Sermon for the 5th Sunday in Lent: April 6, 2014

5^th Sunday in Lent: April 6, 2014

John 11:1-45 The Raising of Lazarus

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie Smith

"Lord, this stinketh."

Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

I heard a news story this week about a university student in Nebraska who has created a cologne called “Eau de Death”. Apparently, this chemistry post-doc has figured out how to combine three chemicals which, when mixed together, closely mimic the smell of rotting flesh. Now, aside from wondering why your pastor is beginning her sermon this way, you might be wondering how this cologne would ever be useful. I’m so glad you asked! It would be very useful, says the inventor, in the event of a zombie apocalypse, because we all know from the movies that zombies only eat living people. The stink of “Eau de death” would act therefore, as a sort of “Off” spray, except it would keep away the walking dead instead of mosquitos. 

“Eau de Death” caught my attention this week for sure. And, in fact, this story is strangely related to a few verses of this week’s Gospel lesson which I could not get out of my head! In fact, I found myself going back to the King James Version of the Bible (a rare occurrence indeed) because these verses are even better in that translation. Hear again the Gospel according to John, the eleventh chapter:

38 Jesus therefore again groaning in himself cometh to the grave. It was a cave, and a stone lay upon it. 39 Jesus said, Take ye away the stone. Martha, the sister of him that was dead, saith unto him, Lord, by this time he stinketh: for he hath been dead four days.

Friends, this week, the words of Martha, sister of Lazarus, have been on my lips as well: “Lord…this stinketh.”

It stinks to share the news that I will be leaving this summer to serve in global mission in Jerusalem. It stinks to say good-bye to people I love. It stinks for you, to know you will not only have to say goodbye to me and my family, but also hello to yet another pastor. It stinks for Pastor Paul and the rest of the staff, too. Even though we trust in God to provide, and even though we believe in the call of God through the church, this week many of us at Bethany Lutheran are a bit like Martha of Bethany, standing in front of Jesus with our arms crossed, saying “Lord, this stinketh.”

This stinketh indeed! In John chapter 11, what stinks is Lazarus, who has been dead for four days. But Mary and Martha are pretty sure Jesus stinks, too. Both sisters confront him with the fact that he didn’t come when they called, but decided to wait around for two days with his friends: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died!” Now, Lazarus is dead, and he’s starting to smell. The whole situation stinks.

Martha and Mary were certain that because Lazarus already stinketh, there was nothing Jesus could do about it now. But we know, of course, that Jesus did do something about it. He may have been a couple days late, but Jesus rolled the stone away from the tomb, prayed to God the Father, and then called in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” And Lazarus, stinky Lazarus, walked out of the tomb. In spite of the unbelieving disciples, in spite of the man’s angry sisters, in spite of the stone blocking the entrance to the tomb, and in spite of the fact that he had already been dead for four days and was starting to stink, Jesus raised a dead man to life. Thanks be to God!

The raising of Lazarus is a miracle, and in the Gospel of John it is the last of a series of signs meant to prove that Jesus speaks and acts with God’s authority. Jesus tells the disciples plainly why he did not go immediately to Bethany: “Lazarus is dead. For your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe.” Feeding the five thousand, turning water into wine, and healing the blind man—these were all impressive. But raising a dead man to life, especially if he was so dead he was starting to smell, removed any question about who this Jesus really was. It also removed any question about what would happen to Jesus next, for this event caught the attention of the authorities, and set in motion his trial, conviction, and public execution on the cross.

Many people who were there that day came to believe. And for us today, the raising of Lazarus is still a powerful proclamation that “Eau de death” may keep away zombies, but nothing keeps Jesus from raising the dead to new life. Sin and guilt, fear and death stink to high heaven, it’s true! But Jesus is the resurrection and the life, and he stands at the door of every tomb calling in a loud voice: “Lazarus, come out!”

Sisters and brothers, this is Good News we all need to hear, because we spend way too much time and effort trying to mask the evidence of sin and death. We may scoff at “Eau de Death”, but we’d be the first in line to purchase “Eau de Perfection” and especially “Sinless #5”. We don’t want anyone to know how bad we really stink, or how much help we need, or how hopeless we feel, least of all God. So we cover up the smell, wrap ourselves tightly, and stay hidden away from the attacking hoards of “perfect people” we’re certain are just outside the door. Little do we know, those supposed “perfect people” are just as unreal as zombies, and the only one standing outside our door is Jesus. When we’re in our darkest place, it’s always Jesus who comes near, and he’s there not to condemn, or to turn his nose up at the smell of our humanity and our mortality, but to bring what he always brings: life, life, and more life. Where Jesus is, there is life. Where Jesus speaks, there is life. Where Jesus acts, there is life! “I am the resurrection and the life” he proclaims. The cross of Christ has defeated the power of sin and death to remove anyone from life with God.

Earlier this week, before I made my big announcement to the congregation, I had a long conversation with a church member. His is a story that bears repeating, and in fact, he’s given me permission to share it with you today, as a testimony to the power of Jesus to raise the dead.

Our brother Ray enlisted in the Army shortly after World War II. He signed up because he wanted to go to college, and his family could only afford to send his older sister. It was 1949. With the war over, the Army seemed like a great way to earn money for college and get some experience in the world.

He could never have guessed that our country would soon be in another conflict, this time in Korea. While there, he did what soldiers are trained to do: he killed people. The first one, he told me, he remembers in painful detail. He’s not sure how many came after that, and he wouldn’t want to count. He did what the government trained him to do. He did his job.

When he came home from Korea, Ray went on with life. He got married, raised a family, and worked hard. He had always been a believer, and while he may not have made it to church every Sunday, he was especially involved with the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. Everything seemed fine on the outside. Ray gave off the aroma of being a family man, a patriot, and especially a man of faith.

But Ray had a secret! For more than 50 years, he had been covering up what he thought was an odor even God could not stomach. For 50 years, Ray lived in fear that God would not, in fact could not, forgive him for what he did as a soldier. Didn’t Scripture say “Thou shalt not kill?” Didn’t Jesus say “not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished…Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven?” These words kept him bound up by guilt and wrapped tight with fear. Ray seemed to have it all together, but in reality he was the walking dead. A zombie. He was Lazarus in the tomb, not for four days, but for five decades. And it hath stinketh.

But then, not too long ago, something happened. Jesus called out to him again. He said, “Ray, come out!” Actually, the way Ray tells it, it happened when he finally shared his fears and instead of condemnation, he heard these words: “Ray, all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. You have nothing to fear. In Christ, you are forgiven. You have always been forgiven.”

True, he had heard these words before. Who knows why these words made a difference on this day, in this conversation, with this particular person! All that matters is that this time, he knew he was forgiven. This time, his dry bones came together, and flesh came upon them, and skin covered them, and his breath returned to him. In Christ, our brother Ray was raised from death to life. It was his 81st birthday.

Dear friends, I started this sermon declaring that we are all Marthas, standing at the tomb and complaining about the stench. But the truth is, every one of us is also Lazarus, and sometimes we just stink. Sometimes, life stinks too! But hear again the Good News: there is nothing in this world-- neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come; not our fear of the future; not our past mistakes or our inability to accept forgiveness; not our unbelief or anything else in all creation—that is able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Jesus is the resurrection and the life, and all who believe, even though they die, shall live. Jesus is enough. So come out, Lazarus! Come out and live. Amen.

Sermon for the 3rd Sunday in Lent: March 23, 20014

Sermon for the 3^rd Sunday in Lent: March 23, 2014

Romans 5:1-11; John 4:5-42

PREACHER: Pr. Carrie Smith

Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

First of all, a big “thank you” to this congregation for the gift of continuing education time. In the past, I’ve attended preaching conferences and theological conferences here in the States for continuing ed., but this time I was able to travel with my spouse to the land of Jesus’ birth, ministry, death, and resurrection, both to attend a ministry conference and also to meet with Bethany’s sponsored missionaries, Danae and Steve Hudson. It was such a treat to be able to walk the Way of the Cross in Jerusalem at the beginning of this Lenten season. Thank you, again, for allowing me the time to make it happen.

A little over one week ago, I was sitting in Jesus’ hometown of Nazareth, attempting to learn traditional Palestinian embroidery. 

Our teacher’s name was Margot, an Arab Christian woman from near Bethlehem, and she spoke very little English. Our lessons therefore consisted of her showing us a lightning fast stitch, and then barking at us, in Arabic, “Shway, shway" and “Yallah, yallah, yallah!” which translates roughly to “Slowly, slowly…now hurry, hurry, hurry!” 

We thought we were signing up for a three hour class, three days in row, with time for sightseeing and relaxing afterward. Oh, were we mistaken! The three hours were merely for instruction. Each afternoon (and evening, and middle of the night) were for doing the “homework” Margot gave us to finish. We embroidered for at least ten hours a day.

By the second day our backs were aching from sitting hunched over, and our brains were hurting from trying to understand Arabic. We were feeling frustrated that Margot would rip out work we had spent hours doing.

And…our fingertips were bleeding! Actually, this was just me. Apparently, I was doing it wrong. Thank God we were working on black fabric!

The other women I was with – three of our ELCA Young Adults in Global Mission and one ELCA missionary—commiserated along with me about the difficulty of this project. We were humbled! We were tired! We were certain we’d never produce anything worth looking at! And was it over yet?

At the end of the third day of class, having sewn half a shawl which only a mother would think was pretty, I walked over to the table of Margot’s completed shawls, bags, and purses, and picked one out for my mother. I had admired things like this for years, but now, bearing bloody fingertips as scars from the last three days, I fully appreciated the time and effort that went into making them. I paid full price—no bargaining down. I knew it was worth every penny. 

Our teacher, Margot, is on the left

I asked Suraida, the inn manager, to help me communicate with Margot about the price, and to tell her that this particular purse was going to my mother, all the way to Texas.

For some reason, this was unbelievably funny to Margot. She smiled hugely and said, in English: “It could even go to Colorado.” And then she laughed so loud she could hardly breathe.

Well, I didn’t know what to say! Was this funny? Is Colorado some kind of joke in Israel and Palestine? I had no idea! So I smiled nicely and nodded, until Suraida said, “You will have to forgive Margot. She has suffered greatly in her life. Laughing and sewing are the only way she can survive.”

Those words stopped me short. Margot had suffered greatly. I thought about her high standards and her patience (and impatience) with us. I thought about the hours we had spent together, and how language kept us from sharing more than embroidery stitches.

I don’t know what Margot had suffered, but I can imagine. I can imagine, because I know she lives in the occupied West Bank, in Beit Jala (a suburb of Bethlehem). She is an Arab Christian woman, a minority among a minority. I know that as an Arab woman, even in the Christian community, she has little recourse if she happens to be in an unhealthy marriage. (Ninety-nine percent of marriages “succeed” in Palestine, not because they are necessarily happy or successful, but because divorce is just not accepted.) As an Arab mother, I know it’s likely she has lost a child, a nephew, or a brother in the violence that erupts all too often between Israelis and Arabs. And I know that as an Arab Christian, she has watched as her community has gradually left the land of Jesus called home, because life under occupation offers so little future for the next generation of Christians.

I don’t know Margot’s story of suffering, but I know the story of others like her. So when I see the beautiful things Margot has created with her hands, I think of the passage we heard today from Romans, chapter 5:

“And not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.”

To me, Margot’s beautiful embroidery is a sign of hope—hope that springs from a  deep well of faith. My bloody fingertips are all but healed already! But what about Margot? What about her family? What about her community? What about her heart? When I look at her intricate handiwork, and see how passionate she is about passing on these traditional skills, I remember how so many beautiful things are born out of great suffering: art, music, literature, acts of resistance and acts of great love.

During Lent, we as a Christian community take time to contemplate the greatest act of love—the suffering of our Lord Jesus on the cross. We walk the Way of the Cross, lovingly interpreted this year by artists in our congregation. We take on spiritual disciplines—praying more, giving more, eating less—in order to be in solidarity, not only with Jesus Christ, but with all those in the world who suffer today. And we acknowledge the pain we ourselves have suffered or have caused, and the ways in which we have fallen short of the glory of God.

But as Christians, we don’t stay in that place of darkness for long. For Lent is when we also remember that the most beautiful thing of all, the thing that binds us together, the thing that gives us the strength to carry on—namely the peace and reconciliation we have with God through Jesus Christ—was born out of pain and suffering. During these forty days we remember that while we are indeed people of the cross, we have hope because we are also people of the resurrection, and we look with anticipation to Easter Sunday, when we will celebrate that beautiful gift in all its glory.

What is hope? The hope the Apostle Paul speaks of in Romans chapter 5 isn’t merely wishing for something or showing a preference for an outcome (like hoping your NCAA bracket isn’t a total failure!) Hope is having absolute confidence in God’s love, and in the peace that even sinners like us have through Jesus Christ, in spite of anything the world throws at us. Hope flows from the living water Jesus offered to the Samaritan woman at the well! As he said to her: “those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.” Through Christ, our thirst for love and grace, acceptance and forgiveness, is satisfied forever. No matter what we face in life, this hope will sustain us. For we know that “suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us.”

Now, flash forward a few days into my Holy Land trip, and you would find me standing in the lobby of the American Colony Hotel in Jerusalem—one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever stayed. Robert, who had stayed there before, showed me over to a large frame on the wall, in which was housed the history of Chicagoan Horatio Spafford. 

You probably have never heard of Mr. Spafford, in spite of our proximity to Chicago. However, his was indeed a tale of hope in the midst of great suffering.  

Horatio and his wife Anna lost their first son to scarlet fever in 1870. The next year, they were financially ruined in the Great Chicago Fire of 1871. Then, in 1873, Horatio planned to travel with his wife and four daughters to Europe, but was detained in Chicago for business. He decided at the last minute to send them on ahead. Sadly, the ship sank in the Atlantic Ocean after colliding with another sea vessel. All four daughters drowned, but Horatio’s wife, Anna, survived. She sent a telegram to her husband, with these two words: “Saved alone.”  

Horatio soon traveled to be with his grieving wife, and as the ship passed over the spot where his daughters died, he penned these words: 

“When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.”

You may have never heard of Horatio Spafford, but raise your hand if you recognize those words… These words of hope, written out of a father’s great suffering and even greater faith in God, have become one of the most beloved hymns of all time: “It is Well with my Soul.” 

Why, you might ask, is this history hanging in the American Colony Hotel in Jerusalem? Because, in spite of all they had suffered, Horatio and Anna went on to have three more children. And in 1881, they moved with other Christians to Jerusalem to help found the American Colony, whose mission was to serve the poor. Today, the Colony serves mostly the wealthy who stay in its luxury hotel. But while the American Colony never became the Christian utopia he had planned, Mr. Spafford has left us an enduring legacy in the hopeful words of this hymn, a hymn which has helped countless Christians through stormy waters.

My dear sisters and brothers in Christ, no matter what you are enduring today, and no matter what you have suffered in the past, today it is my hope that you will hear again the words of the Apostle Paul, who assured us that “while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly.” Yes, it’s true: While we were still weak from sin; while we were still weak from sorrow or suffering; while we were even still weak from doubt; just at the right time, God proved God’s love for us through the cross of Christ.  “For if while we were enemies, we were reconciled to God through the death of his Son, much more surely, having been reconciled, will we be saved by his life.” This is our strength. This is our hope. And hope does not disappoint us. Thanks be to God! Amen.

1st Sunday in Lent (March 9, 2014) Pr. Cordell Strug

Matthew 4: 1-11

1 Lent

Bethany Lutheran, Crystal Lake, IL

March 9, 2014 

Pr. Cordell Strug, Preacher

            Since I’m retired, I lead a life that’s entirely peaceful and unadventurous.  My pulse rate goes up when the UPS truck goes down the street; if it stops with a package, I have to lie down and catch my

breath.  But even back in the day, when I was out and about, performing daily thrilling feats of ministerial derring-do, most of what I did fell well within the parameters of the ordinary, the routine, sometimes the flat-out boring.

            What I’m getting at is:  I personally never had to fight off a zombie attack.  Or dally dangerously with a glamorous vampire.  I bet you never did either.

           

Few of us have ever been questioned by a talking snake, or been asked to marry a millionaire or kiss a frog that turned into a prince.  Few of us have ever been in a real gunfight or sweated in terror while the bomb squad deactivated an explosive tied to our chair.  We haven’t travelled through time or been marooned on another planet after our spaceship crashed.  We’ve never had a godfather…or a devil in the wilderness…make us an offer we couldn’t refuse.    

            Yet the fabulous and the dangerous grip our spirits out of all proportion to the likelihood of their gripping our lives.  Stories of adventure and wonder, real and imagined, flicker across our tv and movie screens as their ancestors crackled around the campfires of our ancestors—ever since people learned to say ‘once upon a time’ or ‘you will never believe what just happened to me’.

            Given the sheer routine of most lives, and the way almost anything can become routine, we might put this appetite for the marvelous down to nothing but a desire for a little escape and excitement, something rich and strange to flavor the ordinary.

            But who says we live only in our bodies?  The human record might suggest the opposite.  Besides, the merely strange will bore us very quickly:  a vampire would only be a rodent, without the young couple we want to see escape the bite of death; a gunfight would only be acute population decline, somebody else’s problem, unless there were someone in it we wanted to see get home; even Wonderland is just some other place, until Alice—that human girl—falls into it and finds it weird and frightening.

            We want to see one of us tested against the fabulous, against the dangerous.  Our spirits are gripped because we have a stake in the fight.  All our beloved tales, both real and imagined, really do tell us something about us, about our vulnerability and our power, our fears, our desperation, our hopes; something about courage and fortitude and dedication; about defeats that look like victories and victories that look like defeats.  Telling a story is the oldest way of thinking seriously about life and death, what tortures life, what brings death, what makes the passage worth it and what ruins it all.

            We follow Jesus today into one of those strange arenas of testing, a landscape of earthly devastation and supernatural clarity, as distant from the ordinary scenes of his life as from ours.  Jesus—for one of the rare times—is the most ordinary thing in the story, as well as the only human in sight, just as Adam and Eve are the only ordinary things in their magic garden.  We have left the superficially ordinary; but we’ve gone back to basics.

            ‘Jesus was led by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil.’  He’ll be tempted by things we would never be offered, because we’re not powerful enough, faithful enough or important enough to bother with.  Yet Jesus is one of us, and he is there as one of us.  He’s not there as Superman:  he’s being tested on the basics of our life:  how humanity stands before God, the deep conflicts of our needs and desires. 

           

 And look how harmlessly it all begins.  That’s what makes this story such a pure picture of the basics of life:  nothing ever looks bad when you want it badly, or when you can convince yourself you really need it.  That first temptation—turning stones to bread, which seems to boil down to eating—seems so unquestionably necessary, so neutrally basic and fundamental, it almost can’t count as a temptation.  The devil seems…supportive, almost caring:  ‘Man, listen to me:  you are dying here.  Who are you?  Joe Schmo?  Wake up!  You’re the Son of God!  Make a little bread!  Explain to me, please, what harm this could possibly do.  You can’t be moral if you’re dead.’

            But we’re probing what makes our passage through life worth it.  What we need is being  turned from an apparently obvious fact into a troubling question.  The claim of fundamental need can hide the question of fundamental choice.  All the monsters of history—the conquerors, the ethnic cleansers, the mass murderers, the assassins and the torturers, whom we joined so easily, so easily—all have claimed helpless necessity to hide the reality that a choice was being made, a choice that led into the darkness.  All the thugs have found their first and easiest excuse in necessity.

            Now, we could say the temptation here is to doubt the power of God to provide.  That is, we could try to trump the devil by an appeal to faith.  But Jesus’ answer goes deeper:  he challenges the obviousness of what it is we think we need:  ‘One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord.’  That’s basic, that’s fundamental.

            There was a modern psychologist—whose name I’ve blessedly forgotten—who said human needs formed a kind of pyramid:  basic needs at the bottom and the less essential as we go up.  He took the scale as obvious, and his point was we satisfy ourselves from the bottom up:  self-preservation, food, clothing, shelter; after that, you get a more comfy chair, a new coat, maybe a pickup truck; with a little more, you go for an i-pad, maybe a hot tub; and pretty high up on the pyramid, you could run into a religious need you might satisfy—unless you’d rather have a yacht.

            I heard this pyramid of needs expounded with admiration, for its alleged wisdom, at a church meeting, by a conflict manager who worked for one of the synods, and I came away wondering whether the speaker was an emissary from hell sent to convince us the church was a useless luxury or just one more modern half-wit too enamored of psychological gurus.

            What’s wrong with that pyramid is that it describes almost no society known to history—except perhaps our own, bloated with physical satisfactions, choking on junk we don’t have enough landfills to keep up with.  That bottom of the pyramid can become endless; this country is producing billionaires who don’t even notice the lives of other people except as sources of more wealth.  If that’s how our pyramid starts, it never has to go up.

            But you listen to Jesus:  that’s not where we start!  There are people of faith, communities of faith, that lived and died with nothing compared to what’s stored in my garage.  Even apart from faith, people have scorned self-preservation, they’ve scorned to preserve themselves for the sake of something more precious to them.  Watch high-school kids when they get off the bus:  why do they have thin clothing and no head covering in the middle of winter?  Because they’re slaves of glamour:  they value beauty more than health.

            More seriously, people sacrifice their lives—they sacrifice their livelihoods and their futures—for the sake of other people they love.  Police officers and fire fighters risk their lives, out of civic and moral ideals, for people they don’t even know. 

            (Picture something helpless:  a roomful of newborn babies, two hours old.  The pyramid would say:  their basic, immediate needs are food, shelter, warmth.  Wrong!  Their basic need is someone who loves them enough, or cares about them enough, or is being paid by someone who cares about them enough, to give them those things because they’ll never get them on their own.  The bond of caring is a more fundamental need—if that’s not satisfied, they’re not lasting the week.)

            That psychologist described no life worth living.  That pyramid of needs hides all life’s fundamental values and choices.  Those don’t just appear in the spare time bought by luxury:  they’re always there, from the bottom up.

            Now, it would be pretty surprising if a bunch of Christians sitting in a church service and looking forward to a tasty lunch couldn’t at least follow Jesus that far with a nod of approval.  ‘Yeah!  You tell him!’

            Here’s where things get interesting.  Here’s where the story of the temptations becomes profound, and shakes the comfort of the faithful.  The devil throws faith right back at Jesus:

            ‘There’s my man!  I KNEW you wouldn’t bite on those stones!  You got the power, the faith, you live by the word.  You know what?  I’m so pumped I’d like to see some more of that Big Faith—let’s say you and me climb to the top of the temple and you jump off and I’ll watch the angels catch you….  I mean, you do believe the angels will catch you, right?  You must know psalm 91—wait:  let me quote it for you…’

            And he does.  And he does not distort it:  this is an honest quote—and if it doesn’t mean what the devil says it does, I don’t know what it means.

            Now take this to heart:  the devil sounds more pious, more faithful, than Jesus.  What a provocative, challenging lesson this is!  Pure evil is just as comfortable inside belief as outside it.  Don’t ever forget that.  It’s the devil that urges the miracle, the wonder; it’s the devil that urges the defiance of the earth, the expectation of heavenly aid; it’s the devil that proclaims the arrogant certainty of what God will do.     

            And that clever devil always makes me think of the loud-mouthed Christian heroes that haunt our media, the angry preachers and politicians so quick to tell us how Christian they are, how DISGUSTING the rest of us are; or those sex-obsessed men in black, the hilariously self-appointed guardians of healthy sexuality, so ruthless in denouncing others, so generous in protecting themselves.  They and their audiences might profitably ponder this passage and how easily the words of faith rise to the lips of…even the devil.

           could think that Satan was the real believer and Jesus the doubting soul.  It’s striking that Jesus, who was capable of wonders, does nothing wonderful at all throughout the entire episode.  He never even mentions wonders.  He never mentions his own unique mission and power.  He never says or does anything more than what one of us could and should say and do.

Anyone overhearing this little dialogue

            It’s the devil who’s intoxicated by Jesus’ status—he says twice ‘If you are the Son of God…’  What Jesus displays is his true humanity.  Everything he says is a scriptural quotation, somebody else’s words, each of them intended to guide all of God’s people, and Jesus identifies himself with us in every one of them.  He doesn’t act out or argue from his divinity:  he displays human faith:  we don’t live by bread alone, but by the word of God; we don’t tempt God; we worship God alone.  It’s the voice of perfect—but still human—obedience. 

            By the time we get to the third temptation, the game’s over:  Jesus’ refusal seems like a foregone conclusion.  The devil sounds almost sad, begging like a doomed, rejected, demonic lover:  ‘Oh, I’d give you the whole world if you’d only worship me!’

            Refusing that seems almost ho-hum…until we look in the mirror and realize:  a lot of us sell our souls every day for a lot less:  for peanuts:  for a shred of that earthly power, for profit, for promotion, for pleasure, for payback, for…all kinds of puny purposes.  We almost give our souls away and we don’t get anything close to the world in return.

            It’s good to remind ourselves that Jesus turns it all down—he turns literally everything down, all the garbage we spend our lives chasing, all the garbage we’d give anything to have a fraction of.

            And he does it, not with super powers, but with simple faith, as one of us.

            We hear in the story of Jesus our story, the true life before God, human life restored for us, hidden within all creation’s allurements, but always calling us as obedient creatures to the one who created us, who sent his Son to live and die for us, to be one of us…and show us how it’s done.

            Amen

           

           

Sermon for March 2, 2014: Transfiguration of Jesus

Last Sunday after Epiphany: Sunday, March 2, 2014

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie Smith

Matthew 17:1-9

Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

Like many of my fellow pastors, I’ve had a rather interesting path to the pulpit. One of the detours along the way took me into the world of pregnancy and birth. I was hoping to become a midwife one day, but first I became a certified “doula”, or labor and birth assistant. 

As a doula, I met with expectant couples in the months leading up to the due date. I had read every book available on the topic of childbirth, both old and new, standard and a little off-the-wall, and sought to bring all that knowledge with me into these meetings. We made birth plans, practiced comfort techniques, talked about fears, attended classes together, toured the hospital, prepared for breastfeeding, and kept in close contact as the date drew closer.

I saw myself, the doula, as an essential part of the birthing team. And I was, in a way (although most doctors would not have given you the same answer!) I saw myself as bringing ancient womanly wisdom back into the delivery room. I wanted to help to change the attitudes about birth in our culture, one mother and one baby at a time.

These were big ideas! And it was a big honor to be invited again and again into such sacred space. I like to think that I did make a difference, at least for those families, even if I couldn’t single-handedly change the entire culture.

But something important did, in fact, change, especially because I learned something very valuable along the way. At the beginning of each labor, the expectant couple and I would walk into the hospital carrying all of that knowledge, plus a birth plan, and our bag of massage balls and essential oils and relaxation tapes. These were the items we had carefully packed for the journey—a journey filled with many unknowns, but with only one certainty: that it would be the toughest thing the mother and her partner would ever accomplish.

We started off every journey with these big ideas and big bags of stuff. And every time, when fear and anxiety started to take hold, I found that the very best tools I had brought with me were my hands. 

A gentle touch on the shoulder. A tightly squeezed hand. A warm bag of rice held around an aching neck. A cool washcloth laid on a hot forehead. A fist firmly placed in the middle of a painful back. Hands held in prayer. These were the best tools in my doula’s toolkit, and it turns out that while all my training and reading was helpful and good, what the laboring woman needed most was affirmation of my presence. She needed to know she was not alone. Whether or not things played out exactly as she had written in her birth plan—and there were almost always detours along the way—she knew I was by her side. A simple human touch turned out to be the miracle that could calm her fears and give her the strength to continue the journey.

The story of the Transfiguration of Jesus takes place just before he and the disciples head out on a journey—the journey to Jerusalem and the cross. It’s a story that has plenty to pay attention to: Jesus’ face shining like the sun, his clothes turning white, the voice booming out of a big cloud, and the mysterious appearance of Moses and Elijah. But what draws me in, what makes me take notice, isn’t the big, flashy stuff God was doing up there on the mountain, but rather that bit at the end, where Scripture says:

“When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear. But Jesus came and touched them, saying, “Get up and do not be afraid.”

Hear those words again: Jesus came and touched them. Jesus, who had just been engulfed in bright white light and who was miraculously standing in the company of the long-dead Moses and Elijah, in a moment packed with more meaning and intensity than we can rightly understand, saw the fear of his friends, and reached out to touch them. There they were, cowering on the ground (and who could blame them?) when Jesus came near, and placing a hand on them, said, “Come on, get up, guys. Don’t be afraid.”

A hand on the shoulder. A simple human touch. Words spoken in kindness. Affirmation of Jesus’ presence with them. It’s just what they needed to continue the journey.

Now, we can say the Transfiguration is about many things: It shows how God’s glory and power shines through Jesus. It affirms that Jesus is a man of authority, on par with the great Moses and Elijah. It also definitely demonstrates how even Peter, James, and John, close associates of Jesus, were confused about what he wanted them to do next (“Hey, guys, this is awesome! Let’s build some cabins and stay up here forever!”)

All of these things are true. But today, what I experience in the story of the Transfiguration is how God, in God’s goodness, gave the disciples just what they needed for the journey ahead. For Peter, James and John, who had already given up so much to follow Jesus, the path ahead seemed filled with many unknowns, but with only one certainty: that it would be very, very hard. In chapter 16, immediately before this scene on the mountain, Jesus tells the disciples that “he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised.” Peter didn’t like that a bit, remember? When he objected, Jesus rebuked him, saying “Get behind me, Satan.” So again, Jesus tried to tell them, ““If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.”

It’s no wonder the disciples were afraid. When they first said they would follow Jesus, they never imagined the journey would include a trip to Jerusalem, a false conviction, a death sentence, and the cross. As many times as they heard him say it, they still didn’t want to believe this was the only path ahead. I can liken the disciples’ reluctance to accept this news to what happened with 100 % of the laboring women I have accompanied. Without fail, all birthing women get to the really hard part and say: “Well, that’s it. I’m going home. Someone else is going to have to finish this, because I’m done!” I can personally attest to the truth of this, in fact! However, this could be said for all of us, men or women, young or old, couldn’t it? When the going gets tough, most of us, like the disciples, start to look for a way around the inevitable. Surely, there’s another way. Maybe it’s not too late to just go home.

But Jerusalem, and the cross, were most definitely on the itinerary, and Jesus was having little luck inspiring his friends to jump on board. So what did the disciples need to continue on? What was it they were lacking? Assurance. Affirmation. Understanding. They needed positive affirmation that this man, Jesus, was someone they could count on. And that is exactly what they received from God on the mountain that day. To us, it seems a bit over-the-top, doesn’t it? All that light shining from Jesus’ face, his clothes changing colors, and the appearance of a couple of ghosts—what’s the point? But for Peter, James and John (and especially for the early Christians who heard this story later), these details were critical. All those flashy details make one really big point: that Jesus has authority, and that authority comes from God. “This is my Son, my beloved, with whom I am well-pleased. Listen to him!”

And then, when the intensity of the moment was just too much for Peter, James, and John, and they fell down in fear, they received the other affirmation they needed that day. With a simple touch of his hand, Jesus reassured them that he was still with them. “Get up, and do not be afraid.” The lights and color-changing clothes and the voice from the cloud were impressive; but the touch of Jesus, assuring them of his presence with them, gave them the strength they needed to get up and follow, down the mountain and all the way to Jerusalem. 

As disciples of the same Jesus, I believe that God gives us, too, what we need for the journey. Sometimes, God can be a little flashy. Do you remember the double rainbow guy from a few years back? If you missed this viral video, I can sum it up in a few words: A guy is out camping on a mountain. He wakes up to see a beautiful, full double rainbow in view of his campsite. He turns on his video camera, and proceeds to gush about the beauty of this double rainbow for 3.5 minutes. “Oh, wow! Oh man! It’s a double rainbow! It’s so bright! Wow, what does it mean, what does it mean?” People have been making fun of this guy for years for crying over a double rainbow, but what I saw was a person simply overwhelmed by the beauty of creation. Maybe you’ve felt that way, too—overwhelmed by how a beautiful sunrise or an exceptionally clear night sky full of stars can renew your energy and turn your heart again to trust in the God who created it all.

But sometimes, what we need for the journey isn’t a double rainbow, or a blazing sunset or an intense religious experience. Sometimes, what we need to continue on is the simple touch of Jesus. Perhaps it comes as a sudden sense of peace when you’re lifting up your concerns in prayer. Maybe it’s a really well-timed hug from a friend you’ve run into on the street. Maybe it’s a passage of Scripture you’ve read a million times, but this time, it’s as if Jesus is speaking directly to you. Very often, for me, it’s happens through the simple but powerful presence of Jesus Christ in the bread and the wine. Sometimes, the moment is so insignificant, that it’s only later that we recognize the hand of Jesus was present. 

Whether through a mountaintop experience, an epiphany of understanding, or a full double rainbow—or more simply, through the touch of a friend or the kindness of a stranger—God comes to us, again and again, breaking into our lives in big and small ways, giving us the strength and assurance we need to follow Jesus wherever he leads. As we prepare today for the beginning of Lent, walking again alongside Jesus to Jerusalem and the cross, I pray that you will receive the inspiration, the strength, and the assurance you need to continue the journey with him. And know that whatever you are facing this day, and every day, Jesus walks with you, too. Do not be afraid. Amen.

3rd Sunday in Lent: March 3, 2013

3^rd Sunday in Lent: March 3, 2013

Isaiah 55:1-9

“Satisfied”

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie Smith

Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

“Ho, everyone who thirsts,

come to the waters;

and you that have no money,

come, buy and eat!

Come, buy wine and milk

without money and without price.

Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread,

and your labor for that which does not satisfy?

Listen carefully to me, and eat what is good,

and delight yourselves in rich food.”

Earlier this week, when I was stuck in that freak blizzard in west Texas, my dear spouse sent me a news story he thought I shouldn’t miss. It seems Czech authorities have discovered that my beloved IKEA Swedish meatballs…are made of horsemeat.

Now, to be fair, the meatballs at our nearest store (the one we affectionately call “The Chicago Swedish Embassy”) are reported to be unaffected. But still, my main reaction to this story is just “EWWW!” Can I get an Amen? Or how about an “ewwww”? 

My secondary reaction to this story has been to reflect on how the things we eat, or buy, or spend time acquiring, often end up being mostly....horsemeat.

We could start with our food, which resembles less and less anything our ancestors would have recognized as dinner. But there’s also the other stuff that fills our homes, our garages, and the hours in our days. We labor to buy a piece of the American dream, and then we hunger for a bigger and better one. We complain about how technology drives us crazy, but salivate over the newest iPhone, the Playstation 4, and the promise of an affordable 3-D printer. 

If we’re not spending our time laboring for the next best thing, we’re certainly working toward the weekend. “Thank God it’s Friday!” we used to say. Now, it’s more like “Thank God it’s Saturday between the hours of 6 am and 8 am”, because all the other weekend hours are filled with playing catch-up. You know it’s bad when you start wishing for a sick day. Not the flu, of course, or anything serious, but just a good cough, or a sniffle—something that would justify staying home and finally getting some Sabbath rest. Since most of you are probably too tired for an “amen”, just nod if you know what I’m talking about…

And what if we do actually get a real weekend or a vacation, or finally reach retirement age? If we’ve worked so hard—and placed so many hopes and expectations on that precious time off—then when it arrives, it just doesn’t satisfy. Often, we discover that what we thought would be a banquet of relaxation, fun, and family togetherness, turns out to be—mostly horsemeat. 

“Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread,

and your labor for that which does not satisfy?

Listen carefully to me, and eat what is good,

and delight yourselves in rich food.”

These words were written to Israel when it was a community in exile. The people were lost, in more ways than one. After so many years in a foreign land, they had begun to hunger for the things Babylon had to offer. After all, Jerusalem was a distant memory and God’s promises seemed to be just so many words. But then the prophet Isaiah arrived, urging them to give up, once and for all, their fascination with Babylonian-style power and gods. Like a street vendor in a city market, the one true God Yahweh, called to them, saying, 

“Hey there! All who are thirsty, come to the water! Are you penniless? Come anyway—buy and eat! Come, buy your drinks, buy wine and milk. Buy without money—everything’s free! Why do you spend your money on junk food, your hard-earned cash on cotton candy (…or horsemeat?)
Listen to me, listen well: Eat only the best, fill yourself with only the finest. Pay attention, come close now, listen carefully to my life-giving, life-nourishing words.” (The Message version—with my addition)

Today, these words are on God’s lips again, and they are directed toward us. We, who are fascinated with the “little g gods” of progress, power, prestige, and popularity; we who have adopted the priorities of this foreign culture; are being called back home. Especially during this season of Lent, God calls us to turn back, to repent, and to listen carefully, that we may live. 

Listen carefully, for God’s Good News is we have been given free gifts of grace, forgiveness, acceptance, and love through the cross of Jesus Christ. He walked among us, making all ground holy ground. He suffered with us, that we would never suffer alone. He lived and died for his friends, saving the whole world with the power of love. And because he lives, life is worth living!

Amen! 

This is indeed God’s Good News for our bad situation. But in a world where Swedish meatballs turn out to be horsemeat, where foot-long sandwiches turn out to be 11 inches long, and where the words spoken by elected leaders rarely show regard for fact or truth, it can be difficult to trust that the Word of God will stand up to the test. Just how rich is this food? How good is the wine? How do we know these free gifts will really satisfy? 

Friends, if you are asking these questions this morning, you have come to the right place. For nowhere do we experience the richness of God’s love more perfectly, more tangibly, and more radically than in Holy Communion. It may seem like just one more thing to get done, one more line to stand in, or one more item to check off the list, but what happens here at the table each and every week is in fact a banquet of grace, forgiveness, and healing. Our taste buds may have become accustomed to the richness of this heavenly food—but for those who receive it for the first time, who are returning after a long absence, or who simply approach the table with great hunger, the miracle and mystery of this meal are transformative.

A number of years ago, a journalist named Sara Miles, raised an atheist, wandered into a church and found herself transformed. In her book, “Take This Bread”, she tells the story of her first communion:  

“Early one winter morning, when Katie was sleeping at her father’s house, I walked into St. Gregory’s Episcopal Church in San Francisco.  I had no earthly reason to be there. I’d never heard a Gospel reading, never said the Lord’s Prayer. I was certainly not interested in becoming a Christian—or, as I thought of it rather less politely, a religious nut. But on other long walks, I’d passed the beautiful wooden building, with its shingled steeples and plain windows, and this time I went in, on an impulse, with no more than a reporter’s habitual curiosity. 

The rotunda was flooded with slanted morning light. A table in the center of the open, empty space was ringed high above by a huge neo-Byzantine mural of unlikely saint figures with gold halos, dancing; outside, in the back, water trickled from a huge slab of rock set against the hillside. Past the rotunda, and a forest of standing silver crosses, there was a spare, spacious area with chairs instead of pews, where about twenty people were sitting.

I walked in, took a chair, and tried not to catch anyone’s attention. There were windows looking out on a hillside covered in geraniums, and I could hear birds squabbling outside. Then a man and a woman in long tie-dyed robes stood and began chanting in harmony. There was no organ, no choir, no pulpit: just the unadorned voices of the people, and long silences framed by the ringing of deep Tibetan bowls. I sang, too. It crossed my mind that this was ridiculous.

We sat down and stood up, sang and sat down, waited and listened and stood and sang, and it was all pretty peaceful and sort of interesting. “Jesus invites everyone to his table,” the woman announced, and we started moving up in a stately dance to the table in the rotunda. It had some dishes on it, and a pottery goblet.

And then we gathered around that table. And there was more singing and standing, and someone was putting a piece of fresh crumbly bread in my hands, saying “the body of Christ,” and handing me the goblet of sweet wine, saying “the blood of Christ,” and then something  outrageous and terrifying happened. Jesus happened to me.”  (“Take This Bread” by Sara Miles, pp. 57-58)

Sisters and brothers, what we receive at the Lord’s Table is so much more than bread and wine. What we hold in our hands, and taste on our lips, is the very life of Jesus Christ, freely given for us. Jesus happens to us when we come to the table, hungry for forgiveness. Jesus happens to us when we come to the water, thirsty for salvation. Jesus happens to us when we listen to the Word of God, aching for acceptance.  

And this love, this bread, this grace we have received through the cross of Christ? It fills the belly and nourishes the soul. It satisfies.

When I lived in Germany as a college student, I learned the hard way that you should not translate every phrase literally from one language to another.

Sitting at the table after a particularly good meal, I sat back, patted my belly, and said to my hosts, “Ich bin voll!” thinking I was saying, “I’m full.”

Apparently, what I actually announced to the table was, “I am pregnant!”

The hosts were gracious enough to teach me that in German, when you’ve had enough to eat, you should say “Ich bin satt” or “I am satisfied.” 

Satisfaction. Isn’t that what we all yearn for? Don’t we all come here hoping for release from the endless hunger for things, for power, for acceptance, and for love? 

My friends in Christ, return to the Lord your God. Incline your ear and listen, that you may live.  And come to the table, knowing that what you receive here, through the cross of Christ, is so much better than the horsemeat the world offers. Come…and be satisfied.

Amen.