repentance, empathy, and uninspired fig trees: a sermon in lent.

Luke 13:1-9

a note:  this sermon was proclaimed at st. mark's lutheran church, san francisco, on march 3rd, 2013.

            I watched the news last night, here’s a sample of the stories being presented:

Man shot and killed in a high speed chase

Man presumed to have stolen a vehicle killed in yet another high speed chase

A suspected kidnapper is dead after a police standoff

Two Police shot in the line of duty

A 29 year old woman has been missing for 10 days

The effects of the government sequester cuts are said to effect many local programs and Limited access to health care is keeping many from receiving the treatment they need.

--All in the first 15 minutes of the programming. 

This is our world—Full of heartbreak, grief, brokenness, suffering, oppression, tears, hatred, pain—We are literally bombarded with the brokenness of our world.  Our access to 24 hour news channels, the internet, social media, or radio allows the hurt, the violence, the noise of our brokenness to permeate into our daily lives.  Yet, somehow, it is incredibly easy to tune this noise out.  It is incredibly easy to forget the calamities that saturate our world.  Somehow, I can gaze upon the news every night and not be absolutely horrified.  Why is that?  Why does it take a calamity so large that I can not ignore it for me to lament, “Christ have mercy!”? 

            Perhaps this overloading of reality has caused us to be numb.  News story after news story of painful brokenness—perhaps we protect ourselves by tuning out. Acknowledging the hurt of another human being causes us to see the suffering of our own humanity, thinking about the ways in which we too are broken—and that is painful.  It’s much easier to block out the realities of our world than to acknowledge the hurt that is so palpably present.

            I don’t believe that this is a recently developed phenomenon.  In the gospel text for today, the people surrounding Jesus are aware of the painful happenings of their world—murders by political figures, security threats, disastrous accidents that kill innocent bystanders—Yet they, too, do all that they can to acknowledge their own safety, assuring themselves that the brokenness of the world does not pertain to their own existence.  They distance themselves from the events, from their own reality, finding clever ways to explain away their own vulnerability or participation in the world’s brokenness.  After hearing their musings, Jesus firmly reconnects these people to the reality of their world.  While the people gathered wanted to distance themselves from those who suffered in the events of their time, Jesus points out their own vulnerability. The people gathered wanted to believe that the horrific events of that time happened to horrific people— surely those who perished must have done something to deserve it and that complacency of those gathered is warranted.

To this type of thinking--distancing, desensitizing, individualizing—Jesus responds: “Repent!”  To distance oneself from the world’s brokenness is to ignore the raw humanness that connects us all.  To desensitize oneself to the pain and hurt of our reality is to ignore the ways in which we all hurt.  And to want to believe that the oppression in our world does not pertain to us, or to our own realities, is to ignore the fact that we can indeed do something about it—and it is to this that Jesus says “Repent!”. 

The word, “repent,” in the original Greek is one that has been studied over and over again by pastors and theologians.  The way the verb is used in this text is a bit different from other uses: Here the call to repentance could also be a call to feel remorse, or to change the way we think of our moral, social, political, or religious relationships.  This feeling of remorse in connection to our relationships in the world, I like to think of as empathy.  In this text, Jesus’ call for repentance is a call for empathy.  When we empathize with another we connect ourselves to their story on a much deeper level.  When we allow ourselves to feel the emotions of another human being we open ourselves up to a world that is interconnected and mutual.  When we truly understand the hurt and pain of another, it is then that we are able to begin changing the systems that lead to that same hurt. 

This same form of the Greek verb to repent is used earlier in Luke where Jesus proclaims that the Kingdom of God is not possible until we learn to repent, until we learn to share our sufferings with one another.  This world cannot be the Kingdom, the beautiful place that God has intended, until we learn the reasons why our neighbor cries and the ways in which we can do something about it. 

As my husband Nikoli and I prepared to travel to El Salvador this past Thanksgiving, we watched a film on Oscar Romero that detailed the suffering, oppression, and deep pain of the Salvadoran people during the civil war.  The film came to a close and we let the credits role in silence until the screen went blank—then we cried.  We held each other and we cried for the people of El Salvador.  We cried for the people who lost loved ones unjustly, we cried for the people who witnessed the violent massacre of their neighbors, we cried for the people we would meet at Cordero de Dios whose memories will not let them forget the horrors of civil war.  We were not ready to travel to El Salvador, to walk alongside the people of Cordero de Dios, until we opened ourselves to feeling their hurt.  This process was uncomfortable—it hurt to acknowledge the pain that God’s children can inflict on one another and it was painful to gaze upon the messy chaos of our world—but in doing so we were better able to connect with our brothers and sisters in El Salvador, and while we were there, sharing stories and indulging in pupusas together on the dusty concrete floor of the sanctuary, we were able to get a glimpse of the Kingdom of God. 

Sometimes it’s easier to turn off the news than to acknowledge that the world we live in messy.  It difficult to do the hard work of understanding systems of oppression and it’s uncomfortable to sit in the suffering of another.  But we are not called to complacency.  We are not called to be flies on the wall.  We are called to be disciples—voices against oppression, agents for justice.  We are called to be a part of the good news that is the gospel—believing and standing firm in faith that a world can exist where no one will cry, where all of God’s children will be equal, and where peace, justice and love will prevail.  And if you think that this task at times seems too daunting, know that your God will walk with you always.  Like the story of the fig tree that just can seem to bear fruit, God will continue to encourage you, give you second chances, and believe in you even when you doubt in your own abilities. 

sandyhook and the vipers in our world.

Advent 3, Luke 3:7-18

a note: i was assigned to preach at st. mark's lutheran church in san francisco on december 16th, 2012.  i prepared the first draft of this message not knowing the events in connecticut that would transpire on december 14th, just two days prior.  in shock and with a heavy heart, i rewrote portions of this sermon until early sunday morning.

            While Christmas might be just 9 days away, the events of this past week painfully remind us that we live in a world where the presence of the Christ child is sometimes difficult to experience.  While for many this time calls for joy and celebration, we are reminded that we live in world of vipers.  While one might expect a more pleasant, joyful gospel message for this week, instead we are greeted with one that perhaps is more fitting for a nation that is anxiously waiting in hope, for a time when peace and justice will prevail for all, especially little children.             

This text begins with the course words of John the Baptist—cursing at the crowds who were too anxiously awaiting in hope, so ready to greet the coming of a messiah, too eager for change in their world.  John’s message is not an easy one. While we want to rejoice in the arrival of Christmas, John painfully reminds us that there is still preparation to be done.  As much as we think we are, we are not ready to meet the messiah. 

            This gospel story speaks of life before Jesus’ ministry.  As we heard last week, John the Baptist has been sent to prepare a way for the Lord—to prepare the people for the coming of Jesus’ ministry.  From the tone in John’s voice as he angrily addresses the crowds, it becomes clear to us that he believes that the people who have gathered are not yet ready to hear the message of Jesus.  Jesus’ message, after all, is pretty scandalous.  In the Gospel of Luke especially, Jesus’ message is for the weak, the social outcasts, the marginalized and the poor.  Indeed his critique of the rich and social elite leaves many uncomfortable, causes many to walk away, and leaves some anticipating his death.  John preaches giving to our neighbor, Jesus preaches loving our neighbor.  Perhaps we too need to prepare ourselves to hear the message of Jesus again, a message that can often leave us in shock—uncomfortable about all of the ways to which it speaks of our own needs.  Like the crowds, as we too await anxiously for coming of the messiah, I wonder what we must do to prepare ourselves. 

We cannot possibly welcome the ministry of Jesus, and hear his message with open hearts until we look critically at the way we are orienting ourselves in the world.  So often we are more eager to serve our own selfish desires and wants before we meet of the needs of others.  We orient ourselves inwardly—closed off from the needs of those around us.  This being turned in on ourselves prevents us from engaging in the powerful, world-changing ministry of Jesus—not only serving our neighbor and giving to our neighbor but loving our neighbor radically in all and through all of their uncomfortable needs.

In order to prepare the crowds for the ministry of Jesus to come, John calls all those listening to clothe those who are without clothing and feed those who are hungry.  John calls the crowd to turn from their inward orientation, outward and into the world—better able to see and act upon the needs of those around them.  John too knew the dangers of this inward orientation and he gives a most artful example of a tree too focused on it’s own growth to produce fruit that will feed those around it.  This image of the tree speaks to the vulnerabilities of inward orientation.  When we continue to be focused only on our own growth, we miss opportunities to share our gifts with others, working to make our world the kind of place that God may have originally intended it to be.  A place of relationship, giving, service, humility and love.  A place where everyone’s needs (social, physical, emotional and psychological) are met, where isolation does not drive someone to violence-- A place where innocent children do not have to die at the hands of another human being. A life oriented towards our neighbor opens us to meeting our world’s greatest needs. 

This turning from inward orientation to outward is the first step in preparing ourselves to engage the radically inclusive message of Jesus’ love.  When we begin to think of the needs of others alongside our own we are better able to enter into a love that transcends all boundaries.  That’s the message of Jesus—right?  God in Godself comes to earth in the form of an innocent child, vulnerable and dependent and those around him.  God transcends all conceivable boundaries to meet our greatest needs in the most radical type of love that we can comprehend.

As we once again find ourselves in the advent season, let us continue to await in hope and expectation a time in our world where true justice will prevail, everyone’s needs will be met, and love will again transcend boundaries in radical inclusivity.  As we wait again for the arrival of Jesus, our great peacemaker, let us remember the ways in which we can be instruments of that peace—participating and active agents in realizing God’s kingdom of Earth.  Let us turn from inside ourselves to outward, better able to hear the cries of our world and take place in radical ministry of Jesus.  

good enough: a homily for maundy thursday

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

Growing up as a child, it became clear pretty early on in my life that I was and am a perfectionist.  Being a perfectionist has its advantages, like any personality type, but it also has a downside.  For me, this downside was the persistent twinge of guilt after completing any endeavor—no matter how encouraging my parents or teachers were, I continued to feel like whatever I accomplished just wasn’t good enough.    As I grew older and started figure skating competitively, even at a young age, being tall and big boned, my body just wasn’t good enough.  In high school, I would dwell on my orchestra auditions—even if I made the top orchestra, my performance just wasn’t good enough.  My senior year of college, I worked my absolute hardest and graduated cum laude, but it wasn’t summa or magna cum laude, it just wasn’t good enough.  And today, even though I am now fully aware of my perfectionist tendencies and have done a lot of healthy self-reflection I will still catch myself falling into that same pattern of comparison and doubt in my own abilities. 

Maybe you relate? I don’t believe you have to be a perfectionist to relate to these tendencies.  Perhaps this drive for perfection, this feeling of “not good enough” says more about the world we live in than it does about my internal conversations.  We love to compare ourselves to others, we love to measure success with something tangible, we want our hard work to be rewarded—and when we don’t meet the ridiculous expectations of this world its easy to feel “not good enough.”  This is why I find the stories of Jesus’ disciples in the gospels to be so liberating.  They too, were not “good enough.” 

Jesus calls his disciples from their lackluster jobs and as Jesus’ ministry continues throughout the gospels it becomes pretty clear that Jesus has chosen the b-team, the last string, the benchwarmers, to be his followers.  They fail, they question, they doubt, they just can’t seem to figure out who this Jesus really is—When we think about what followers of Jesus should be, they’re just not good enough!  Yet, as our gospel text for tonight begins, Jesus loved them, and he loved them until the very end.  What does this say about Jesus?

See Jesus knew that soon he was going to die, he knew he was going to be betrayed and persecuted by the very people he had loved.  Still, he chooses to spend his last night washing the feet of the disciples who just weren’t good enough.  He chooses to spend his last night serving his clumsy disciples in a job that was uncomfortable, dirty and rancid.  At no other time is the disciple’s unworthiness so potent that even they sense the radical, counter-cultural way of Jesus’ love.  Footwashing was reserved for the lowest of lows, society’s outcasts—it was gross, a messy job.  The idea that Jesus, the host of the Passover meal would be left to wash the feet of those present was absolutely offensive.  The disciples knew this and they try to escape the intimacy of the situation—the world has told them that they are indeed not good enough for their rabbi and teacher Jesus to wash their feet.  Still, Jesus continues. 

As Jesus finishes washing the feet of the disciples and sharing with them the bread and the wine he says, “little children, I am with you only a little while longer, and where I am going, you cannot come. I leave you with this one command: Love one another as I have loved you. Remember me by your love.”  In one of his last acts on earth, Jesus claims his disciples in love, as his own children.  In his time of earth, his disciples failed, they couldn’t keep it together, they’re lives were messy, they just weren’t good enough.  But Jesus claims them as his own, he bathes the messiest parts of their bodies, the feet, in his love.  He loved them until the very end.

If you ever feel unloved, unimportant, insecure, or “just not good enough” remember to whom you belong.  You belong to Jesus.  You belong to Jesus Christ the very Son of God who chooses to spend his last night in an act of service that crosses all boundaries.  The same fully human, fully divine, God incarnate that meets us every week in bread and wine.  That is to whom you belong, and you don’t have to be “good enough”, he will love you until the end.