the Kingdom of God. Just before this story, Jesus talks about the fig tree, and just after he compares the Kingdom to a mustard seed and some yeast and so on. This act, this demonstration of the relationship between liberation and Sabbath, is a further exploration of the nature of the Kingdom. It argues that in God’s Kingdom there is room for all—all those who have been pushed to the side, all those who have been told it would be too expensive or impractical to accommodate them, all those carrying burdens both seen and unseen. It proclaims that in God’s Kingdom there is room to find rest—from our work, from our fear, from the evil of this world— simply because we are made in the image of God, and that makes us worthy. And it does not let us off the hook. It calls us out for the ways in which we allow others to go on working, completely unaided, even when they are working just to survive.
The Kingdom of God is a place of rest, a refuge in the midst of a world shaken by sin and bursting with breaking hearts. But it is not a shelter for our complacency and our excuses. It’s a challenge. How can we help others to encounter the liberative rest offered to us through Sabbath? How can others help us do the same? I know I tend to ask a lot of questions from my position in the pulpit, some of which are rhetorical—these are not. We are called to make this world a place where the weary may find rest. May our moments of Sabbath, our days of rest, strengthen us for that task which lies ahead. Amen.