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.

Sermon for June 9, 2013: Professional Compassion?

June 9, 2013

Luke 7:11-17 The Widow of Nain

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie Smith

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

Sisters and brothers, here we are, another Sunday into the season the church calls “ordinary time”, and this morning we hear an account from the life of Jesus which is anything but ordinary. In this scene from the 7^th chapter of Luke, Jesus encounters an ordinary funeral procession and does something extraordinary—he steps forward, places his hand on the funeral cart, and with a word raises a dead man to life. This miraculous event is all the more powerful because we are told the dead man was the only son of a widow. Her situation, which was tenuous before, was about to become even worse following the loss of her son, her only source of income and security.  This wasn’t just bad news—it was extraordinarily bad. The crowd following the procession outside the town gate had gathered to witness not just a son’s burial, but also the end of a mother’s life as she knew it. 

So while this isn’t the only account of Jesus raising someone from the dead—in fact, in the very next chapter of Luke Jesus raises a 12 year old girl with nearly the same words: “Little girl, get up!”—this healing story grabs our attention because Jesus doesn’t just raise a man to life; he restores life to the mother, too. He rescues this woman, a stranger, from a future of poverty and desperation. Verse 15 says “The dead man sat up and began to speak, and Jesus gave him to his mother.” Jesus gives the widow of Nain her son, but he also gives her hope and a life worth living.

It’s probably safe to say that any story of a dead man sitting up and talking is extraordinary! But this one stands out among the other miracles of Jesus because there’s no mention of faith having any part of the healing process. Unlike last week’s story, when we learned of the tremendous faith of the Roman centurion, this week we don’t know anything about the faith of the widow of Nain. She says nothing, she asks for nothing—and yet Jesus restores her life anyway.

Why does he do this? Because, we read in verse 13, when the Lord saw her, he had compassion for her and said to her, “Do not weep.” 

Jesus had compassion for the widow of Nain. Jesus changed his itinerary, took a detour, interrupted a funeral procession, raised a dead man and restored a woman’s life—not because of her faith, or because her friends asked on her behalf, or to make a point to the crowds who were gathered—but because he had compassion for her. 

Now, “compassion” is not such an unusual word, so when you hear it, it probably conjures up some images in your mind. Think for a moment: What does it mean for you to “have compassion” for someone? And how do you communicate that compassion? What does compassion look like? Perhaps, when someone shares a medical diagnosis with you, you might say, “I’m so sorry—let me know what I can do.” Maybe, if you are an employer or a teacher or have some other authority, you may “have compassion” for someone’s situation by treating them a little more kindly than usual. If you’re a Lutheran, you may show compassion through a casserole or a cake (time-tested remedies, for sure!) Often, however, in our ultra-connected world where bad news is shared across social media 24 hours a day, “having compassion” for another human being means little more than a quick thought of “Man, that’s terrible”; the sharing of a status update; and the perfunctory “You will be in my prayers”.

But when we read in Luke chapter 7 that “Jesus had compassion for her and said to her ‘Do not weep’”, there’s nothing perfunctory about it. The Greek word for “had compassion” in this text is one I couldn’t begin to pronounce: "splagchnizomai”. Now this is just the verb form of the noun "splagchnon," meaning your bowels, heart, lungs, liver or kidneys, which in that day were thought to be the center of human emotions. Throughout the Gospels, this is the word used when we read that Jesus was a man of compassion. Jesus was one who felt the pain and sorrow and grief of the world in his “splagchnon”, or, in other words, his very innards. He was affected deep within wherever he encountered poverty, or hunger, or pain, or grief. In the case of the widow of Nain, he felt her grief, her hopelessness, her desperation and lack of options so deeply that he was moved to raise her son from the dead and restore her to life.

And this is very Good News, don’t you think? We have a God who, through Jesus our brother, feels our pain and our grief more deeply than we can imagine. We have a God who, through Jesus our healer, restores us to life. We have a God who, through Jesus our redeemer, assures us that though we walk through the valley of shadow of death, we shall fear no evil, for the Lord is with us. Amen?

Jesus felt compassion on the widow of Nain and restored her life. But first, he stepped forward. Because he felt her pain and grief deep within, he took a moment out of his packed preaching itinerary and came forward to speak to a grieving woman. He stepped right into the middle of that funeral procession and reached out to touch the cart on which her dead son lay. And then he said, “Do not weep.”

Now this is the part where many of us say “And that’s why he’s Jesus, and I’m not!” Most of us find ourselves tongue-tied just thinking about what to say to someone who is grieving. We’re afraid to say the wrong thing, afraid of offending, afraid of making things worse. Often, we’re just afraid to come forward and place ourselves in the middle of those sacred moments that exist where life and death meet.

Many of you know that for several years I worked as a certified “doula”, or labor and birth assistant. It was a job that paid not even as well as being a pastor, and the hours were much worse. There were middle of the night calls and false alarms. There were hours of sitting with women in pain, knowing you couldn’t take it away. Being a doula meant touching someone who just weeks before had been a stranger—rubbing feet, massaging shoulders, holding hands, pushing pressure points. It meant seeing women at their best and at their worst, walking with families through difficult decisions, and being a witness to joyous and sometimes heartbreaking moments. 

When I went to seminary and was required to write about my call to ministry, I talked often about how the experience of being a doula was such good preparation for being a pastor. Being a doula had placed me right smack in the middle of that sacred, in-between space between life and death, over and over again. It opened my heart and taught me how to feel the pain, and grief, and struggle of others. In other words, it gave me a small taste of the kind of compassion Jesus has for our suffering—a compassion which he not only felt deep within, but took upon his own body when he suffered with us and for us on the cross. 

Now that I have a few years of ministry under my belt, I still think being a doula was good preparation for being a pastor. But these experiences have also brought to light what seems to me a significant challenge for Christian communities today, which is the professionalization of compassion. 

No one even knew what a “doula” was 100 years ago. It is a profession today only because birth was moved out of the home and into the hospital, thereby removing women from their systems of support. A doula is only doing what aunts and sisters and grandmothers once did.

In the same way, we now have hospice nurses to care for us when we are dying, and we send out pastors and chaplains to visit the sick and the grieving.

When I say that compassion has been professionalized, what I mean is that we now assume one needs special training to sit with the sick and suffering. We prefer to send the certified and accredited and properly prepared to be with those who are about to be born or who are about to die. Somehow, we’ve gotten the idea that these sacred moments are out of bounds for “regular” Christians. 

But the truth is, compassion is the call of every Christian. Throughout Jesus’ ministry, he did extraordinary things—feeding, healing, and raising the dead. And every time, he called ordinary people to continue his extraordinary ministry. Today, he sends us out to the sick, and the suffering, and the grieving. He invites us to join him at the edge of the city, with the marginalized and those with no future, and to feel their suffering deep within our own bodies. We are the ordinary crowds gathered there at the gates of Nain. We have witnessed the great compassion of Jesus Christ, and we will never be the same.

Today, I see ordinary Christians continuing Jesus’ extraordinary ministry of compassion every time one of you dares to enter into that sacred space where life and death meet.

Every day, right here in our community, prayer shawls are delivered to those who are grieving. Communion is delivered to the homebound. Cancer patients receive rides to chemo and radiation.  Casseroles are baked and delivered to those who have had surgery. Meals are served to PADS guests. Donations are sent to end the suffering of malaria in faraway places. Hands are held, tears are shared…and people are restored to life, in the name of Jesus. 

Sisters and brothers, today I want you to hear that Christian compassion doesn’t require special training. You don’t need to be a professional to restore life and hope to someone walking in the valley of the shadow of death! You have everything you need to continue the feeding, healing, and raising the dead—for in Christ you have been restored to new life. In the Christ, you are healed. In Christ, you are called. In Christ, you are sent out. In Christ, you are equipped. And in Christ, your ordinary becomes extraordinary! 

Amen.