Who Plants the Weeds?
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12 So then, brothers and sisters, we are obligated, not to the flesh, to live according to the flesh— 13 for if you live according to the flesh, you will die, but if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body, you will live. 14 For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God. 15 For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you received a spirit of adoption. When we cry, “Abba![a] Father!” 16 it is that very Spirit bearing witness[b] with our spirit that we are children of God, 17 and if children, then heirs: heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ, if we in fact suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him.
Future Glory
18 I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us. 19 For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God, 20 for the creation was subjected to futility, not of its own will, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope 21 that the creation itself will be set free from its enslavement to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. 22 We know that the whole creation has been groaning together as it suffers together the pains of labor, 23 and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies. 24 For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope, for who hopes for what one already sees? 25 But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.
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The Parable of Weeds among the Wheat
24 He put before them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven may be compared to someone who sowed good seed in his field, 25 but while everybody was asleep an enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat and then went away. 26 So when the plants came up and bore grain, then the weeds appeared as well. 27 And the slaves of the householder came and said to him, ‘Master, did you not sow good seed in your field? Where, then, did these weeds come from?’ 28 He answered, ‘An enemy has done this.’ The slaves said to him, ‘Then do you want us to go and gather them?’ 29 But he replied, ‘No, for in gathering the weeds you would uproot the wheat along with them. 30 Let both of them grow together until the harvest, and at harvest time I will tell the reapers, Collect the weeds first and bind them in bundles to be burned, but gather the wheat into my barn.’ ”
Last Fall, on September 14, I preached a sermon in which I insinuated, or maybe even declared, that Jesus would have been an incompetent shepherd. This was the Sunday when we heard about Jesus leaving the ninety-nine behind in pursuit of the one sheep who had wandered off or been taken. I talked about how this would not have been considered “best practice” amongst shepherds at the time, as it meant abandoning the bulk of the product for the sake of what could be written off as reasonable losses. I won’t recap that whole sermon, though it is worth a read or listen if you feel so inclined. But if there’s something else that Jesus could not be mistaken for, it’s a botanist. We get a hint of this in the parable of the mustard seed, in which Jesus refers to the mustard seed as the smallest of the seeds. It is not. We see signs of this, too, in this parable of the weeds, in which Jesus seems to think that the weeds that spring up in the wheat fields are planted there by “an enemy.” I’m not sure when we, as humans, first figured out how weeds come to be, but isn’t it reasonable to think that they come from the same place as the plants that we put there on purpose? And I don’t know that it’s fair to say that the wind or critters who often carry these weed seeds are, in fact, the enemy. Are they not just a part of Creation? Are they not simply doing their thing, minding their business? Contrary to what Jesus preaches here, weeds are usually not the product of an intentional act, by a saboteur.
In fact, there are many naturalists who would argue that the presence of weeds can be an indicator of healthy soil, or a healthy garden. Weeds, like other plants, grow where the conditions are good, where they can dig in and thrive. This should sound familiar, since last week’s gospel reading had something to do with the ground that seeds fall on and where they tend to do best. But plants, like people, don’t all thrive in the same conditions. Some of the plants that we call weeds thrive in loose soil, some in compacted soil. Some thrive in acidic conditions, others in more neutral or alkaline conditions. The types of weeds that grow can tell us what our gardens might be lacking, what our fields might need in order for our crops to thrive, and what we need to do in order to produce the intended outcome. Not to mention the fact that some of the prettiest flowers—like woodsorrel, fleabane, and chicory—are often considered weeds. I won’t defend all weeds, especially not those that are invasive and wreak havoc on native ecosystems. But I do think it’s important for us to consider that what we label as “weeds” are just the plants that we don’t want to have around. Sometimes that’s for good reason, since there are some plants that cause harm to their surroundings and to other plants. Sometimes, though, we label plants as weeds simply because they disrupt the homogeneity of our lawns, the aesthetics of our flower beds, or our personal preferences—without regard for how our weeding impacts the plants themselves or our siblings throughout Creation who depend on them.
All that being said, it’s also important for us to look at the particular weeds that are discussed in this particular parable. In the gospel translation by scholar Sarah Ruden, these weeds are identified specifically as darnel weeds, which, Ruden points out in a footnote, were often mixed in with the wheat seeds that farmers were spreading in Jesus’ day. She elaborates that darnel weed seeds are virtually indistinguishable from wheat seeds, and that it wasn’t until the invention of devices to separate the two that wheat seeds could be sown without the darnel weed seeds mixed in. Because of this, it wouldn’t have been until the wheat and the weeds sprouted that farmers would have been able to tell the difference between the two plants, though it’s worth noting that darnel and wheat still look similar, even when they have sprouted. So, in reality, it was the farmers themselves, not some anonymous enemy, who sowed the weeds with the wheat. Despite their best intentions, despite their best efforts and even their exercise of best practices for the time, there was little they could do to prevent the proliferation of the darnel weeds. And therein lies the rub, that even though they might have done all of what they thought was right, it was still the planters who caused harm to the fields and the plants around them. Although, based on what I read this week about darnel weeds, some farmers would take advantage of the plant’s intoxicating properties to give their beer a little more kick. So, maybe there’s also a lesson in there about silver linings? But that’s not my message today.
This parable is one of many descriptions in the gospels of the kingdom of God as a place where the bad is separated from the good—the weeds from the wheat, the rams from the sheep, the unrighteous from the righteous. But, knowing what we know today about plants, this image becomes messy. It blurs these lines between good and bad, doing good and doing harm, because these first-century planters believed that all they were doing was the right thing, when in reality they were sowing harmful weeds alongside their crops. It’s a reminder to us of a couple things. The first is that, as we awaken more to the world around us, we might more clearly see the ways in which we do harm when we think we are doing good. We might think we are simply doing less harm by buying more expensive clothing that will last longer and reduce waste, when even the more expensive clothing is often made in poor working conditions by those who are paid poverty wages. We might think that we are reducing the harm we do to the planet by putting more into the recycling without reducing how much we consume, when far less than what we put in the bin is actually recycled, and it is our initial consumption that often carries more significance. For that matter, we might think that we can address climate change and the crises that that carries simply by adjusting our personal actions, when it is corporate polluters and military engines that do by far the most harm.
Reducing the harm that we do is important. But it is also important to see the ways in which we, as individuals and the collective, continue to fall short, continue to sow weeds when we think all we’re doing is sowing wheat. Through our actions, and also through our words. When we repeat phrases such as “God doesn’t give us more than we can handle,” we might think that that is a fruitful idea, when really it carries weeds. When we see local governments and national lawmakers work harder at hiding poverty than improving conditions for the poor, where some might see wheat, we must see the weeds. When those who shape immigration policy see disappearing neighbors and locking up families in deplorable conditions as sowing wheat, it is our call to call out the weeds as we see them. This parable shows us a vision of the kingdom of God, the beloved community, that calls us to claim the seeds we sow—all of the seeds we sow. It calls us to see that even when we think we are on the right side, even when we try our best, even when we put thought and effort into doing as much good and as little harm as possible, still we might plant some weeds. And when that happens, when we plant harmful weeds that choke out the vulnerable plants, it is our call to remove those weeds and make our environment healthier. When we learn that what we are doing causes harm, it is not enough to say that that wasn’t our intention. It is our call to correct our behavior, to turn towards what is healthy and healing, and move onwards towards perfection.
We are called to plant good seeds. We are called to do good, and do no harm. May we see the bad seeds we plant, and plant those no more. May it be sow. Amen.
What the Instruction Could Not Do
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So now there isn’t any condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. The law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus has set you free from the law of sin and death. God has done what was impossible for the Law, since it was weak because of selfishness. God condemned sin in the body by sending his own Son to deal with sin in the same body as humans, who are controlled by sin. He did this so that the righteous requirement of the Law might be fulfilled in us. Now the way we live is based on the Spirit, not based on selfishness. People whose lives are based on selfishness think about selfish things, but people whose lives are based on the Spirit think about things that are related to the Spirit. The attitude that comes from selfishness leads to death, but the attitude that comes from the Spirit leads to life and peace. So the attitude that comes from selfishness is hostile to God. It doesn’t submit to God’s Law, because it can’t. People who are self-centered aren’t able to please God.
But you aren’t self-centered. Instead you are in the Spirit, if in fact God’s Spirit lives in you. If anyone doesn’t have the Spirit of Christ, they don’t belong to him. If Christ is in you, the Spirit is your life because of God’s righteousness, but the body is dead because of sin. If the Spirit of the one who raised Jesus from the dead lives in you, the one who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your human bodies also, through his Spirit that lives in you.
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That day Jesus went out of the house and sat down beside the lake. Such large crowds gathered around him that he climbed into a boat and sat down. The whole crowd was standing on the shore.
He said many things to them in parables: “A farmer went out to scatter seed. As he was scattering seed, some fell on the path, and birds came and ate it. Other seed fell on rocky ground where the soil was shallow. They sprouted immediately because the soil wasn’t deep. But when the sun came up, it scorched the plants, and they dried up because they had no roots. Other seed fell among thorny plants. The thorny plants grew and choked them. Other seed fell on good soil and bore fruit, in one case a yield of one hundred to one, in another case a yield of sixty to one, and in another case a yield of thirty to one. Everyone who has ears should pay attention.”
“Consider then the parable of the farmer. Whenever people hear the word about the kingdom and don’t understand it, the evil one comes and carries off what was planted in their hearts. This is the seed that was sown on the path. As for the seed that was spread on rocky ground, this refers to people who hear the word and immediately receive it joyfully. Because they have no roots, they last for only a little while. When they experience distress or abuse because of the word, they immediately fall away. As for the seed that was spread among thorny plants, this refers to those who hear the word, but the worries of this life and the false appeal of wealth choke the word, and it bears no fruit. As for what was planted on good soil, this refers to those who hear and understand, and bear fruit and produce—in one case a yield of one hundred to one, in another case a yield of sixty to one, and in another case a yield of thirty to one.”
For God has done what the instruction could not do.
We live in an age of information and instruction. It's almost cliché to say at this point, but never before have ordinary people had such immediate access to so much knowledge. We carry libraries in our pockets. We can ask almost any question at almost any moment and expect an answer within seconds.
Want to learn a new skill? You’re bound to find hours and hours of content on YouTube ready to teach you.
When I was going through school as a kid, I had CliffsNotes and SparkNotes if I didn’t feel like reading three chapters of To Kill a Mockingbird one night. Now we have things like Blinkist, ready to give you the key ideas from any given book in fifteen minutes or less.
Gone are the days of card catalogues. Hell, gone are the days of crawling through page after page on Google. Now, you can just type a question into ChatGPT and you’ll have an answer to your question that at least seems plausible.
Of course, whether or not its output is actually correct is another matter altogether.
There is no shortage of information. There is no shortage of data. There is no shortage of instruction. And that’s not, necessarily, a bad thing.
Wisdom is good.
Instruction is good.
Teaching is good.
Christians of all stripes ought to believe that. After all, our faith begins with a teacher. Jesus didn’t gather consumers. Jesus didn’t gather producers. He gathered disciples.
And yet.
For all the information that we have.
For all the instruction and teaching that we have, literally sitting in our pockets and at our fingertips.
Are we actually any wiser as a culture today than we were generations ago?
If we take a good, honest look in the mirror, has all of this information made us more discerning?
Am I alone in having that experience of knowing exactly what I should do…
…and still not doing it?
I know I should be more mindful of my spending habits.
I know I should move more.
I know I should reach out to that friend I’ve been meaning to call.
I know I should turn off my phone and go to bed earlier.
I know I should forgive.
I know all of these things and more, and yet..,
Knowing isn’t the same thing as becoming.
Knowing isn’t the same thing as becoming. Information can tell us where life is found, but it can never give us life.
We keep on assuming that the answer is just one more piece of information, hidden away in the right podcast.
The right church.
The right budgeting app.
The right exercise plan.
The right Bible reading plan.
The one, simple trick that will allow us to hack our way into becoming the people we want to be.
But we don’t. Not because the advice is wrong or the teachings are, necessarily, bad. But because there are some things that instruction, all by itself, simply cannot accomplish.
God has done what the instruction, weakened by the flesh, could not do.
Not because the instruction was wrong, but simply because there are some things that only God can do.
Now, you may have heard it said that Paul’s central argument throughout his letter to the Romans goes a little something like this:
The law was bad. Jesus is good.
Because the law failed, God sent Jesus.
But there’s just one, small problem with this summarization of Paul’s argument. He never actually says that.
In fact, Paul goes out of his way to say exactly the opposite.
The law is holy and righteous. The torah—the teachings and the law and the instruction—is good.
Your word, O God, is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path…accept my offerings of praise, O God, and teach me your ordinances...I do not forget your law…your decrees are my heritage forever and the joy of my heart.
The psalmist sings of the goodness of the Torah—of God’s teachings that have been passed down from generation to generation. Paul never says that this instruction is deficient or wicked. Notice what he does say:
God has done what the instruction, weakened by the flesh, could not do.
Weakened by the flesh—notice where the weakness lies. It’s not in the instruction. It’s not in the law.
It lies in us.
Or, to use Paul’s language, σαρκός, the flesh.
Before I go any further, I’m going to pause to name that flesh is one of those church words that has accumulated a lot of negative baggage over the centuries.
Throughout Christian history, some have misunderstood Paul to mean that our bodies are somehow less holy than our souls. But Paul never says that. In fact, Paul's entire hope rests on the resurrection of the body. So when Paul speaks of "the flesh," he isn't talking about skin and bones. He's talking about a way of being human that turns inward on itself instead of outward toward God and neighbor.
When Paul talks about “the flesh”, he isn’t talking about your physical body, per se. He isn’t saying that your body is bad or that your physical, material existence is somehow less spiritual than our souls.
No, when Paul speaks of “the flesh,” humanity trying to manufacture life on its own terms. Humanity trying to become its own source of security. Its own sense of meaning. Its own source of salvation.
And that, friends, is where the instruction reaches its limit.
Because instruction can tell us where life is found.
Instruction can tell us what flourishing looks like.
Instruction can point us toward justice.
Instruction can teach us to love our neighbor.
Instruction can describe and paint a picture of the very Kingdom of God.
But instruction cannot make us into the kind of people who live that way.
Knowing isn’t the same thing as becoming
Instruction can diagnose, but it cannot heal.
Instruction can point toward life, but it cannot breathe life into dry bones.
Instruction can say, “love thy neighbor,” but it cannot reconcile enemies into family.
Only God can do that. Only Christ can do that. Only the Spirit can do that.
Paul doesn’t say “you finally figured it out,” or “humanity eventually became wise enough.” He doesn’t even say “the instruction has finally started working.”
No, he simply says, God has done.
God has acted.
God has moved first.
God has accomplished in Jesus Christ what humanity, left to itself, never could. Not by giving us more information or more data or more law. But by giving us God’s own Son. By breathing into us God’s own Spirit who animates our very beings.
And if that’s true—if life is ultimately something God creates and freely gives rather than something we manufacture—than maybe we’ve been asking exactly the wrong question about Jesus’ famous parable al wrong.
Because for as long as I can remember, I’ve almost always heard this parable preached the same way.
In which kind of ground are you planted?
Are you on the path where seed gets trampled or eaten by birds?
Are you on the rocky ground where your roots can’t grow deep and you wither and die?
Are you among thorns that will grow up alongside you and choke the life out of you?
Or are you in the good soil? Soil rich with nutrients wherein you can be rooted and grow and yield a bountiful harvest.
In which kind of ground are you planted?
On the surface, that seems like a perfectly reasonable question. After all, Jesus himself explains what each of the soils represents—I mean, how often do we get that level of clarity in Jesus’ sayings?
And yet, if that’s the first question we ask—if we come away from this parable asking, in what kind of ground are we planted—haven’t we quietly slipped right back into the same trap Paul has been warning us about?
If the point of the parable is simply, make sure you’re planted in good soil, that’s just another instruction.
Try harder. Be more faithful. Be less distracted. Grow deeper roots and don’t let the worries of the world choke you out. Become the kind of person who bears fruit.
And look, that’s all good advice.
But knowing isn’t the same thing as becoming
Instruction can tell us where life is found, but it cannot give us life.
If we reduce this parable to just another self-improvement project, we risk overlooking something far more important. Something far more transformative.
After all, seeds don’t choose where they’re planted, right?
Oh sure, plants have evolved all sorts of mechanisms to aid in the propagation of their seeds. Seeds can by carried by the wind. Consumed by roving animals and eventually…deposited…deposited elsewhere. But ultimately, seeds don’t get to choose where they’re planted.
No seed gets to wake up in the morning and say, “Today, I’d like to land in that rich, fertile soil over there.”
Seeds don’t make themselves grow and good soil doesn’t simply happen.
Anyone who has ever planted a garden knows that good soil doesn’t simply appear. It has to be worked and turned over. Stones have to be picked out by hand. Weeds have to be pulled, and compost has to be mixed in. And sometimes, the field even has to lie fallow for a season to recover and rejuvenate—for microbes and worms to break down and decay and generate rich nutrients for the next season.
No matter how lifeless earth may look, everything important is happening beneath the surface.
Good soil has to be prepared, and I wonder if that’s the point that Jesus wants us to notice and pay attention to.
Not, “make sure you’re planted in good soil.”
But instead, “who is the one who prepared the soil in the first place?”
Friends, Jesus isn’t giving us yet another checklist. Instead, he’s teaching us to recognize the hidden work of God. Faith is learning to trust the work that God is doing before we can see the harvest.
Because if God is the one who is preparing the soil—if God is already at work beneath the surface of our lives—then eventually something good begins to grow.
The parable says that seed sown in good soil bears fruit and yields, in one case a hundredfold, in another sixty, and in another thirty.
But who, exactly is this harvest for?
A stalk of wheat does not get to break bread.
An apple tree doesn’t get to eat its own apples, nor does a grapevine get to drink its own wine.
Fruit always exists for someone else. The whole purpose of the harvest is that it is gathered, shared, and given away. That’s where Paul’s argument has been leading all along. That’s what life in the Spirit looks like. Life is lived in the sharing.
Paul isn’t telling his readers that the Christian life can be reduced to private spirituality or personal self-improvement. The Spirit doesn’t simply make me a better version of myself.
No. The Spirit creates a people.
The Spirit creates a people who can finally become what the instruction had been pointing toward all along.
A people who forgive because they’ve first been forgiven.
A people who love because they’ve first been loved.
A people who reconcile because they’ve first been reconciled.
A people who share because they know life itself has first been shared with them.
Not because they’ve mastered another lesson or discovered the perfect system.
Not because they’ve finally become good enough, but because God has already begun the hidden work in each and every one of us.
And because God continues to do this hidden work in us, we find that our lives bear fruit to be shared beyond ourselves.
Fruits of love and of joy.
Peace and patience.
Kindness and goodness and faithfulness.
Fruits that feed not just the body but nourish the soul.
That’s the good news friends. God is already at work tilling and preparing the soil of our lives and we are therefore free to stop manufacturing life for ourselves. We are free to receive this growth that God provides. We are free to trust it.
And then, like every good harvest, we are free to share it with the world.
So may the one who began a good work be faithful to complete it in us.
The work continues. Amen.
Confessions
Romans 7:15-25a
Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30
While I was here for the parade yesterday, enjoying the humidity and getting to see many of you lovely people, I was asked a question that I think is an important one: what are your thoughts on confession? The question was less about confession in general, and more about the concept of the sacrament of confession as it exists in the Roman Catholic tradition—where you slip into a small booth, knock on the wall, and have a priest there behind the screen ready to hear about all the things you’ve done wrong since the last time you confessed. At least that’s how it happens in the movies and on TV. I’ve never been before. But I know that there are those in this community whose background is in the Catholic tradition. Is there anyone here who’s been to confession? Does it happen more or less like it does on TV? Confession is often dramatized and played up, especially in media. I’m a big fan of the British detective show “Father Brown,” which is about a Catholic priest in the post-World War Two English countryside who solves murder mysteries—as one does. Most of the confessions that he receives in this show are from people who have had affairs or from the murderers themselves. Of course, that always complicates things since Father Brown can’t break the seal of the confessional, so it’s still up to the killer to turn themselves in. Tricky stuff.
In the real world, the concept of confession is one that makes many of us uneasy or even righteously indignant. Confession has long been used as a means of policing behavior, and is often employed as a weapon against queer and trans individuals, whose very existence is still considered sinful in many Christian traditions. Confession has also been used to inflict public shame and to coerce people into conforming to a particular way of being that is, often, rigid and demanding. During the Salem Witch Trials, men and women who were accused of witchcraft were pressured, by physical torture and by religious coercion, to make false confessions and to throw others under the bus with their confessions—especially unmarried women, unskilled brick- layers, and unpopular neighbors. Those who were accused were expected not only to confess, but also to repent and make a public statement of faith in weekly worship before being re-admitted fully to the fold. Today, and for centuries, the seal of the confessional, which prevents clergy from sharing publicly things that are said in confession, has been a barrier to those seeking justice for abuse by members of the clergy and members of congregations. In fact, New York is one of the states in the U.S. where clergy are still not listed as mandatory reporters of child abuse, though there is legislation in the state senate that would change this.
Confession is, like so many parts of various Christian traditions, a complicated thing. It has been weaponized, used as an instrument of hate, and made into a tool of shame and conformity. It has been used as a shield for those who seek to avoid accountability, both from the church and from other institutions. It has become the epitome of the guilt and repression that has become, in the popular conscience, the foundation of the Christian faith. I can acknowledge all of this, and still, you might notice, we continue to share in a prayer of confession week after week. This is because I believe that confession, even if it’s just corporate confession, can be a tool of liberation. When used appropriately, confession can be a means of looking honestly at the harm we have caused, the times when we have not done good, and laying down the burdens that we bear. It is a means of seeing our lives not as perfectly as we might like to present them, but as messy and flawed and complex. Confession can, and should be, about finding humility to know that we are not perfect and that we make mistakes—sometimes a lot of mistakes—but that no matter how many mistakes we make, God’s mercy is bigger than all of it. Confession is an admission that we are not yet perfect, that we hurt and cause hurt, and that we trust that God will not leave us behind in spite of it all. Above all, though, confession is—or must be—not a means of avoiding accountability, but of embracing it.
In the Roman Catholic tradition, confession isn’t simply saying out loud all the things that you did wrong. In fact, the sacrament that we call “confession” is actually the sacrament of reconciliation. Confession is only one part. What follows is a tangible response to the harm that we have caused. Reconciliation is about admitting where we fall short, and readjusting how we live our lives so that we’re less likely to cause the same harm again. When this church adopted our reconciling statement back in 2012, the statement that we typically call a “welcome statement” and that we think of as our way of saying that all are welcome here, that statement included a confession. Not the most direct confession, but it acknowledges that the church has caused pain by its exclusion and discrimination. With that confession, though, comes a commitment to turning away from that tradition of harm, and working with those who have known the pain of that exclusion and discrimination. It is a commitment to living differently, and moving onward towards being made perfect in love. And we still have a long way to go. And that’s not to say that we haven’t made the same mistakes, nor is it to say that we definitely won’t make the same mistakes again. It is a commitment to doing the work, though, and to working each day to carry that work forward. Confession, then, is a part of reminding us that we are not superior or exceptional or special, simply because we are privileged in certain ways. It is a reminder of our constant need for God’s grace, and our need to listen to those who are hurt by us, so that we might work towards reconciliation and true justice.
You may have heard that yesterday was the 250th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. While there are always festivities and ways in which we celebrate this historic holiday, there were many who admitted to me yesterday that they didn’t feel much like celebrating. I didn’t either, but if I’m being honest the 4th of July isn’t a holiday that I tend to go all out for. Part of this less-than-joyful feeling, I believe, comes from the weightiness that its celebration brings for many. How can we celebrate this day when so much of what we see about America is the corruption of its government? How can we celebrate when there are masked individuals kidnapping neighbors in the streets? How can we celebrate when the Supreme Court hands down rulings that limit how our children live into who God has created them to be, and that expand the ability of states to discriminate against transgender athletes? How can we celebrate when migrants are stripped of what little protections they might have had? How can we celebrate knowing that our tax dollars continue to fund endless wars and unrestrained bloodshed? How can we celebrate knowing that none of this is new, but that it has come back to us in cycles of extremism again and again? I can’t speak for you, but the cheeseburger and sparklers I enjoyed yesterday didn’t really cut it.
Confession, it is said, is good for the soul. It can help us to truly see the burdens that we carry, the burdens that we place on others, and the ways in which our souls and bodies need to heal. Confession, though, the acknowledgement of the ways in which we, as individuals and as a collective, have fallen short, is not the end. What comes next is a turning towards the restoration of wholeness. What comes next is the work of finding liberation and justice for all the world, not merely for the 340 million we call “American.” What comes next is living into the call that Christ places on each of us to turn away from the burden of all the harm we have done and all the ways in which we have failed to live into the liberating love of God’s kin-dom. May we hear this call, to lay down the burdens of sin and oppression that we carry—as individuals and as a people. May we hear this call, to open wide our embrace to the “huddled masses, yearning to breathe free,” those who have felt the weight of the burdens that we have placed on their backs. May we hear this call, and turn towards the work of true justice and reconciliation. May it begin with looking honestly at where we are and where we have been. Only then may we look towards the future where that bright star is cast. Amen.
Human Limitations
Many of you might remember Jane Leonard, who passed away last Fall. She was a member here for a number of years, active in Adult Forum. The first interaction I had with Jane was during the week following my first Sunday here a year ago. She had just fallen and hadn’t been able to make it to my first worship service here. So she sent me an email to welcome me and let me know why she wasn’t in worship that Sunday. She was in worship the following Sunday, and during the week following, I received another email. In this one, she described a friend that she had who was getting older and was needing more and more help, and talked about this friend’s struggle to accept help. Mind you, Jane was 90 when she was telling me about this “older friend” who wouldn’t let Jane help her. She both acknowledged how frustrating it is to offer help to someone who refuses to accept it out of pride, and asked for advice about how she as an individual might accept offers of help from others. Her question was specifically tied to the story of the Good Samaritan, and was, “how can we learn to receive the blessings of the Good Samaritan?” I would argue that the man in that story who received the blessing from the Samaritan didn’t have much choice in the matter. But I also think that we can pose this question more broadly: “How can we learn to receive gifts, blessings, and help from others?”
Accepting the offer of help, after all, can be embarrassing. It communicates that we don’t have the skills or the physical ability to do something or know something. I’ll always remember the trauma of being placed in advanced math when I was in third grade. I was there for months, struggling to keep up and, eventually, falling so far behind that there was no hope of getting back on track. I never once asked for extra help, and got more and more overwhelmed until one day I had a breakdown in the middle of class and my teacher finally knew just how little I was actually learning. Then I got put back in the regular math class, which was more fun anyway, since that’s where all my friends were. Unfortunately, that experience wasn’t enough for me to deconstruct the feelings and culture that made me think it was better to suffer in silence than admit that I didn’t know what I was doing. And that had to be a lesson I received over and over and over again, and that I am still working on internalizing. But I know that it’s one we all struggle with, because our culture is, generally, not one of collaboration but of rugged individualism. When we’re young, we may struggle to ask for help from overbearing parents, and when we’re old we may struggle to ask for help from over (or under) bearing children. And when we’re somewhere in the middle, parents still might be overbearing, but there’s also sort of an expectation that, at some point, you figure your stuff out and don’t need to ask for help.
It’s this same mentality that is working to dismantle Social Security, that refuses to improve healthcare, and that continues to limit access to SNAP benefits and other forms of social welfare. It’s this same mentality that delights when we ignore the people asking for a dollar on the exit ramp off 490, that rejoices when we ignore the struggles of our neighbors near and far. Because we’re not meant to ask for help. So, why should anyone else get to ask? What do we owe them? What have they done for us? The world would have us ask “who is worthy?” But the gospel doesn’t bother with such a question. It’s not about who is worthy, but about who has need. And at the core of this question is an acknowledgement that we all have need. None of us goes through our entire life completely, one hundred percent self-sufficiently. There may be seasons when we need more help, and some when we don’t need quite as much. But there is not a single person, nor sibling in all of Creation, who can pass an entire lifetime without needing to lean on someone, or something, else. Indeed, the gospel assumes that we all will need help at some point, and quotes Christ as saying that when we help those in need—the hungry, the naked, the unhoused, the sick, the incarcerated—we are helping Christ. That’s 15 chapters down the road from today’s gospel. Today’s gospel, though, puts Christ on those who are seeking welcome, who are seeking cool water. Christ, therefore, is not only in the need, but in the asking. Suddenly, it becomes Christ-like to ask for help, to have the courage and the humility to say “I need help,” or “I’m thirsty,” and ask for something to drink.
To acknowledge our need for help, from one another and from God, is to not only do as Christ commanded, but to do as Christ does. Not to presume that our places of privilege and comfort rid us of any need to seek out help, but to find our faith in the cycles of dependence and that luminous web that ties all of us together. Not to see ourselves only as benefactors, but as those who both give and receive to those in this community and beyond, until the lines of giving and receiving are blurred. To act only as though we have everything is to reject the notion that Christ is still waiting outside to be welcomed, and to pull us out into the world. It is to willfully turn away from the fact that we have need, and that we need to accept help, accept welcome, accept cool water from the places where we go. It is to write off the voices of those younger than us, who often have really important things for us to hear. It is to write off the voices of the women called to preach, the queer people we seek to reconcile with, and the immigrants who, before long, will be detained right in downtown Rochester. Our salvation, our liberation, our wholeness, is tied up in these lives, in their welcome and in the quenching of their thirst. How will we meet the Christ in them? How will they reveal Christ to us? In the humility to lay down our privilege, to cast off the facade of self-sufficience, and to ask what we can do. This is the sharing of gifts and of help to which we are called. What are we going to do about it? How will we respond to such evil, injustice, and oppression?
I want to close with a line from the Gospel According to Ted Lasso. You may have heard of it. It’s a show about an American football coach who gets hired by an English Premier League team to coach soccer. Streaming now on Apple TV. In one episode, one of the characters is asking for advice, and wondering if people are capable of change. In response to this line of questioning, another character posits that “Human beings are never going to be perfect. The best we can do is keep asking for help, and accepting it when you can. And if you keep on doing that, you'll always be moving towards better.” As people who seek to live out our shared faith and sense of call in the Methodist Movement, we are called to move onward towards perfection, towards being made perfect in love. That doesn’t mean we never make mistakes. It certainly doesn’t mean we know everything or can do everything all on our own. It does mean that in everything we do, our instinct is always to love. And loving, both others and ourselves, means sharing of what we have, and accepting when others share of what they have, too. We are called to live communal lives. By stepping foot into this community, we are proclaiming that we are no longer solely our own, that we don’t have all the answers, that we can’t move through this world on our own. That’s not a deficiency, it’s the Church. May we live out this calling, to depend fully on one another, fully on God, and fully on our siblings throughout Creation, until we cast off all delusions that any of us doesn’t need the others. Amen.
Sent Out in Jesus’ Name
This is my first Celebration Sunday, and I would definitely say that it has lived up to the hype. Such a grand celebration of all the ministry that goes on here at Fairport United Methodist Church has been a wonderful way for me, personally, to look back on my first year here in this community. In looking back, we can ask ourselves a few important questions. The first of these is: What have we done? Since I arrived here, I have witnessed this as a place where a lot goes on. From ministries of education for all ages, to ministries of music for the same. From the Sunday Dinner ministry, which has prepared hundreds of meals in the past year, to the Beyond These Walls shelter visits, that have taken humanity and supplies to some of the most desperate places in our city. This is a community that cares about sharing from what it has, that sees needs and seeks to find ways to bring healing and hope to a broken and hurting world. We have fed each other and those outside of these four walls. We have worshiped together, praising God and restoring our souls in the grace of shared company. This is a place where a lot happens, and we are a people who are called to much work. Thanks be to God for those laborers who have answered the call, and who work to build the kin-dom here in this place.
The second question is like it: Who have we helped? We have helped both those who sit in the pews beside us, and those who have never stepped foot in this building. Through blessing bags and Trick-or-Treating for UNICEF, through grocery store gift cards and donations made through our Outreach 50/50 fund, through Bike Trip and Joful noise, we have made an impact near and far, helping those in our neighborhood and around the world. We have helped our children to learn about the stories and practices that bind us together in loving community, and our children have helped us to see new ways of thinking about God and what it means to live in community. We have helped one another connect to God, find the divine Spirit in the day-to-day and the extraordinary, in the singing and ringing and in the silence. In simple acts of hospitality for the grieving and extravagant celebrations whenever there is something to celebrate. We have helped one another, we have helped those in our communities, and we have helped those whose faces we have not seen. Thanks be to God for a plentiful harvest, that calls us unceasingly into the world, to be the hands and feet of Christ.
The third question might take a bit of thinking: How have we been helped? This question ought to have us consider the ways in which our ministry has been reciprocal. When we minister to one another—in the small acts of sending cards and visiting those who can’t come to us, in the flamboyance of marching in the pride parade—what happens to our souls? Have others helped us to know, more deeply, the love of God? Have others shown us grace that passes beyond all human comprehension? Have we been shown generosity in what those in this community and those outside this community have given to us? Have we experienced and appreciated the generosity of our God, from whom all these blessings flow? Of course we have! The real question is, have we offered our thanksgiving to God and to our neighbors, for moving with us on this journey, providing for us in abundance, and remaining by our side? Perhaps we could do just that a bit more. Thanks be to God, for all those who have journeyed with us, corrected us gently, and shown us what it means to be true disciples who walk in the way that leads to life.
But the harvest of love and justice is still plentiful. There is much for us to learn, there are more ways for us to continue to grow in our love of God and one another. While we celebrate all the labors of this past year, may we still hear that call, to labor and build the kin-dom of God, here and now. May we still be called to do the work of clothing the naked, feeding the hungry, giving water to the thirsty, housing the unhoused. May we still be called to the work of visiting the sick and those in prison. May we still be called to the work of standing with those who have been pushed to the edges of society, those who have been overlooked and ignored, those who no respectable person would go near. May we still be called to seek justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God. How will that look in the coming year? Who will we minister with? There is work to be done, right here in our village, in our city, in our county. There are fellow laborers, both near and far, for us to work beside. Perhaps there are people in the pews today that you don’t know very well, and with whom you might be called to minister. We will try new things. We will fail. And again and again, we will minister with new people, giving and receiving, until we hold all things in common. Thanks be to God, that this call still rests on our lives, that there are those still called to labor, even when the harvest seems to wither.
Siblings in Christ, we have much to celebrate, much to be grateful for. I’m grateful that I get to serve in a community where the Spirit is very much at work—and where the work of the Spirit is evident in many ways. But the work is not finished. Evil, injustice, and oppression, in all the forms they present themselves, still plague our world. We have much work to do in dismantling ways of thinking that separate us from our neighbors. We are still being called and sent, by the Christ who sees in us not only what we have been, but who we can be. We are being called and sent, by the One who is not done with the world, but who is constantly creating and re-creating. We are being called and sent, in the name of Christ who sends us to do the work that Christ did before us. May we continue to heed that call, together as the Body of Christ, as we are sent out to build the kin-dom—this day and all days. May it be so. Amen.
Reaching Out
Every week on Thursday, from about 4pm to 8pm, I play Dungeons and Dragons with a small group of people from around Rochester, and even one person who drives out from Buffalo each week. It’s one of my Sabbath routines, a space where I can set down the yoke and just be Sam, not Pastor Sam. For the first month or so that I was part of this group, most of them didn’t even know what my day job was. That changed one week when everyone else was talking about how they are able to marry their friends or family members because they had done the thing through the Universal Life Church. And then they asked if I was able to marry people, and I said “yes,” and then they said “Universal Life Church?” and I said “no, the United Methodist Church,” and they were like, “oh, you’re like, legit,” and I was like, “yeah, but that’s all good.” One of the reasons that this weekly routine is so important to me—aside from the social aspects, the opportunity to exercise my creativity, and the fact that someone always cooks a meal—is that it’s humbling. It takes me out of spaces where religion, and specifically United Methodism, is the norm, and out of spaces where I am given authority or privilege because of my clergy credentials.
When I’m there, I’m surrounded by people who were either never raised in religious communities or who have left the churches that they grew up in. I’m not there to be their pastor, or really to lead in any way. In fact, there’s specifically a Game Master there, whose job it is to loosely direct the story and keep us more or less organized. As we sit together and eat and play our game, I listen to the others talk about the world and its problems, or their lives and the ups and downs. Everything from education policy to attempts to legislate trans people out of existence, from new jobs to engagement announcements is discussed. While God is never mentioned, I believe that They are present still, in each conversation and moment of connection. And while I love that this group has trusted me enough to ask questions about theology and the church, I still appreciate the beauty of knowing that God still moves in the moments when we don’t hear Their name. Not in trying to convert or dominate the conversation with doctrine and dogma. But in stepping outside of what is familiar, taking time to listen beyond what is comfortable, and simply being in a place where your experience is not the norm and your way of thinking carries no presumed authority.
This, after all, is the ministry that Jesus models in the first section of this passage. Jesus is not seen here trying to fix the so-called sinners, those outside the fold, outside of organized religion. In fact, the only place he directs his teachings is towards the Pharisees, the religious establishment, who question why a man who claims to be a religious teacher would waste his time with those who have been rejected by, or perhaps have rejected, the structured religion. All Jesus does with these folks is gather them—and eat. He brings his disciples along with him, outside the Temple, outside of any holy place, to the home of a tax collector who had accepted an invitation to host. Jesus’ ministry in this passage, before he tells his disciples to go and make disciples, is to go into the world and listen. Maybe he did some correcting, and maybe he did some pointing out where God is in the midst of messy lives and a messy world. But what we see is dinner. And, even though Anna will tell you that every time we have dinner with friends the topics of church and theology somehow come up, when we sit down for dinner we usually just talk about life. We talk about the world, what seems terrible and what gives us hope. And in every word traded, even if that word is not “God,” God is still present in those conversations, and in the sharing of the meal.
So, our ministry is to look outside of the church. To foster trust and curiosity and relationships among us, yes. But also to share bread and conversations with those who are done with church or who have no connection to church—and simply to embody presence with them. However, Jesus’ ministry does not stop there, as nice as it would be to just say that we are called to gather for dinner together. While eating with the people who have been labelled as “sinners” and “unrighteous” is already a boundary-crossing in itself, Jesus takes this rejection of cultural limits a step further. As he is being ushered away from his dinner slash listening session, so he can casually bring a man’s daughter back from the dead, Jesus is stopped by a bleeding woman who reaches out and touches his cloak. Rather than dismissing her or snapping at her, Jesus calls her faithful, and says that it is her faith that has healed her. Here is a woman who, by religious law, was considered ritually unclean, reaching out and touching Jesus. He doesn’t reach out and touch her, nor is she escorted to him by her friends or community, though we can probably assume from her status as ritually unclean that she doesn’t have anyone who would go with her to be healed. She has been left behind by a dogma that left no room for her, and so she seeks out Jesus on her own, and uses her own agency, her own will, her own faith to reach out and touch him—and find wholeness for herself.
There are many who would share this woman’s story. The religious nones and dones, those who have no connection to church. The queer and trans people who have been ostracized, even in churches that claim a welcome. There are those who have banded together in other ways, built spiritual communities outside of the church that still reach out and touch Jesus, still have their faith affirmed and their personhood recognized as whole. But it often takes us looking outside the church to find them, and then stepping outside the church to hear them, and then standing outside the church to begin to build relationships and trust—and then to reconcile with them. This woman was unclean, untouchable for twelve years. That’s a long time to wait to have someone step close enough to you for you to grab on, and have them not pull away in disgust. Will we follow this call, will we follow Jesus, out into the world, stepping close enough to those deemed “unclean” that they could reach out and touch us? Will we pull away? Or will we look into their eyes and see God’s eyes staring back at us, reminding us that those we push away bear God’s image, too? This, after all, is where Christ is leading us.
In 1986, the Right Reverend John T. Walker, then Episcopal Bishop of the diocese of Washington, wrote a pastoral letter to the diocese urging parishes not to be afraid to minister to those in their communities who were HIV positive. He reminded them that there was no reason, either from a faith perspective or a scientific one, to shy away from casual contact with HIV positive individuals. He even explicitly urged his parishes not to bar anyone who was HIV positive from sharing in the common cup, the practice of everyone sipping the communion wine from the same cup. His urging was for the church to reject the label of “unclean” for those whom they had been told to fear, and to instead minister to them with extra care and attention, as Christ would have—affirming their faith and affirming their personhood as those whom God had created. The National Cathedral leadership responded to this letter by requiring HIV-positive members to identify themselves to church leaders, and encouraged those who continued to fear to dip, rather than sip. In the midst of a society that was othering HIV-positive persons, the church chose to continue that othering, rather than follow the example of the Christ who crossed boundaries of cleanliness and uncleanliness and tore down the walls we put up between us and those who don’t conform.
How will we, as Christ’s body the church, break these patterns? How will we choose courage and discomfort over fear and insulation? How will we rebuild the trust that was broken and lost over generations of othering and betrayal? These are big questions, and ones that we don’t have time to unpack right now. But we can begin by reaching out, and by listening. Not with an agenda, not because we’re waiting for an inroad we can take to bring those outside into the fold. Simply to listen, and to build and rebuild the relationships that are nowhere to be found. Perhaps there are those here who are already doing this work, and that’s great. It takes courage, and it takes humility. And it is the work to which each of us is called—the work of healing the world. As we remember this pride month that we are a reconciling church, may we reaffirm our commitment to restore relationships that have been broken by the church, to see God in those whom we have been taught to see as “sinners” and “unrighteous.” May we be bold in our humility, and daring in our willingness to build bridges and leave doors open—not only so that all know that they are welcome here, but so that we might remember that Christ calls us out into the world. So go, and listen, and be not afraid, and find God in the places where God is waiting. May it be so. Amen.
God in Community
I spent these last few days doing one of my favorite things in the world: attending Annual Conference. For those of you who are newer to the United Methodist Church, or who have been around your entire lives and haven’t heard, we United Methodists are divided up into geographic conferences for the purpose of mission and administration. The primary geographic divisions that we are split into are called Annual Conferences. Each year, the Annual Conference gets together to worship, conduct business, and discuss issues that are important to the church and the world—including the need to reclaim our Methodist heritage through music, the need for greater access to healthcare in New York State, the rights of immigrants, the importance of equipping local church trustees with the knowledge and resources to make facilities carbon neutral, and the role of generative AI in the Church. Looking at all the pieces of legislation that we passed as a body, I think it might be interesting to turn them into a sermon series. I’m almost sure that I’m not the only one who would find that interesting.
One of the other things that happens at Annual Conference is the Clergy Session, when all the clergy from the Annual Conference gather behind closed doors to talk about clergy stuff. At the Clergy Session, I was officially accepted as a Provisional Member of the Order of Elders in the Upper New York Annual Conference of the United Methodist Church, along with two other candidates. On Friday night, I was then commissioned for this work at a two hour-long service, surrounded by clergy and laity from all over the Upper New York Annual Conference, two United Methodist bishops, and even the Episcopal bishop of Central New York. It was a truly powerful experience, and one that I was glad to be able to share with those of you who came in person, those who watched the livestream, and those with whom I have been walking alongside throughout this process. It was a deeply affirming and uplifting experience for me, and I’m sure for many, especially since the Annual Conference has always been my real “home church.”
An integral part of my call to the ministry of an elder in the United Methodist Church is my call to be a part of this Connection. We often hear the word “denomination” used to refer to the different flavors of the church universal, but we Methodists prefer to refer to ourselves, broadly, as a Connection. The Annual Conference, ideally, is an expression of this connection. It is described in our Book of Discipline as the basic unit of church organization and ministry, which distinguishes us from other types of churches that organize primarily on the local level. We United Methodists are called to this theology of Connectionalism that sees everything we do as part of a global web of mission and ministry, of worship and learning, that is done in community. Even as we do ministry that is contextual to this particular time and place, it is necessary that we never think of ourselves simply as an independent church, just doing our own thing. The Connection, this theology of interdependence, is much of what makes us Methodist. It’s what insists that we are not alone in this world. It’s what reminds us of our obligation to one another, not simply in this particular community but around the world. It’s what, ideally, enables us to do ministry in a way that embodies solidarity and is more effective than if we were to try and do ministry by ourselves.
The theology of connectionalism is meant to live out the spirit of the quote from John Wesley that says that “the gospel of Christ knows no religion but social; no holiness but social holiness.” If we are living out our gospel faith, then we are living it out together. Not just with the people we see each Sunday or whichever day of the week your small group meets here at the Fairport United Methodist Church. But also with the people of Penfield United Methodist Church, East Rochester United Methodist Church, Macedon Center and South Perinton United Methodist Churches, Asbury First United Methodist Church. From Moheto United Methodist Church in Kenya to Corozal United Methodist Church in Belize. We can and do live out so much ministry in each of these churches. What kind of ministry could we live out together? Think of how many Methodists there are in the Rochester area. Think of how much good we could do by embracing the connection and seeing those who share this call as co-laborers in this gospel work or social holiness. To reject these relationships is to fail in our call to live out our ministry in the strength and accountability of the Connection.
Today is Trinity Sunday, the day in the life of the Church when we give special attention to the idea that our one God exists in three distinct and equal persons. Many pastors I know don’t bother with Trinity Sunday, since it’s easy to slip into heretical territory when talking about it. One United Methodist deacon from Tennessee posted this week in a clergy group, “so, what’s everyone’s plan to teach and preach the Trinity without dabbling in heresy this go around?” Others don’t see it as part of the lived-out theology that is central to Methodism. Some lean into the mystery of the Trinity, fixating on John Wesley’s word about its complexity or on the story of Saint Augustine telling the child not to even try understanding the Trinity. I used to be satisfied with using the words of German Theologian Karl Rahner as a cop out. He talked about God as a vast sea and our knowledge as a small island, and posited that, should we learn everything there is to know about God, the beauty of the sea would cease to be, and all that would be left is the desert of our certainty.
But, with regards to the Trinity, Rahner also believed that it was a mistake to hide behind mystery and ignore the beauty of the idea. The Trinity, after all, is the assertion that God’s very essence is not individual, but communal. God, who is our very being, and whose image we bear, is connection. If we were to try and live out our faith purely as individuals, ignoring the struggles of the world or the beauty of those around us, we would not be embracing the fullness of who God is. If we were to think that we could find all the answers on our own, or that we could solve all the pain and brokenness of the world on our own, or that we could survive on our own, or that the consequences of our actions only impacted us—we would not be affirming and embracing all that God is. God is community. God is social. God is relationship. God is Connection. Which isn’t to say that the United Methodist Church is right about everything and that our church institution is the embodiment of the Divine—we get a lot wrong, as these are flawed, human systems. But the ethic of connection, the idea that everything we do has a global impact, is, I believe, a step closer to living as God would have us live.
And what’s more, this divine connection is not limited to us as humans. It stretches out to everything that God has touched and exists within God. In the trees and grass, the water and the mountains. In all things living and unliving, there is God—and there are we. Our salvation, then, and our ministry, are bound up in our recognition of our interdependence—not our independence. We are part of a luminous web, as a part of creation and as a part of a mission and ministry that extends beyond the limits that we impose on ourselves and on God. As we go forth into our mission, as United Methodists and as a part of Creation, may we embrace this connection. May it free us from the bonds of isolation. May it be our impulse, our way of living and loving. This is who we are. This is who God is. This is who God is calling us to be. May we love in connection. May we embrace this mission that goes beyond what we can see. May we love the God who is many, and who is love and connection themselves. May this be our call. Amen.
The Spirit Falls Equally
Last Sunday, it was reported that thousands gathered on the National Mall in Washington, DC, for a day-long prayer rally. The purpose of this event was to “rededicate” the United States to God—as a Christian Nation, as “one nation, under God.” It was a gathering organized by right-wing political figures and leaders in evangelical Christianity in the United States as a means of galvanizing support for an ideology that unites American identity, and American supremacy, with white, Christian identities, and white, Christian supremacy. It was not a one-off event, nor was it a manifestation of a new ideology in this country. It was simply another event held by a growing movement of those who see any American who does not confess the Christian faith as not truly being American, and anyone who is not American as somehow less human. The gathering last Sunday proclaimed a gospel that sees humanity as conditional, God’s grace as limited, and the Holy Spirit as being bound to a particular nation and identity. It proclaimed God’s preference for those in power, those who wage wars, and those who make public statements of faith with their mouths, while allowing the poor to starve day after day. If only the prophets had something to say about that.
Perhaps instead of lifting up lamentations concerning the supposed lack of faith in this country, the leaders of this movement should have considered the words of Micah. What offerings should we bring to God? How should we worship the Lord and show our faith? By doing justice, loving mercy, and walking humbly. Or the words of Isaiah, who insists that the offering that is acceptable to God, the act of piety that God would have us perform, the fast that God chooses for us, is to seek justice for our neighbors. And if that isn’t clear enough, maybe the words of Amos, who declares that God despises our festivals and our pageantry, our rallies and our public insisting that our faith is right, that we love God the most and everyone else is wrong. Amos, who tells us to quiet our performative worship, and let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like a flowing stream. But I digress.
This morning, our confirmands will be (have been) asked the following question: “Do you confess Jesus Christ as your saviour, put your whole trust in his grace, and promise to serve him as your Lord in union with the Church, which Christ has opened to people of all ages, nations, and races?” This is a line from our United Methodist baptismal vows. For those who were baptized as infants in the United Methodist Church, this statement was affirmed on your behalf. For those who have been confirmed in the United Methodist Church, this is one of the statements that we affirmed for ourselves. It packs a lot into a single question that we expect parents, sponsors, and later those pursuing confirmation to agree to. In the midst of all the unpacking that we can do, there is a vitally important claim that we make regarding the nature of the Church—that it is opened, by Christ, to people of all ages, nations, and races. In joining the Church, both the Church universal and the United Methodist Church, we affirm the claim that the body of Christ does not belong to any one people. It isn’t America’s. It isn’t the property or the birthright of any one group or tribe. The Church that was birthed at Pentecost is one in which the Spirit transcends the human borders that we put in place.
The Church birthed at Pentecost is one in which the Spirit transcends the human borders that we put in place. Not one that erases our identities, just the hierarchies we create—those that place male above female, white above Black, straight above queer, American above everyone else. The Church birthed at Pentecost unites those of different cultures, different languages, different genders, and different class status, allowing each person present to hear what was being said in their own language. Not one language to rule them all, not one language privileged over all others, but each language honored and uplifted and engaged—not erased. This is the creation of the Church, not as a new nation or an identity that replaces who we are and where we come from, but as a community called by the Spirit to become disciples—to pray and eat and learn and grow and trust one another. This is the Church, born at Pentecost, which witnesses the Spirit falling equally. Why, then, do we insist that the Spirit falls unequally? Why do we insist that the Spirit would fall on America more than Brazil, Belize, Haiti, Columbia, Zimbabwe, Congo, Russia, China, or any other place?
Why would we believe that the Spirit would fall any less on women, on those in the LGBTQ+ community, on immigrants and refugees? What makes us the Church, what unites us with the disorganized band of pilgrims gathered and confused on Pentecost, is not an ethnicity. It’s not a language. It’s not anything that we have created. What makes us the Church is the Spirit, calling us together, making us a people united in love. A people from many nations, from many backgrounds, of many different beliefs. A people of difference, who see God in one another. So, as we remember this day our baptismal vows, as we welcome these new members into the United Methodist Church and the Church universal, may we remember what it means to be the Church. May we learn from our newest members and our oldest. May we embrace one another as having been touched by the Spirit, as having been called by the same grace, and as sharing in the same divine image. May this called and gathered community not be distracted by threats of war and ideologies of supremacy. Instead, may we be the Church—bound in the love that transcends and embraces all difference. May this be the Church we build together. Amen.
Left Behind
Today is Ascension Sunday, the day in the liturgical year when we remember when Christ left his disciples for the second time. The past couple of weeks, we have been hearing passages from the gospel of John that have all been part of what’s known as the farewell discourse. This is the section of John’s gospel that contains all the things that Jesus wanted to make sure to say to his disciples before his death. This week, we have the opportunity to take a break from this long, drawn-out goodbye and look, instead, at what Luke’s gospel has to say about Jesus leaving the disciples after his resurrection. By this point in the story, Jesus has appeared post-resurrection. First, to Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary, mother of James. Then, to the disciples on the road to Emmaus. Now, he shows up for the rest of the disciples, making sure that everyone who needs to know about the resurrection knows before he leaves.
Each interaction is pretty brief, and none of them leaves much time for asking questions or a big emotional reunion or any sort of processing of the grief and trauma that Jesus and his friends had shared. Jesus was gone. He had been killed. He had assured his friends that his death would mean something, that some change would come about as a result. And here he was, appearing to them as a group, resurrected, just as he had promised them he would be. “This is it,” they thought. “Jesus is back, and he’s going to set us free. He’s going to put up and show us that he was serious about all that Kingdom of God shtuff. Then they’ll all see that we were right this whole time.” Then, Jesus starts talking like he’s going to be heading out, so the disciples seize their chance and ask “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom of Israel?” But they don’t get the answer they’re hoping for, though it might have been the answer they expected. “Wait,” Jesus says. “And do the things I’m telling you to do.”
The Ascension story can seem like one big anti-climactic disappointment. Jesus gets the disciples most of the way there, even comes back from the dead. It seems like the perfect time to get the upper hand on Rome—ghost Jesus leading an army of fishermen who have had their land and resources stolen to feed an imperial war machine. And then he just leaves…again. Perhaps we feel that sting still, in a world that refuses to change, that seems stuck in patterns of violence and bigotry. It can be easy to feel abandoned, let down, as if God has decided to leave us to figure things out on our own but we weren’t ready for such a responsibility. We can look around and wonder “where has our hope gotten us? What has our faith led us to? When can we expect the payout for our dedication, our commitment, our following?” The Ascension is hard, because it seems like a let-down. What happened to the Jesus who blessed the poor, who talked about the baptism by fire, who said he came not to bring peace, but a sword? Is this simply a story to explain why nothing had happened yet, to pacify us with the “everything happens in God’s time” platitude? Or does being left behind mean something?
Luke’s gospel isn’t the only one of the four that includes a story about Jesus ascending, though it is the only gospel that has always included this story. Mark’s gospel originally ended with the women finding the empty tomb and not telling anyone about it because they were terrified. Later on, there was a verse added about Jesus being taken up to Heaven to sit at God’s right hand. But that wasn’t always there. John’s gospel ends with a conversation between Peter and Jesus, with Jesus granting some sort of special status to the beloved disciple, who the writers of John’s gospel would probably say is John Matthew’s version of the story ends with the Great Commission, to go and make disciples of all the nations. While that might sound similar to what we hear from Luke, that’s where Matthew ends—with Jesus sending the disciples out. So, Luke’s gospel is set apart in this sense. No one else has Jesus ascending. Matthew and John specifically end with Jesus interacting with the disciples, still very much present among them.
So why would Luke do that? Why would Luke send Jesus away, take him out of the story? To get the full picture, it’s important to know that the author of Luke didn’t stop with the ascension. Rather, the book of Acts is a continuation of the gospel of Luke—not its own story. The very beginning of Acts, which is the first scripture we heard this morning, picks up right where Luke leaves off, and even gives us a recap of the closing scene of Luke’s gospel. And it’s the perfect way to open the second part of the story, because it shifts the focus from Jesus—the teacher and messiah who taught and led and raised up leaders—to the disciples, those whom Jesus entrusted to carry on what he began. This shift makes it clear, perhaps clearer than any of the other gospels, that the movement of the spirit and the revolutionary change that Jesus preached did not end with the death of Jesus or with the resurrection. The resurrection was only the beginning. The story continues with those who follow Jesus, who continue to preach and do the good works that he practiced in his ministry.
The ascension, then, isn’t the end of the story. It’s not the anti-climax. We’re just reading it wrong, because someone decided to put John in the middle of Luke’s really long gospel. And so the ascension, whether you believe it happened just like that or not, shouldn’t be a stumbling block. Rather, it ought to remind us that our call as the church is to continue the revolutionary, counter-cultural, life-altering work that Jesus began. It ought to remind us that Jesus' ministry did not end when he was murdered by the state, nor did it end when he was no longer physically present among the disciples. It ought to remind us that we are called to continue this ministry, and it ought to be a challenge to us not to get caught up in the disappointment that God hasn’t fixed everything, not to get caught up in the idea that God will do it for us, not to get caught up in the idea that we are somehow less responsible for living out this call to ministry than we would have been had Jesus hung around.
May we be called, this Ascension Sunday, to continue the story. May we be called not to complacency, but to share the Good News in word and deed with all people and in all places and with all of Creation. God still has work for us to do. The resurrection is only the beginning. May we live into this call, and do the work which Christ began to make this world whole. Amen.
We, The Athenians
This morning, I want to focus on the passage we heard earlier from the book of Acts. I’m going to read it again, though, to make sure that it’s fresh in our ears before I start talking about it. Hear these words from the Book of Acts:
Then Paul stood in front of the Areopagus and said, "Athenians, I see how extremely spiritual you are in every way. For as I went through the city and looked carefully at the objects of your worship, I found among them an altar with the inscription, 'To an unknown god.' What therefore you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you. The God who made the world and everything in it, he who is Lord of heaven and earth, does not live in shrines made by human hands, nor is he served by human hands, as though he needed anything, since he himself gives to all mortals life and breath and all things. From one ancestor he made all people to inhabit the whole earth, and he allotted the times of their existence and the boundaries of the places where they would live, so that they would search for God and perhaps fumble about for him and find him--though indeed he is not far from each one of us. For 'In him we live and move and have our being'; as even some of your own poets have said, 'For we, too, are his offspring.' "Since we are God's offspring, we ought not to think that the deity is like gold or silver or stone, an image formed by the art and imagination of mortals. While God has overlooked the times of human ignorance, now he commands all people everywhere to repent, because he has fixed a day on which he will have the world judged in righteousness by a man whom he has appointed, and of this he has given assurance to all by raising him from the dead."
This passage drops us pretty abruptly in the middle of the story of Paul in Greece, and more specifically in the city of Athens. It’s a passage about a travelling apostle, in a land that is not his own, trying to win converts to “the Way,” the new Jesus movement to which Paul had recently converted. He had been making his way around the Mediterranean, stopping at synagogues to argue the scriptures and try to convince his fellow Jews that Jesus was the messiah. He has some success in Thessalonica, and a little more in Beroea, before arriving in Athens. While in Athens, he witnesses what are described as idols, the multiple gods and spirits who had devotees in Athens, and by which he is horrified. He also finds a large community of philosophers, the intellectual elites who had the ability to spend their time thinking and debating and, as the author of Acts claims, spending their time “in nothing but hearing and telling something new.” And so, when this travelling preacher arrives in the Athenian marketplace bringing a new way of thinking, allegedly described by those who heard it as “pretentious babblings,” the elites politely kidnap Paul and take him in for questioning. And that’s where our reading for today begins, with Paul having been brought before this group of thinkers, who love hearing new ideas and discussing them. And, of course, we get to witness the hero of the New Testament explain to the pagan philosophers why they’re all wrong and he is right.
There is a traditional reading of this text that uses Paul as a stand in for the Church. This reading would have us project ourselves onto Paul, as those called to take the light of Christ out into the world—even going to places and residing among people who take on entirely different faiths and worldviews from us. It is this reading that brought encouragement to Christian missionaries, who travelled the world in order to convert those who worshipped many deities. Paul went to enlighten the spiritually lost and confused, those who did not know his God or who were already worshipping his God without knowing it. It’s this reading, this interpretation, that allowed and allows the Church as an institution to begin with the gentle, passionate, and pastoral explanation of who this God is and who we believe God to be, and end by insisting that those who hear these words repent and accept what is being taught to them. It’s a colonial mindset, one that sees those who follow Christ as rightfully civilising and converting those who worship too many gods, or who worship the wrong god. This reading remains present today, even in otherwise progressive Bible commentaries that see those in the organized Church as Paul, stepping out into a world that needs to know God, that needs us to reveal, to teach, to know better than. That sees us as stepping out into a world of religious pluralism, of non-religion, of atheism, and of those who identify as SBNR—Spiritual But Not Religious—and needing to set them straight.
But what if we flip the script. What if we see ourselves not as Paul, not as the one who makes God known to the pagan masses, but as the Athenians. The Athenians, after all, are the organized, the privileged, the educated, and the scholars. The Athenians are the institution, those with some degree of authority. They gather, intentionally, to seek greater understanding. They gather seeking to more fully know what the nature of the divine is, to know what and how to worship. They are a community that knows that they don’t know it all, and that’s a good thing. But they are also a community pulled in many different directions. This searching doesn’t seem to be driven by a desire or a need to build the kind of countercultural community we see the followers of Jesus constructing. It doesn’t seem to be a journey of trusting one another and whatever divine presence they choose to align themselves with. It doesn’t seem to be transformative. Rather, it seems to fall into the category of a leisure activity, something done to fill the time that needs to be scheduled alongside other activities. Other than prompting the construction of new shrines to even more gods, it doesn’t seem like this seeking leads the Athenians to live differently.
I’m not saying that these are bad characteristics or that we should be less curious, do less study, or ask fewer questions. I’m certainly not saying that we should have less diversity of thought and belief. But if we are the Athenians, the insiders, then we need to remember to listen to Paul. Not necessarily everything he writes in the epistles, and especially not everything that is attributed to him but written by other people. But Paul the traveller, Paul the outsider, Paul the incarcerated. We need to see Paul less as the Church, less as the institutional savior of humanity who convinces the world to come to Christ, less as us or the missionaries sent to aid in the domination of colonized bodies. We need to see Paul, in this particular instance, in those colonized bodies. We need to hear this outside voice, calling to us from outside our high places, telling us that the divine does not stay up on top of the hill, theologizing theoretically and philosophizing in absentia. Telling us that the divine does not remain in the shrines we build—in the cross, the altar, the churches, the stadiums, the markets, or the walls. But that the divine image flows through Creation, and is revealed to us in the voices that call to us from outside. The voices of the migrants, the indigenous, the women, and the bodies that have been colonized. The voices of the young adults who are talked over in Bible studies. The voices of children, who often know God better than we do ourselves. The voices of Creation, that cry out with all those we push to the outside of our search for God.
John’s gospel today reminds us that just because Christ had to leave the disciples, that doesn’t mean that the disciples were left alone. Christ sent the Spirit, to ensure that the work was still being done. To remind the followers of the Way that God is never far away, but that God is here with us. To remind them, and us, that God is not absent, but still at work in the world— moving and speaking to us. In our search for God, may we not overlook the voices of those who come from beyond our mountain top. May we cast aside any notion that we have all the answers and that it’s up to us to force those answers on the world. May we listen for what the Spirit is saying to us, and how we are being called to act. Because to know God is to love, fully and sacrificially and in the company of those we journey alongside. May we have the courage to listen, and to trust that God is present in the sharing and the receiving, than in receiving and responding others might come to see God at work in us—and trust that we can journey together in peace and in solidarity. Amen.