John 1: 6-8, 19-28

December 11, 2011

This season of advent, our theme is “holy interruptions”.  We’re paying attention to the ways that God has been breaking into our lives.  We’re adjusting the receiver on our God antennas a little bit, doing some fine tuning.  We’re waiting,  listening, and anticipating. 

          There’s something funny about Advent.  It seems like a bit of a trick for us to live in a culture that speeds up for Christmas, while here at church we are slowing down for advent.  It seems like an impossible task, to manage both worlds.  There are some Advent seasons where I feel like I’m stretched beyond what my intellect and spirit can handle.  Get all those things you need for the holiday, but slow down.  Finish that “to do” list, but don’t worry about it. Get it done, but let it all go. 

         Sometimes it is the tension of living in both worlds—the world of advent waiting, and the world of holiday bustle—that is our December challenge.  So, I’m not going there this morning.   I’m not going to tell you to breathe deeply, to be reflective, to listen for God.  I’m not going to tell you any stories about the power of yoga help you.  That was the sermon from two weeks ago.

          I’m going to ask you to think about Advent completely differently this week.  I want you to think about advent today as a time of action.  A time to get to work, to task ourselves with the holy role of interruption.

         

          But, first I have a confession to make.  I don’t like to preach from the gospel of John.  Some of us have favorite gospels.  I personally like Matthew, Mark and Luke for their own reasons.  Mark—the gospel we’ll be focusing on for much of 2012—is a no-frills, factual reporting of what happened.  Matthew involves angels, and relies on the Jewish geneology to connect Jesus to his messianic role.  Luke is written to speak more to a greek audience, and focuses on social justice and reciprocity. 

          Because I love the transformative power of stories, I love the first three gospels.  But, John is not so much of a storyteller—at least not in the traditional biblical storytelling kind of way.  He frames the world as being engaged in a cosmic struggle between a heavenly world and a world of flesh, not unlike the advent world vs. the holiday bustle.  Very dichotomistic, either/or language, which I also tend to find difficult.  So, when John came around in this week of advent, I was a little worried.  What is there to say about John’s writing? 

          But, the gospel of John does engage us with a crucial—though awkwardly placed—story in the first chapter.  After the beautiful poetry of John 1—“In the beginning was the word and the word was with God, and the word was God”, and “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkenss did not overcome it.”—after the most poetic introduction to any book of the Bible ever, the gospel writer does not go to talk about Jesus.  The first person the gospel writer talks about is John—here called not “John the baptist”, but “John the witness.” 

          And what do we hear about John here?  He was sent by God to testify to the light.  But he was not the light.  John came into the world to point to the light. 

          Those around John the witness couldn’t help but look at him—the man looked edgy, and subversive, and he was eating bugs and honey.  The transition in the story of John is kindof jarring too.  We go from thinking about the word being God, to the light shining in the darkness, and then John the witness gets plopped down in the middle of this conversation.  It reminds me of the children’s book, Harold and the Purple Crayon.  There’s a blank page, and then, there’s Harold on a blank page.  John is plopped down in the middle of the darkness, not as a light, not as an antidote to the darkness, but as a pointer towards the light. 

And then John the witness gives his testimony when asked by the priests and Levites, “who are you?”  And the answer is directly from the prophet Isaiah.  “I am the voice crying out in the desert—in the dark, wilderness—make straight the way of the Lord.”  John the witness didn’t say anything new.  He said what the prophets had been saying for hundreds of years. 

Here in the season of Advent, John the witness gives us a clarifying message.  Yes, we are to watch, of course we are to wait.  But, we are also called to prepare the way.  Make the paths straight.  Point to the light.

That is a call to action.  In advent.  But it is also a word of comfort.  We are not the light.  We are not God.  We just point in God’s direction.  But there is a kind of action and activity happening there.  While we wait for God to be fully present, while we look for God among us, we make straight.  We prepare. 

Perhaps this gives permission for those worker bees among us to keep at it.  And, it’s a reminder for those of us who are more comfortable in the waiting and watching, that our waiting and watching are active things.  It is a reminder that we need to flex both of these muscles at the same time. 

The day after Thanksgiving, the city of Philadelphia handed out eviction notices to Occupy Philadelphia, notifying the residents that they had to leave their encampment at city hall by 5 pm that Sunday, or they would be removed.

The Interfaith Clergy group called on Philadelphia pastors to go to City Hall on Sunday evening, to stand as a witness and reminder that we are called to the way of peace. So, my pastor friend, Steve, and I headed downtown, each of us wearing symbols of our call and our role. 

When we got there, we were relegated to the edges of the event, and that was OK. We were observers, not participants.

It so happened that the Eagles played (and lost) that night, and when the Eagles football game let out in South Philadelphia, we saw more movement around the Occupy Philadelphia encampment. Disappointed sports fans were coming up from the subway and were streaming into the square. Many were intoxicated. A few were very angry with the Occupiers.

One group of young men concerned me right away. I heard them making plans to pick a fight with the protestors, to get themselves on the news. They were convinced that by doing this, they would be hometown heroes.

I watched them scheme, and as I did, I stood up and looked directly at them. And as they moved toward the Occupiers, I continued to try to catch their eyes.  And then, distracted by police activity at the other side of the square, I lost track of them.

I found the young men again, because they approached me. They were large, muscular, intoxicated guys, and I’ll be honest, I was scared of them. I forgot my own role until one of the men extended his hand to me and said,

“Sister, I don’t need forgiveness or absolution. I just need you to know that I’m about to do something you aren’t going to like. You can’t change my mind. But I’m probably going to say and do some things you don’t want me to do.”

I stuttered and stumbled over my words. “Uh. OK. Please be safe. Please be safe.”

And then, they disappeared into the crowd again.

Several minutes later, the young men returned. “We blame you for this, Sister. We couldn’t go through with it, because you were standing there … watching…waiting.”

These men weren’t much different than the protesters. These men had all been unemployed at some point during the recession. Dave, an experienced electrician, said that if the Occupy movement started last year when he was out of work, he may have been out there with them.

Steve and I listened, laughed and shared stories with these new friends.  We stood on the steps of city hall with these men, between the Occupy Philadelphia protestors and the police on the street. And by our very presence, we discovered that we were pointing the way toward God. 

We certainly didn’t intend to go to the protest, clothed in perverbial camel hair.  We didn’t intend to be anything more than watchers.  We were feeling very human that night—as waves of emotion rolled over us, emotions ranging from fear to anger to joy and laughter.   Steve and I had no idea at the time, but in our standing and waiting for something to happen, we were pointing the way. 

I share this story with some hesitancy, recognizing that anyone who preaches can’t make themselves the hero of their own story.  So, please know that I didn’t feel like a hero that night.  In fact, for much of the night, I felt pretty silly standing there.  I didn’t feel godly, and I didn’t feel like I was pointing towards the light. 

What I discovered standing unwittingly between the protesters and police, and what I hope you are able to hear today, is that even in our Advent watching and waiting, we have opportunities to act, to point the way to the one who does the real work of change—our God. 

The more I reflect on these strange verses from the strange and incomprehensible gospel of John, the more I begin to see the importance of the presence of John the witness in the middle of the poetry of the first chapter of John.  The jarring presence of John the witness reminds us that we are the created, not the creator, but that we have a role.  As we wait, while we listen, we also point, we also prepare, we also make straight. 

This advent season, as we practice the waiting, watching, preparing and making straight, we point to God.  As we re-assess how we spend money during the holidays, as we re-evaluate the place of God in this season—this very radical, counter-cultural act of preparing for advent is an act of preparing and making straight.  It is pointing to God.  We aren’t saying or doing anything the prophets haven’t already said throughout time.  Our very presence in our world is a holy interruption, when in our deliberate work and action, we point to God, the one who intervenes in history, breaks into our lives, and illuminates all darkness. 

Thanks be to God, our Great Light.  AMEN.

Published 11 December 2011 - 0 comments (View/Post Comments)   

Mark 13:24-37; Isaiah 64:1-9

A few weeks ago, I was driving Willem to school early in the morning, and he asked me an impossible theological question.  This is the usual time when I get the “Stump Pastor Mom” questions—in the car, where we don’t have to look at each other, kids feel this sense of safety to ask the hard questions. 

On this particular morning, when I was not yet at proper levels of caffination, Willem asked me this question:  “Mom, why did God create free will? 

Free will?  Really?  At 7:30 in the morning?

The question was intriguing to me, but the “why” of the question was of more interest.  “Why do you ask such a thing (so early in the morning)?”

Turns out that what Willem really wanted to know was not why God created it, but why God allows us to do stupid things, to our own detriment?  “Isn’t there a place we get to where God just reaches down and fixes it, so we don’t make such a mess out of things down here?”

Oh that you would rend the heavens and come down,

That the mountains would shake before you!

As fire kindles the brushwood and makes water boil,

Make your Name known to your adversaries,

And let the nations tremble before you!

When you did awesome things that we could not have expected,

You came down, and the mountains quaked in your presence!

From ages past no ear has ever heard,

No eye has ever seen any God but you intervening for those that wait for you!

Oh, that you would find us doing right,

That we would be mindful of you in our ways!

          The question of a curious 5^th grader is the same question of the Israelites.  “God, when will you open up the heavens, come down, and fix this mess?  We know you can and will intervene—we are waiting for you to do it—now!”

         

This text from Isaiah finds the Israelites in post-exile.  They had been in exile in Babylon (as Ezekial was in last week’s text), but when King Cyrus defeated the Babylonians, he decreed that the Israelites could return to their home—to Jerusalem.

          It sounded like a dream come true—after years of slavery, heading back home is what the people had longed for all these years!  But, that great feeling quickly left when it came time to get to work on rebuilding the city, and restoring the temple, the house of God.  The city was not coming together as some had hoped.  And, the people of God were calling out to God, saying, “Fix this!  Rend the heavens, come down, and make this right!”

          This demand of the Prophet Isaiah also implied something difficult to hear:  That the people of God—the chosen ones—were not feeling the presence of God among them.  They lament that God was not there and begged God to show up, to be present to them again. 

         

          If the Isaiah passage are the questions—Where are you God?  When are you going to intervene?—the Gospel of Mark could be the answer.  The prophet Isaiah called on God to open the heavens, and Mark showed in vivid images what happens when the heavens open up. 

But in those days, after that time of distress, the sun will be darkened, the moon will lose its brightness, the stars will fall from the sky and the powers in the heavens will be shaken.  Then they will see the Promised one coming in the clouds with great power and glory; then the angels will be sent to gather the chosen from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven.

            The people of Israel want God to show up in grand fashion, showing God’s power.  But, I wonder if they actually considered what that experience might be like.  A dark sun, pale moon, stars falling from the sky, and the heavens being shaken up, God coming down in the clouds—none of that sounds like the welcome event the prophet Isaiah was hoping for.  It sounds downright terrifying.  It sounds more like God leaving that God arriving.

          No, the apocalyptic God is not what Isaiah is hoping for.  In fact, I think that Isaiah was hoping for quite the opposite.  Isaiah was hoping for a God of order, a God that would straighten up the chaos of post-exilic life, that would solve the problems created by slavery.  Isaiah was thinking pragmatically—come down and solve these problems God! 

          But, take another look at Mark.  The author gives us some more ideas of what it might look like for God to show up:

Stay alert!  You do not know when the owner of the house is coming, whether at dusk, at midnight, when the cock crows, or at early dawn.  Do not let the owner come suddenly and catch you asleep.  What I say to you, I say to all:  Stay Alert!

          Do you catch anything interesting here in this verse? 

The time when God might show up is at dusk (when Jesus and the disciples gathered together to share a meal), at midnight (when Jesus prayed with the disciples and was arrested), when the cock crowed (when Jesus was put on trial and Peter denied him), and at early dawn (when Jesus arose from the grave). 

God showed up in the very middle of the most terrible, awful, sinful moments of life.  In the betrayal and denial, God was there.  In the death, God was there.  And in the resurrection, God was most certainly present. 

It seems that Mark may be giving us a few ideas of how God might show up—in terror and glory, in sin and doubt, right on our doorstep.  And it seems that the coming again doesn’t have to happen once.  It can happen again and again. 

For some—like me—this is a welcome relief.  Because I can be a little dense.  Sometimes it takes me a little while to catch on to the fact that God is here—again—in all of God’s glory and big energy, or in the smallest whisper of a moment. 

This week—of all weeks—I resumed my yoga practice.  Now, it’s probably been a good year that I’ve taken a little break from it.  I had another plan, another way that I was going to engage my body in fitness.  And it totally didn’t work.

So, a few months ago, I realized that I needed to get back to yoga.  I began researching places to go, looking at the times of the classes, and getting up the courage to get back to it.  And just when I was ready to go back, I couldn’t find my yoga mat, so I took a few more weeks to purchase  a mat that I liked (ok, the only spec was that it had to be purple), and THEN I was ready. 

So, I went back on Wednesday.  And it started out just awful.  I huffed and puffed through it.  The things I could do a year ago, I just couldn’t do any more.  I kept forgetting to breathe.  I began cursing certain positions that I was being made to hold for endless minutes. 

I was not in a yoga state of mind.  At all.  My mind was fighting with my body.  And losing.

Now, if you have ever attended a yoga class, the instructors are known to throw out nuggets of wisdom in the middle of the class—something about being kind to your body, or gratefulness or something positive.  Sometimes the wisdom feels corny.  Sometimes it’s nice but not necessarily applicable to where you are in that moment.  And sometimes it just smacks you right in the face. 

So, on Wednesday, as I was struggling along and feeling pretty mad at myself and my body for not doing what I wanted it to do, my instructor said this:  Be thankful for where you are right now; don't think about where you'd rather be.  I had to look around to see if she was talking to me directly.  It was exactly what I needed to hear at that moment.  It brought me to focus and clarity.  And that simple, yoga-style nugget of wisdom got me through the rest of the class.  It was my holy interruption, in the middle of my internal structure. 

This holy interruption did not come in a cloud from the heavens.  There was no atmospheric disturbance.  There was no major life event (besides coming to terms with my physical reality), but it was the interruption that aligned my mental and physical state. 

There are plenty of other holy interruptions that I miss though.  There are many times that my mind and body argue in yoga, and I forget to breathe, and no words of wisdom break through.  There a plenty of times that I’m looking for a detail, while God’s doing a heavenly jig in front of me.  There are plenty of times that I’m looking for the sky to open, and I miss the still small voice. 

This season in advent, we have so many distractions.  Black Friday sales that begin at midnight the day after Thanksgiving, holiday concerts, trees to get and decorate, Christmas cookies to make, cards to order and remember to send, suitcases to pack, travel arrangements to make. 

Expectations are high during this season.  We want things to be perfect.  We want things to go well.  We want nothing to interrupt our schedule or our well organized plans. 

But here, in our time together at church, we have an opportunity.  We can—in our worship together, listen for those places, both big and small, where God is interrupting our lives.  Perhaps God is breaking open the heavens in a big way, and wowing you with glory and terror both. 

Notice it.  Pay attention to what God is saying to you.

Perhaps God is revealing herself to you in small, quiet ways. 

Notice it.  Stay awake.  Pay Attention. 

God did not show up to the people of Israel in the way that the prophet Isaiah asked, but God was present—in the suffering, in the slavery, in messy return to Jerusalem.  God was with them in all of it.  God came to them, again and again. 

Mark reminds us of this in his text today.  God comes in big and glorious ways and in small whispered ways too.  God—our holy interrupter—is present to us, and comes to us in the most plain, and the most unusual of ways. 

Stay alert—Stay awake.  You never know how God is intervening in your life—in our lives—in big and small ways.  AMEN. 

Published 29 November 2011 - 0 comments (View/Post Comments)   

Ezekial 47:1-10, Leviticus 25:1-12, Luke 4: 16-22

In the late 90’s U2 front man—and my personal hero—Bono, lent his voice and his passion to the Jubilee project.  This project was an attempt to get first world countries who lend money to third world nations to forgive the debt, to erase the slate, and to allow these poor nations to make a new start without the crippling debt. 

Bono and others met with world leaders, to try to convince them to cancel debt.  There were some successes with this project.  Tony Blair, the British Prime Minister at the time, publicly expressed his personal support for, and dedication to, debt forgiveness. The United States during the G-7 meeting in 1999 to cancel 100% of the debt that qualifying countries owed the U.S.  Jubilee also lobbied the U.S. Congress to make good on this promise. Congress committed $769 million to bilateral and multilateral debt relief.  It wasn’t 100% debt relief, but it was a start.

I love this idea of Jubilee.  Land returned, debts forgiven, slaves freed—it’s beautiful, and means that the gospel, the message of our holy scriptures, are more than just spiritual.  It has an immediate, justice effect on people than need freedom from financial and physical slavery. 

But as much as I love Jubilee, as much as I respect and honor this part of the levitical code—there’s something important you should know about it—in reality it was never fully practiced.  It has never been fully practiced, at least not to the extent that the levitical code required.  There is no record that anyone ever left all  of their land fallow for a year, or freed slaves from servitude, or forgave debt.  Jubilee is talked about in Exodus and Leviticus, and I see no record that anyone ever practiced this part of the law.  If it was ever practiced, it was a token, a shallow version of the Levetical mandate. 

In fact, no one much talked about this decree in the stories of Jesus.  Pharisees and Saducees instead talked about cleanliness—keeping themselves away from the unclean, and striving to be pure, both inside and outside.  The part of the Levitical code that is about personal purity somehow seems more attainable, and more do-able perhaps than the year of jubilee. 

Plus jubilee meant that one had to give up wealth and status for the sake of the oppressed.  Personal purity instead became a form of status in and of itself. 

The only ones that really talked about jubilee in the Hebrew scriptures were the prophets.  And the only one in the gospels that really talked about jubilee  was Jesus—in fact this is how he began his ministry in the gospel of Luke.  Jesus opened up the scroll in the temple, and read the words of the prophet Isaiah, and declared that in his reading it, the scripture was fulfilled. 

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me

Because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor

He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives

And recovery of sight to the blind

To let the oppressed go free

To proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.

Jesus doesn’t say it explicitly, but he is declaring the jubilee.  Releasing the captives, recovering sight to the blind, letting the oppressed go free—this is jubilee.  This is what Jesus came to do. 

Jesus lived a life of Jubilee.  Jesus modeled it.  Jesus showed us how it was to be done, and send us disciples off to make it happen.  But still, Jubilee has not ever been practiced with totality.

Rather depressing to think about.  And this has shattered my view of jubilee.  I always thought the Isrealites accomplished the laws set out by God.  I always thought of the Levitical code as the laws that the Isrealites put into action, rather than ideals that they held up, but never really observed.

So then, why do we talk about jubilee?  Why do we social activist types hold up this jubilee concept, yet never practice it?  Why do the Israelites tout this law, yet never put it fully into practice?

Which brings me to the text from Ezekial. 

If Bono is my rock star hero, Ezekial is my prophet hero. Ezekial, a member of the priestly class, was sent into exile by the Babylonians.  The Babylonians thought that if they got rid of the leadership the people of Israel, then the people would be more easily controlled.  So Ezekial was sent into exile.  He went from being a leader among the Jews to being a common laborer, losing both status and prestige. 

Ezekial tried to understand why this had happened.  Where does the blame lie—what have the Israelites done to deserve this?

It is unclear whether he was a performance artist prophet or skitzaphenic, or smoking something trippy.  Regardless, Ezekial has many visions regarding what is happening to the Isrealites.

Ezekial described God—as a spirit of glory and terror both.  He described this glory and terror—this kavod—as a spirit that has left the temple.  God was so disgusted with the people of Israel that God just left.  God had enough and left. 

Of course God does come back to God’s temple.  The temple is renewed as a place of hope and life.  And it culminated in this glorious vision of what the temple—what the church--can be. 

In his vision, Ezekial was led through the temple, a temple where water flowed from its center.  Outside the temple, the water flowed, first ankle deep, then knee deep, then waist deep.  The water was so deep that it was over Ezekial’s head .

Then Ezekial was led to the bank of the river, where he saw trees that were lush and thriving, and producing fruit.  In this river, people could fish, and eat from what they caught.  This river was full of fresh water and flowed to water that was stagnant, and it gave that stagnant water new life. 

This was a beautiful vision of what the house of God—the place of worship—could be.  And it inspires me.  What if the church was this place—what if Germantown Mennonite was a stream of new life that turned into a deep river of life that ran over our threshold, into the parking lot and down Washington Lane?  What if this water flowed from there down to the wissahickon, and made that dirty undrinkable water clean again?  What if that water that flooded from our doors made it possible for people to eat, not just one meal, but to eat in a sustainable way? 

This vision of the church gets me very excited!  It gets me far more excited than the jubilee texts.  Not that they are any different.  They both are calling for the people of God to be people of liberation.  They both seem rather unattainable.  How can we possibly bring about Jubilee?  How can we possibly create a church that is a source of liberation and life, from which clean waters flow?

What excites me about the Ezekial text is that it is the gospel—in this middle of this prophet’s possibly drug induced vision is a declaration that prisoners are free, that the captives are released.  In the middle of the Hebrew Scriptures is the image of what it looks like if we practice jubilee. 

Ezekial is not telling us—this is the law.  You must give money to make this vision happen.  Ezekial is not saying that God says you’d better tithe, God says you’d better give up all your wealth.  The prophet is showing us what it looks like when we participate in the vision.  He’s showing us in this beautiful, rich, elaborate vision what we can be as the people of God, participating in the vision with all that we have.

I like Jubilee.  But, I have some trouble with the idea that Jubilee is law.  It’s probably because I don’t like being told what to do.  And I know that I’m not the only one here with this stubborn streak.  I don’t want to be told that I must, I need to know the why.  I want to see the reason for following—for following this law, for following Jesus.  Perhaps this line of thinking sounds stupid to you, but I need to know why it’s important.  Why is it important that I follow the law of God, written thousands of years ago?

The prophet shows us this vision in Ezekial—when we all loosen our grip on the material, and share our resources—in this particular image, we are sharing with the church—we begin to see that church can be a place that is more than just paying for a building, or buying Sunday school materials, or paying the pastor’s salary.  Sharing our resources with the church is sharing in a vision that together God’s people will be nourished.  Together the captives will be released.  Together all we come to know the saving grace of God, not just intellectually, but spiritually and physically.  Because we share our resources with this community, this place becomes a place of hope and sustaining grace. 

Ultimately this vision of Ezekial is not different than Jesus declaration of what he was called to do.  And that’s not much different from Jubilee.  All of these things are a call to the people of God to share what we have—I share all three of these texts with you today because for each of us these texts appeal in different ways.  Some of us like the trippy vision of the prophet—we need to see that vision of what will be, when we work together.  Some of us need that Jubilee law—the commandment that is so lofty, but that pushes us.  And for others of us, it is important to hear that Jesus declare this vision to be so—in the reading of the word.  And as his diciples, we share in that vision.

Whatever the reason that we give, we give so that the grace of God is shared—in word and deed.  Let us hold to this vision—as unattainable as it might seem—as we look towards the future of the church. Let us hold on to this vision as we consider carefully how we share our resources with our church.  Let us hold on to this vision, as we—the disciples of Jesus—seek the kingdom of God with all that we have.

AMEN.  

Published 21 November 2011 - 0 comments (View/Post Comments)   

Matthew 23: 1-12

          Today, in the protestant church tradition, is reformation Sunday.  Reformation Sunday is a remembrance of the day that Catholic Priest, Martin Luther, nailed his 95 theses on the door of the Wittenburg Church in 1517.  Luther was concerned about the burdens that the church was putting on its people, for the sake of money and control and order. 

          But today, we are not going to be talking about Martin Luther.  He is a heroic icon in other parts of the Christian tradition.  But, the Anabaptists don’t typically look to Luther as their bold leader.  His protest of the church in the early 16^th century may have been the spark that began the reformation, but Luther turned his back on the radical reformers, our theological ancestors.  In fact, he led the charge against the Anabaptist, advocating for their murder, and sending them into hiding. 

          So, today, unlike much of the church universal, we’re not thinking about Martin Luther so much.  We’re thinking today about our own radical reformers, and about Jesus, the great reformer. 

         

You heard the story shared by Dottie with our children this morning.  This story is how our tradition began.  A few people gathered together to study the texts, and to understand the meaning of Jesus for themselves.  And, inspired by the holy spirit, the members of this group baptized each other and shared communion together. 

          Lest we forget the radical nature of this event, I’ll remind you of a few key things:  First, their gathering together to read and study the text was illegal.  It was against the law of the church and the state for them to do this.  And, second, adult baptism was completely forbidden.  It was beyond the scope of the Church’s imagination, really.  Why would you be baptized again?  Baptism at that time was done for infants to secure their salvation, and was part of the state system of record-keeping.  Refusing to baptize children, and baptizing each other—it was utter destruction of the social, theological and church systems that had been created and upheld for centuries. 

         And yet, in doing these simply radical, or radically simple acts of love for each other—sharing communion and baptism rituals together in a home, while reading the texts together—these first Anabaptist seemed to get closer to those first teachings of Jesus.  They released themselves of the burdens of the church—the burden of hierarchy, of order, and of certainty.  And in sharing secret baptism and communion together, they took their first life changing, life threatening steps of radical discipleship.

         

          In our text from the gospel of Matthew, Jesus said some confusing, contradictory things. After Jesus answered the question of the Sadduceess—what is the greatest law?—Jesus launched into an angry rant against the Pharisees.  Jesus said to the people—your leaders have inherited their authority, so listen to what they say, but don’t do as they do.  They do not practice what they preach.  They give you the burden of the law, but do not practice the law.  All that they do, they do so that others will see them and be impressed.  So they wear large phylacteries—doesn’t that sound like such a naughty thing?  Phylacteries?  Well, phylacteries are large amulets that religious leaders used to wear—they held portions of the holy scripture in them.  These scriptures we held close to their hearts.

          Jesus was concerned about the shallow showiness of the leaders at the time.  All piety, purity, and place, with seemingly little interest in social justice.  If they did care about social justice, they would not have asked Jesus about the greatest law, and they would not have plotted to kill him for suggesting that all were welcome at the banquet table.

         In hearing this text today, I can just about hear Grebel, Blaurock and Manx discussing it in secret in their homes on January 21, 1525.  I can just about hear the water being poured over their heads, and see the bread and cup being shared.  I can imagine that the words of Jesus were liberating to them, as they re-imagined what it meant to be the body of Christ.  They had been part of a church that had placed great burdens on the people, and had made no attempts made to lighten the load—Anabaptist’s sluffed off these burdens in favor of what was most essential about the gospel.  Instead of the indulgences, and fear based theology, they choose to risk their lives to live in community, and to try—in their time and in their context, to follow in the way of Jesus. 

         

But, even as I talk about this Radical Reformation story, I see how easy it is to make a phylactery out of it.  How easy it is for us to become burdened by the powerful story of discipleship.  We carry these burdens around in our collective anabapist psyches—burdens of martyrdom, right relationship in community, the ways we live out peace, the ways we baptize—the list could go on and on.  And, of course, there’s nothing intrinsically wrong with these things in our history.  There’s nothing wrong with remembering the martyrs, with being right with our brothers and sisters, with striving to live at peace in all the layers of our lives, and valuing adult choice in baptism—the problem is when we wear them around our necks like phylacteries.  The beautiful gift of our stories and tradition should not become our piety our adornment, our idols.  They should become—like Jesus—a model for following God. 

          In Matthew 23, Jesus was calling his community to reform.  He was calling his community put aside their piety, and follow God.  He wanted them to recall that loving God could not be separated from loving neighbor, that justice and mercy were at the heart of God’s relationship with God’s people. 

         

The radical reformers were calling the church to reform as well.  Perhaps some of you Anabaptist historians will correct me if I’m wrong, but I have never understood the radical reformation as the act of petulance or or belligerence.  These Anabaptists loved God, they loved the church, and they were inspired and confronted by the words of Jesus as they read them together. 

          Jesus’ words in Matthew 23, and in the last few chapters of Matthew that we’ve read this fall—they confront us, and challenge us.  And, in light of reformation Sunday, they remind me that reformation is not something that happened 2,000 years ago, when Jesus was alive and in conflict with the Phariseess and Saduccees.  This is not something that took place 500 years ago in Europe, and ended the difficulties of the church.  Re-form-ation is constantly happening.  We must always be listening to the words of Jesus as we are challenged to be the church together in our context. 

          And, what worries me about the Mennonite church is that there is a part of the church that has decided that what is means to be Mennonite is to have the right name, to act with certain sensibilities, to attend the right schools.  Because is doing this, our church becomes an ethnic tradition, rather than a community embodying discipleship.

           

This summer the Mennonite convention, I met a pastor who is leading a small intentional community and house church in Minneapolis.  Matt and I had spent the evening with other urban Mennonite pastors, and the next day I saw him in the convention center, looking rather deflated.  When I asked him if he was ok, he told me his story.  He was new to the tradition, and coming to the convention, he realized that he was not “one of them.”  Matt had no familial connections here.  He didn’t know the songs in the hymnals, he didn’t understand the politics.  Matt also works for his conference, and had just written two articles in a Mennonite publication.  One was about sexuality, and one was about church polity.  He was not criticized for the sexuality article, but his job was threatened for criticizing the denomination’s structure and leadership.  Between his experience at the convention and this experience with his bosses at the conference level, his bubble was burst. He wasn’t sure anymore that he wanted to be Mennonite. 

Now it’s very easy to criticize our denomination—with some distance we can see the holes in the polity, the problems with the structure, and the areas of neglect.  But, it’s almost too easy. 

What we really are being asked to do in this text is to examine ourselves—our own community.  As the priesthood of all believers, what are the phylacteries that we wear around our necks?  Is it our pedigree?  Is it our rigid interpretation of the story? Is it “we’ve never done it that way” and “Anabaptism can only be expressed in this way”? 

Jesus calls us to not just teach the words, but live the words we teach.  Otherwise those good words that have become so dear to us, are no more than ornaments around our necks.  They are nothing more than flash and show.  The words become our idolatry, but do not change us. 

Our radical reformation story is incredible to me—these folks read the scriptures together and decided that the church was not acting the way Jesus called them to be.  And so they decided to live differently.  But we cannot hold up the radical reformation story if we are going to be unmoved by it, if we will not allow it to re-form us.  Because when we do this, we make that incredible 500 year old story our phylactery, our icon. 

Following in the way of Jesus is never static.  We are—in every age and generation—being called to re-form-ation.  Let us seek to day those places where the words of Jesus and the actions of our reformers re-form us.  AMEN.  

Published 01 November 2011 - 0 comments (View/Post Comments)   

Sermon by Sarah Clausen, preached on 10/23/11

Leviticus is one of my favorite books of the Bible. That may seem a little odd to some of you, what with all of the proof texting, and “problem” texts that lie within this book, the middle part of the Torah. The reason that I like Leviticus is simple—it is a book about how to live in community, to live in relationship with God and with one another. The book is divided into 2 parts—the first are guidelines for the priests, the religious leaders of the community. The second part is the Holiness Code—that which guides the life of all of the Israelites, not just the leaders. Our reading today falls into this second section. God tells Moses to tell the people of the congregation, the gathered community, that they are to be holy. Why? Because God is holy. After a section that talks about some of the guidelines that are also found in the Ten Commandments, our reading jumps down to how the people are to live in relationship with their neighbors. God tells them that they are not to defraud their neighbors, they are to treat their neighbors equally, with compassion for those who are different or who have disabilities, to not be partial to those with money or without, they should not hate their neighbors, their brothers and sisters. Instead they are to respond in love to those in their community, love each other as much as they love themselves. And the overarching reason behind this? Because God is holy, and has made God’s people holy. Loving each other means extending the love that God has given to the people, a love that brought them out of the bondage of slavery in Egypt, out of the clutches of an oppressive government.

It is this section of Leviticus that Jesus quotes in his answer to the lawyer, the scholar in religious law, in our reading today from Matthew.  This section is the culmination of an intense question and answer period that Jesus and the religious leaders of the temple have engaged in. We’ve seen some of this over the past few weeks in our gospel readings—Jesus has been in the temple, teaching, upsetting the “official” leaders, who then try to make Jesus look bad, hoping to find a way to make him stumble, make a mistake, to defraud him—after all, who is this guy anyway, where did he come from? Today, the Pharisees send in their lawyer who asks Jesus a question, hoping to test him. “Teacher,” he asks, maybe somewhat sarcastically, “which commandment in the law is the greatest?” Jesus, also knowing the law quite well, quotes Deuteronomy and Leviticus in his answer: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind…You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” The “greatest commandment”, to love God, can only be completed by therefore responding to God by loving one’s neighbor. And, as Jesus tells the religious leaders, it is on these two commandments that hang all the law and prophets—that is, everything else that they do, say, and teach, must be in the context of the command to love God and love God’s people.

Jesus gets this—he knows what it is to love God and love God’s people, and has consistently shown the religious leaders this in his teaching and examples during this extended teaching session in the temple. A few weeks ago our reading was the parable of the landowner and the vineyard, and the wicked tenants. The landowner sends his slaves to collect the harvest, but each time the tenants seize them and kill them, including killing the landowner’s own son. The tenants are thrown out—because of their disregard for neighbor and God.

Two weeks ago we heard the story of the king who was throwing a banquet, but the invited guests were too busy to show up. The end result was that those who normally wouldn’t have been invited were welcomed into the feast. It was a reminder that all are welcomed into the life of God’s community. However, the reading we heard two weeks ago was the version of the story from Luke. The parable that makes up the section of Matthew immediately after the vineyard story is a bit more chilling. In this version, the king throws a wedding banquet, and, after the invitation is sent, the invited guests not only scorn the invitation, but some killed the messengers. The king’s response was complete destruction—killing of the invited guests and leveling their city. The king then sends what’s left of his slaves out into the city to round up and gather anyone they could find—good and bad, young and old, those mourning the loss of their homes and ways of life in the wake of the king’s destructive tear—and bring them in to enjoy a banquet feast. But the king is not done destroying yet. He finds a man who was not wearing a wedding robe, not obeying the “rules” of the party, and orders him bound and thrown into prison. In this version, the defiant man is showing his love for God, his compassion for his neighbors forced into celebrating the family that destroyed their town, by standing up for justice and refusing to honor the tyrant king in maybe the only way he knew how—ignoring the wedding dress code.

Last week we continued on in the narrative. Now, Jesus has raised the stakes even further, reminding the Pharisees that loving God and neighbor, standing up for injustice in the face of tyranny and destruction, involves giving of all of oneself to God—that in giving to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s and giving the things that are God’s back to God really means giving all of ourselves back to the one who created us. And as Amy reminded us last week, that is no small task.

Jesus telling the religious leaders that the greatest commandment is to love God with all one’s heart soul, and mind, and out of that love comes love for each other was a reminder that harkens back to Leviticus. Yes, the leaders, the priests, had a code to live by in the instructions found in that book. But they were also part of the larger Israelite community, and they had the responsibility to not only lead the gathered community, but to live in the way that God commanded all of God’s people to live, that their very call came out of this. And this is a reminder to all of us as well—even though we are all not called as paid pastors in churches, we are all part of the “priesthood of all believers”, and are all called to share in the life of the community, teaching, preaching, sharing the gospel with others, living in relationship with each other and God. That includes our witness in organizations outside our church: Sharing ourselves with our guests at Interfaith Hospitality, standing against leaders who have used their power in destructive ways through the Occupy movement or fighting against destructive environmental practices, giving of food offerings and monetary offerings to community organizations. It also includes the ways in which we act and respond to each other within our own church community: sharing meals with homebound members, giving not only our monetary gifts but our gifts of time and experience to the life of the church, it means holding each other in times of joy and in times of grief, it is in the giving of everything we are back to God our creator, and loving God with all of our hearts, souls, and minds in our loving of our neighbor—the person sitting next to us in these seats—as ourselves.

As most of you know, we have been exploring communion this past month, both in adult Sunday School and during our services. The Sunday that I knew that Germantown Mennonite was my church home, that my understanding of faith fit best in an Anabaptist setting, was a communion Sunday, February 3, 2008.  I grew up Lutheran, and in a Lutheran setting the ordained pastor must be the one who says the words of institution (you know, the In the night he was betrayed, our Lord Jesus took bread…bit). If the pastor is not able to be there, then a supply pastor is found—or there is no communion. Well, on that Sunday in 2008, Germantown’s pastor was not able to be there. Yet, we as a community still celebrated communion together. It was in that moment that I saw the power of the gathered community—that in this shared meal the most important thing was us, together, the body of Christ, called by Jesus to love God and love each other; that the “rules” about who is supposed to say the right words or do the right actions fell by the wayside because we had been called together to share in the bread and wine of communion.

Jesus’ reminder to the Pharisees was that their actions must always be in the context of the “greatest commandment”. It is a reminder for us as well—that it is in loving God and therefore loving our neighbor we are called into relationship with each other and our communities. That it is a reminder to stand up to tyranny, oppression, and practices that are destructive. That it is a reminder to give of our whole being to God and to each other. 

Published 27 October 2011 - 0 comments (View/Post Comments)